"Can't go! How does he mean? What does he mean?"
"Whisht! Don't ax me. Ax Dan, there. He doesn't owe him any money!"
"Which is Dan?"
"The ould man there be the settle what has just spoke, Dan Moriarty. He's a warrum man, wid money in bank an' what owns his houldin'; an' he's not afeerd to have his say about Murdock."
"Can any of you tell me why Murdock can't leave the Hill?" I spoke out.
"Begor' I can," said Dan, quickly. "He can't lave it because the Hill houlds him!"
"What on earth do you mean? How can the Hill hold him?"
"It can hould tight enough! There may be ray sons that a man gives—sometimes wan thing, an' sometimes another; but the Hill houlds—an' houlds tight all the same!"
Here the door was opened suddenly, and the fire blazed up with the rush of wind that entered. All stood up suddenly, for the new comer was a priest. He was a sturdy man of middle age, with a cheerful countenance. Sturdy as he was, however, it took him all his strength to shut the door, but he succeeded before any of the men could get near enough to help him. Then he turned and saluted all the company:—
"God save all here."
All present tried to do him some service. One took his wet great coat, another his dripping hat, and a third pressed him into the warmest seat in the chimney corner, where, in a very few seconds, Mrs. Kelligan handed him a steaming glass of punch, saying, "Dhrink that up, yer Biv'rence. 'Twill help to kape ye from catchin' cowld."
"Thank ye, kindly," he answered, as he took it. When he had half emptied the glass, he said:—
"What was it I heard as I came in about the Hill holding some one?" Dan answered:—
"'Twas me, yer Eiverence, I said that the Hill had hould of Black Murdock, and could hould him tight."
"Pooh! pooh! man; don't talk such nonsense. The fact is, sir," said he, turning to me after throwing a searching glance round the company, "the people here have all sorts of stories about that unlucky Hill—why, God knows; and this man Murdock, that they call Black Murdock, is a money-lender as well as a farmer, and none of them like him, for he is a hard man and has done some cruel things among them. When they say the Hill holds him, they mean that he doesn't like to leave it because he hopes to find a treasure that is said to be buried in it. I'm not sure but that the blame is to be thrown on the different names given to the Hill. That most commonly given is Knockcalltecrore, which is a corruption of the Irish phrase Knock-na-callte-croin-6ir, meaning, ' The Hill of the Lost Golden Crown;' but it has been sometimes called Knock -calltore—short for the Irish words Knock-na-callte-6ir, or ' The Hill of the Lost Gold.' It is said that in some old past time it was called Knocknanaher, or ' The Hill of the Snake;' and, indeed, there's one place on it'they call Shleenanaher, meaning the 'Snake's Pass.' I dare say, now, that they have been giving you the legends and stories and all the rubbish of that kind. I suppose you know, sir, that in most places the local fancy has run riot at some period and has left a good crop of absurdities and impossibilities behind it?"
I acquiesced warmly, for I felt touched by the good priest's desire to explain matters, and to hold his own people blameless for crude ideas which he did not share. He went on:—
"It is a queer thing that men must be always putting abstract ideas into concrete shape. No doubt there have been some strange matters regarding this mountain that they've been talking about—the Shifting Bog, for instance; and as the people could not account for it in any way that they can understand, they knocked up a legend about it. Indeed, to be just to them, the legend is a very old one, and is mentioned in a manuscript of the twelfth century. But somehow it was lost sight of till about a hundred years ago, when the loss of the treasure-chest from the French invasion at Killala set all the imaginations of the people at work, from Donegal to Cork, and they fixed the Hill of the Lost Gold as the spot where the money was to be found. There is not a word of fact in the story from beginning to end, and"—here he gave a somewhat stern glance round the room—" I'm a little ashamed to hear so much chat and nonsense given to a strange gentleman like as if it was so much gospel. However, you mustn't be too hard in your thoughts on the poor people here, sir, for they're good people—none better in all Ireland—in all the world for that—but they talk too free to do themselves justice."
All those presert were silent for awhile. Old Moy-nahan was the first to speak.
"Well, Father Pether, I don't say nothin' about Saint Pathrick an' the shnakes, meself, because I don't know nothin' about them; but I know that me own father tould me that he seen the Frinchmin wid his own eyes crossin' the sthrame below, an' facin' up the mountain. The moon was risin' in the west, an' the hill threw a big shadda. There was two min an' two horses, an' they had a big box on a gun carriage. Me father seen them cross the sthrame. The load was so heavy that the wheels sunk in the clay, an' the min had to pull at them to git them up again. An' didn't he see the marks iv the wheels in the ground the very nixt day?"
"Bartholomew Moynahan, are you telling the truth?" interrupted the priest, speaking sternly.
"Throth an I am, Father Pether; divil a word iv a lie in all I've said."
"Then how is it you've never told a word of this before?"
"But I have tould it, Father Pether. There's more nor wan here now what has heered me tell it; but they wor tould as a saycret!"
" Thrue for ye!" came the chorus of almost every person in the room. The unanimity was somewhat comic and caused amongst them a shamefaced silence, which lasted quite several seconds. The pause was not wasted, for by this time Mrs. Kelligan had brewed another jug of punch, and glasses were replenished. This interested the little crowd and they entered afresh into the subject. As for myself, however, I felt strangely uncomfortable. I could not quite account for it in any reasonable way.
I suppose there must be an instinct in men as well as in the lower orders of animal creation—I felt as though there were a strange presence near me.
I quietly looked round. Close to where I sat, on the sheltered side of the house, was a little window built in the deep recess of the wall, and, further, almost obliterated by the shadow of the priest as he sat close to the fire. Pressed against the empty lattice, where the glass had once been, I saw the face of a man—a dark, forbidding face it seemed in the slight glimpse I caught of it. The profile was towards me, for he was evidently listening intently, and he did not see me. Old Moynahan went on with his story:—
"Me father hid behind a whin bush, an' lay as close as a hare in his forrum. The min seemed suspicious of bein' seen and they looked carefully all round for the sign of any wan. Thin they started up the side of the hill; an' a cloud came over the moon so that for a bit me father could see no thin'. But prisintly he seen the two min up on the side of the hill at the south, near Joyce's mearin'. Thin they disappeared agin, an' prisintly he seen the horses an' the gun carriage an' all up in the same place, an' the moonlight sthruck thim as they wint out iv the shadda; and men an' horses an' gun carriage an' chist an' all wint round to the back iv the hill at the west an' disappeared. Me father waited a minute or two to make sure, an' thin he run round as hard as he could an' hid behind the projectin' rock at the enthrance iv the Shleenanaher, an' there foreninst him! right up the hill side he seen two min carryin' the chist, an' it nigh weighed thim down. But the horses an' the gun carriage was nowhere to be seen. Well! me father was stealin' out to folly thim, when he loosened a sthone an' it clattered down through the rocks at the Shnake's Pass wid a noise like a dhrum, an' the two min sot down the chist an' they turned; an' whin they seen me father one of them runs at him, and he turned an' run. An' thin another black cloud "crossed the moon; but me father knew ivery foot of the mountain side, and he run on through the dark. He heerd the footsteps behind him for a bit, but they seemed to get fainter an' fainter; but he niver stopped runnin' till he got to his own cabin.—An' that was the last he iver see iv the men or the horses or the chist.