At last she sat up, and clasped her sun-burned hands together in an agony of grief, rocking her body backwards and forwards to a piteous wail, which the Irish call Ullagone; the dirge music in which they mourn their dead. She gave no answer to our entreaties that she would try and compose herself. In vain did we inquire what had happened, and ask how we could possibly afford her any relief. She did not reply to a single question, but rolling her tearless eyes in their sockets, staring now at one of us, and then at another, but without appearing to take notice of any, the hapless creature continued her melancholy howl, beating her breast and tearing her hair.
At the expiration of an hour's ineffectual effort to obtain the slightest information from Norah, we determined on removing her from a scene so dreadful as that of her now lonely abode, leaving M'Farlane behind to watch the fire till our return. Just as we were going to take Norah from her cabin, the sagacious Scotchman bethought him of an expedient which operated like magic on the wretched mourner. He recollected the national superstition, and exclaimed, in an expostulatory tone, "Oh then, is it like a fond wife or mother, to say, that you'd let their ghosts roam for ever and ever, without rest or quiet, rather than tell where we might look for the bodies, and bury 'em like Christians?"
This idea roused Norah's torpid senses. She started as if she had been shot, and would have rushed out of the house, if we had not fastened the door in the instant that she was about to dart through it.
"Yes, Norah," said the persevering Scot, "they will wander, and be unhappy, if you do not tell all you know, and let us try and find them, that they may be waked properly, and buried with their people."
"God bless you; God bless you;" reiterated the frenzied Norah; "Go to the Black Pint; och, 'tis the Black Pint."
"What took them to the Black Point at this unseasonable hour, and in such a storm?"
"What else but the boat, gramachree," answered Norah.
"What were they doing in such weather as this?"
"Fishen, dear, fishen," was the poor creature's lying answer.