Part 7

“Well, to the best of my belief,” says the dhragon, “I was hove-to in a fog that day off the banks of Newfoundland. You see, not like the other dhragons you sent to kingdom-come, I had always a great taste for the wather, an’ when I was quite a youngsther I larned how to swim an’ dive. Now when I heard that your own self was goin’ to desthroy the breed, I made wan jump into the Atlantic off Cape Clear, an’ sthruck out for the westhern ocean; an’ that’s how I got out of yer reverence’s clutches.”

“That explains it, of coorse,” says Saint Pathrick. “Now tell me,” says he, “how many more of ye is there in this vale of tears, so far as yer knowledge goes?”

“Divil a wan more but meself,” says the dhragon; an’, begor, the tears came rowlin’ down the poor baste’s cheeks as he said the words. “I’m the last of the dhragons, worse luck!”

“The last of ’em!” says Saint Pathrick, fairly delighted to hear such good news.

“Ay, indeed,” says the dhragon. “Of late the breed has been havin’ a hard time of it. Saint George, over in England beyant, desthroyed all my relations there, except wan eldherly faymale cousin by the mother’s side.”

“An’ what became of her?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“As misfortune should have it,” says the dhragon, “the poor craychur emigrated over here on a raft, an’ never bein’ at say before she got so mortial sick that by the time I got to her side she was heavin’ the last gasp.”

“An’ have you no family at all at all?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“Naither chick nor child,” says the dhragon. “In my airly youth I was rather gay, an’ could never knuckle down to mathrimony. Of coorse, if I had the laiste suspicion yerself was comin’ over here, I’d have settled down beforehand, an’ brought up a family whom I’d take care would larn how to swim an’ dive. But yer reverence took the win’ out of my sails complately, an’ as I’ve said before, I’m the last of the dhragons.”

Begor, the poor baste quite broke down as he towld his story to Saint Pathrick, an’ to tell the thruth, though he was mighty glad to know there was an end to the breed of dhragons for ever an’ ever, the great Saint couldn’t help feelin’ for the poor _angashore_.

“Look here,” says he, afther wipin’ a tear out of his eye, for ’tis a rale tindher-hearted Saint he was, “I won’t be very hard on you. The terms of the thratey will be that you take your hook straight to the Shannon, an’ do no damage on the road to man or mortial, an’ I’ll allow you to live the remainder of your naatural life in the salt ocean, where you’ll be known to future generations as the great Say-Sarpint. But if ever you shoves yer snout on dhry land the thratey will be broke, an’ you’ll die of the lockjaw. I gave you a taste of what that means a while back.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, glad of any thratey that would save his life. “But raley you might sthretch a point for me—a poor misforthunate exile.”

“What is it?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Well, to tell the truth, I’m fairly famished wud the hunger. When I met your good self I was headin’ for that castle over beyant. There’s a fine, fat landlord lives there—he rides sixteen stone, I’m towld—and between yerself an’ meself ’twould be only a holy an’ a wholesome deed to make an end of the rack-rentin’ vagabone.”

“I can’t allow it,” says Saint Pathrick, “though indeed I agrees wud you that his room ’ud be betther than his company; but sure even if you swallyed him his sons ’ud only be glad to take up the runnin’.”

“Arrah, my dear man,” says the dhragon, “’tis swally sons an’ all I would, for I’m shrunk wud the hunger.”

Begor, ’twas a great temptation to Saint Pathrick, but he struv agen it an’ shuk his head.

“I can’t allow it, Misther Dhragon,” says he. “Sure you can have a fine male of salmon when you gets into the river—they’re as thick as flies there now an’ as fat as butther. Content yerself wud a snack of salmon if you’ll be said by me. The best in the land wouldn’t turn up their noses at the fish in the Shannon.”

“Ah! but if yerself wor livin’ on fish as long as I have been, you’d give a dale for a change of diet. You’re mighty hard on me, Pathrick.”

