“Dreaming!” reechoed Moya, with a bitter sneer; “ay, dreaming. Och, I wish to God I was only dreaming; but I am very much afraid it is worse than that, and that there is trouble and misfortune hanging over uz.”
“And what makes you think so, Moya?” asked he, with a half-suppressed smile.
Moya, aware of his well-known hostility to every species of superstition, remained silent, biting her lips and shaking her gray head prophetically.
“Why don’t you answer me, Moya?” again asked the man.
“Och,” said Moya, “I am heart-scalded to have it to tell you, and I know you will laugh at me; but, say what you will, there is something bad over uz, for the banshee was about the house all night, and she has me almost frightened out of my wits with her shouting and bawling.”
The man was aware of the banshee’s having been long supposed to haunt his family, but often scouted that supposition; yet, as it was some years since he had last heard of her visiting the place, he was not prepared for the freezing announcement of old Moya. He turned as pale as a corpse, and trembled excessively; at last, recollecting himself, he said, with a forced smile:
“And how do you know it was the banshee, Moya?”
“How do I know?” reiterated Moya, tauntingly. “Didn’t I see and hear her several times during the night? and more than that, didn’t I hear the dead-coach rattling round the house, and through the yard, every night at midnight this week back, as if it would tear the house out of the foundation?”
The man smiled faintly; he was frightened, yet was ashamed to appear so. He again said:
“And did you ever see the banshee before, Moya?”