On hearing this, the poor gauger smiled gratefully on Eachainn, and pressed his hand between both his own.
‘Sir!’ exclaimed the doctor, hoarse with passion, ‘what is the meaning of this? Am I to perform the operation or not?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sick man in a scarcely articulate voice. ‘I throw myself upon the mercy of God. I can but die.’
‘Then die, sir,’ said the enraged doctor, ‘and your blood be upon your own head;’ and hastily packing up his instruments, he turned to leave the room just as Eachainn’s mother (a descendant of Fearchair Lighiche) entered. She gave him a respectful greeting, which, however, was very ungraciously received, and soon the sound of his horse’s hoofs was heard as he galloped away, Eachainn muttering something to himself about the Diabhul going along with him.
Eachainn’s mother now took up the case, and having tenderly examined the throat, called for a pot and boiling water, into which she cast some herbs and boiled them over the fire. This decoction she ordered to be applied on flannels, as hot as he could bear it, to the sick man’s throat, while he inhaled the hot steam of the same from the spout of a kettle. The good woman then called for a skellet, into which she measured two or three cups of water; she then threw into the water some dried herbs and fresh roots. When the mixture was hot it threw up a green scum, which she skimmed off. She then poured some of the potion into a tumbler, and approaching the patient, said in Gaelic, ‘Try, my dear, and swallow this; I know it is very painful for you to do it, but life is precious, and for your mother’s sake, if you have one, make the attempt.’
On her wishes being explained to Gillespie, he grasped the tumbler, and with a great effort slowly but painfully drained it. In about half-an-hour after he had taken it, his face became of a ghastly green shade; he stretched himself out at full length; his pulse seemed to fail; he heaved deep sighs; and at length began to retch violently. It now appeared as if a struggle between life and death, but at length the imposthume burst, and the poor man swooned away. The spectators now thought all was over with the poor gauger, but Eachainn’s mother knew better. She held his head with one hand, while with the other she chafed his temples, calling to her son to throw some water in the patient’s face, and telling the landlord to bring some red wine, if he had any in the house. Her orders being promptly carried out, the sick man soon opened his eyes, and in a little while was able to speak, expressing his gratitude to the worthy woman for the great relief she had afforded him.
From this time Gillespie mended fast, but was necessarily obliged to keep his bed for several days, and, finding the time hanging heavy, he would keep Eachainn by him for hours together, as he had taken a great liking to the lad, besides being under such an obligation to his mother, of whose skill and the wonderful cures she had effected, her son was never tired of talking about.
‘But how did your mother gain all this knowledge?’ asked the gauger.
‘Well, sir, you must know my mother is descended from the famous man, Fearchair Lighiche.’
‘And who may he be?’ inquired Gillespie.