“So the Saint stood on the edge of the empty lake an’ held up his crozier, and called on the Shnake to come forth. And when he luked down, lo! an’ behold ye! there lay the King iv the Shnakes coiled round the bottom iv the lake, though how he had got there the Saint could niver tell, for he hadn’t been there when he began to summons him. Then the Shnake raised his head, and, lo! and behold ye! there was no crown onto it.
“‘Where is your crown?’ sez the Saint.
“‘It’s hid,’ sez the Shnake, leerin’ at him.
“‘Where is it hid?’
“‘It’s hid in the mountain! Buried where you nor the likes iv you can’t touch it in a thousand years!’ an’ he leered agin.
“‘Tell me where it may be found?’ sez the Saint starnly. An’ thin the Shnake leers at him agin wid an eviller smile than before; an’ sez he:
“‘Did ye see the wather what was in the lake?’
“‘I did,’ sez St. Patrick.
“‘Thin, when ye find that wather ye may find me jool’d crown, too,’ sez he; an’ before the Saint could say a word, he wint on:
“‘An’ till ye git me crown I’m king here still, though ye banish me. An’ mayhap I’ll come in some forrum what ye don’t suspect, for I must watch me crown. An’ now I go away — iv me own accord.’ An’ widout one word more, good or bad, he shlid right away into the say, dhrivin’ through the rock an’ makin’ the clift that they call the Shleenanaher — an’ that’s Irish for the Shnake’s Pass — until this day.”
“An’ now, sir, if Mrs. Kelligan hasn’t dhrunk up the whole bar’l, I’d like a dhrop iv punch, for talkin’ is dhry wurrk,” and he buried his head in the steaming jorum, which the hostess had already prepared.
The company then began to discuss the legend. Said one of the women:
“I wondher what forrum he tuk when he kem back!”
Jerry answered:
“Sure, they do say that the shiftin’ bog wor the forrum he tuk. The mountain wid the lake on top used to be the ferti lest shpot in the whole counthry; but iver since the bog began to shift this was niver the same.”
Here a hard-faced man named McGlown, who had been silent, struck in with a question:
“But who knows when the bog did begin to shift?”
“Musha! sorra one of me knows; but it was whin th’ ould Shnake druv the wather iv the lake into the hill!” There was a twinkle in the eyes of the story-teller, which made one doubt his own belief in his story.
“Well, for ma own part,” said McGlown, “A don’t believe a sengle word of it.”
“An’ for why not?” said one of the women. “Isn’t the mountain called ‘Knockcalltecrore,’ or ‘The Hill of the Lost Crown iv Gold,’ till this day?”
Said another:
“Musha! how could Misther McGlown believe anythin’, an’ him a Protestan’.”
“A’ll tell ye that A much prefer the facs,” said McGlown. “Ef hestory es till be believed, A much prefer the story told till me by yon old man. Damn me! but A believe he’s old enough till remember the theng itself.”
He pointed as he spoke to old Moynahan, who, shrivelled up and white-haired, crouched in a corner of the inglenook, holding close to the fire his wrinkled, shaky hands.
“What is the story that Mr. Moynahan has, may I ask?” said I. “Pray oblige, me, won’t you? I am anxious to hear all I can of the mountain, for it has taken my fancy strangely.”
The old man took the glass of punch, which Mrs. Kelligan handed him as the necessary condition antecedent to a story, and began:
“Oh, sorra one of me knows anythin’ except what I’ve heerd from me father. But I oft heerd him say that he was tould that it was said that in the Frinch invasion that didn’t come off undher Gineral Humbert, whin the attimpt was over an’ all hope was gone, the English sodgers made sure of great prize-money whin they should git hould of the threasure-chist. For it was known that there was much money goin’ an’ that they had brought a lot more than iver they wanted for pay and expinses in ordher to help bribe some of the people that was houldin’ off to be bought by wan side or the other — if they couldn’t manage to git bought be both. But, sure enough, they wor all sould, bad cess to thim! and the divil a bit of money could they lay their hands on at all.”
Here the old man took a pull at his jug of punch, with so transparent a wish to be further interrogated that a smile flashed round the company. One of the old crones remarked, in an audible sotto voce:
“Musha! but Bat is the cute story-teller intirely. Ye have to dhrag it out iv him! Go on, Bat, go on! Tell us what become iv the money.”
“Oh, what become iv the money? So ye would like to hear? Well, I’ll tell ye — just one more fill of the jug, Mrs. Kelligan, as the gintleman wishes to know all about it — well, they did say that the officer what had charge of the money got well away with some five or six others. The chist was a heavy wan — an iron chist bang full up iv goold! Oh, my! but it was fine! A big chist — that high, an’ as long as the table, an’ full up to the led wid goolden money an’ paper money, an’ divil a piece of white money in it at all! All goold, every pound note iv it.”
He paused, and glanced anxiously at Mrs. Kelligan, who was engaged in the new brew.
“Not too much wather, if ye love me, Katty; you know me wakeness! Well, they do say that it tuk hard work to lift the chist into the boat; an’ thin they put in a gun-carriage to carry it on, an’ tuk out two horses, an’ whin the shmoke was all round an’ the darkness of night was on, they got on shore, an’ made away down south from where the landin’ was made at Killala. But, anyhow, they say that none of them was ever heerd of agin. But they was thraced through Ardnaree an’ Lough Conn, an’ through Castlebar Lake an’ Lough Carra, an’ through Lough Mask an’ Lough Corrib. But they niver kem out through Galway, for the river was watched for thim day an’ night be the sodgers; and how they got along God knows, for ‘twas said they suffered quare hardships. They tuk the chist an’ the gun-carriage an’ the horses in the boat, an’ whin they couldn’t go no farther they dhragged the boat over the land to the next lake, an’ so on. Sure, one dhry sayson, when the wathers iv Corrib was down feet lower nor they was iver known afore, a boat was found up at the Bealanabrack end that had lay there for years; but the min nor the horses nor the treasure was never heerd of from that day to this — so they say,” he added, in a mysterious way, and he renewed his attention to the punch, as if his tale was ended.
“But, man alive!” said McGlown, “that’s only a part. Go on, man dear! an’ fenesh the punch after.”
“Oh, oh! Yes, of course, you want to know the end. Well, no wan knows the end. But they used to say that whin the min lift the boat they wint due west, till one night they sthruck the mountain beyant; an’ that there they buried the chist an’ killed the horses, or rode away on them. But anyhow, they wor niver seen again; an’, as sure as you’re alive, the money is there in the hill! For luk at the name iv it! Why did any wan iver call it ‘Knockcalltore’ — an’ that’s Irish for ‘The Hill of the Lost Gold’ — if the money isn’t there?”
“Thrue for ye!” murmured an old woman with a cutty pipe. “For why, indeed? There’s some people what won’t believe nothin’ altho’ it’s undher their eyes!” and she puffed away in silent rebuke to the spirit of scepticism — which, by the way, had not been manifested by any person present.
There was a long pause, broken only by one of the old women, who occasionally gave a sort