‘Hould your tongue,’ says he in return; ‘whatever it is, I’ll be bound it’ll puzzle them, for by the book I’m not able to read it myself.’
‘Troth, thin,’ says I, ‘if that be the case, it’s little sense the likes of them will make out of it.’
By this time, sir, we got inside the ould gateway, and as the Maw’s groom was a cousin of my aunt Peg’s, he let me into the hall with the rest of the quality. There was the stone, sure enough: a long narrow stone, all the length of the room, with four lines of writing cut on it, over the chimley. It was in the part of the ould castle that’s down now. Well, sir, one ould gentleman—they said he belonged to that college off there in Dublin—takes his spectacles out of his pocket, an’ he puts them on his nose, quite grand like, and he looks at the writing. ‘It’s not English,’ says he, ‘nor is it French,’ says he after a little, ‘nor Jarman;’ and then he takes another look. ‘It’s not Latin,’ says he, and the rest of the quality shook their heads very wisely; ‘it’s not Greek,’ says he, and they shook their heads again; ‘it’s not Hebrew,’ says he, ‘nor Chaldee, nor—pursuin’ to me if I know what it is.’
‘Baidershin!’ says Father Madden quietly: an’ with that, sir, you’d think the vault above our heads ’ud split with the roars of laughing. But the great scholar didn’t join in it at all, but pulls the spectacles off his nose, and crams them into his pocket, and looking very big at the priest, ‘I’m thinking it’s Baulderdash, gentlemen,’ says he.
Well, sir, one after another they all tried their skill on it, and one after another they all had to acknowledge their ignorance.
‘By the powers,’ says the priest, ‘by yer talk one ’ud think the hiryglyphics themselves were a Readin’-med-aisy to ye, an’ here a plain bit of writin’ puzzles ye.’
‘Maybe, Father Madden,’ says the Maw, ‘you’d favour us by consthering it yerself.’
‘No, sir,’ says the priest; ‘my vow won’t let me read magic; but if you’d wish me to thransport the stone anywhere for you, or do any other little miracle that way, I’d be most happy to obleedge you.’
‘Oh, no,’ says the Maw, ‘we’ll not put you to that trouble; but perhaps you would come down with us as far as the inn, and have a bit of lunch.’
‘With all the pleasure in life, sir,’ says the priest, ‘the rather that I’d like to be discoorsing these larned gentlemen here;’ but indeed the larned gentlemen didn’t seem a bit too glad of his company, and small blame to them sure, for may the heavens be his bed, there wasn’t a funnier man in the nine counties, or one fonder of followin’ up a joke, an’ well they knew he wasn’t goin’ to let them down aisy.