“Hard on you, you scoundhrel!” says the Saint. “This is what comes of havin’ too much sintiment. It’s as like as not I’ll be hauled over the coals for makin’ a bargain at all wud a heretic, but as I’ve passed my word to you I won’t dhraw back, for I was never known yet to violate a thratey. Don’t let me hear another grumble out of you now, or ’tis lose my timper I will.”

Hunger an’ vexation wor beginnin’ to tell on the dhragon by this time, an’ he was startin’ to give a few ugly lashes wud his tail, but when he saw the dark look in Saint Pathrick’s face an’ knew there was no chance of gettin’ round him, he purtended he was only thryin’ to scratch his ear. But, of coorse, Saint Pathrick was up to the thricks and schames of dhragons, an’ says he in an angry voice,—

“How dar’ you show timper you bla’guard? Keep your ugly tail study, or I’ll stand up in the stirrups this minute an’ read the Curse of Crummle agen you.”

Begor, the bare mintion of the Curse of Crummle sent a cowld thrill through the whole six hundhred feet of the dhragon’s carcase, an’ in a thremblin’ tone he implored Saint Pathrick not to say the words. “Don’t, acorra,” says he. “Betther die of lockjaw at wance than have Crummle hove at me.”

“I thought I’d fix you, my bucko,” says Saint Pathrick. “Stir your stumps now, for I feel I’m gettin’ an appetite for breakfast meself, an’ I’m greatly in favour of regular livin’.”

“Well, I wish you as good an appetite as my own,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll be biddin’ you a last farewell.”

“Good-bye,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ mind you keep your tail study on the road to the Shannon. You can scratch your ear,” says he, wud a laugh, “as soon as you get abreast of Scatthery Island.”

An’ that’s how the great Saint Pathrick got rid of the last of the dhragons.

[Illustration: THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE.]

[Illustration: (banner) THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE]

When Crummle came to Munsther first he heard a dale of talk about a castle that was situated about half-way between Thramore an’ Bonmahon, an’ a head general of his made bowld enough wan day to tell him that the divil a bit of him ’ud ever be able for to take it.

Of coorse Crummle thought there was nothing above or below ground in Ireland he couldn’t take, an’ ’tis only laugh at the general he did.

“It’s dhramein’ you are,” says he. “Sure what could stand agen my cannon-balls? an’ ’tis lashin’s and layvin’s of ’em I have.”

“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will,” says the general, “when you claps your eye on this castle of the Poers”—for that was the name of the family that owned the buildin’ I’m spaykin’ of—“for ’tis the dickens’ own place altogether.”

“Arrah man!” says Crummle, “there’s nothing too hot or too heavy for me. Sure the world couldn’t stand agen me if I was only to let meself out.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me,” says the general; “but, mind you, ’tis in airnist I am, an’ maybe you’ll be sorry by-an’-by that you didn’t give heed to me. The divil himself couldn’t take that castle, it’s my humble opinion.”

“Maybe ’tis in laygue wud the divil I am,” says Crummle, wud an onaisey grin on him.

“Maybe!” says the general. “But ’twill take yerself an’ ould Nick all yer time to grab their sthronghold from the Poers of Don Isle.”

“An’ what sort of a place is it all?” axes Crummle, surprised at the way his head general kept harpin’ on the same sthring. “Did you ever take a survey of it?”

“I did,” say the general, “through a sthrong nightglass, for nearer than that I didn’t like to venture.”

“Is that so?” says Crummle, beginnin’ to be throubled in himself, for he knew this same general was a darin’ bla’guard. “What is it like at all?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” says the general. “It’s built near the say-coast on the top of a big square lump of solid rock that rises like the side of a house nearly two hundhred feet from the ground on all sides.”

“Oh murdher!” says Crummle; “but that’s the mischief’s own sort of a place to build a castle! How big is it in diminsions?”

“I couldn’t take the measurement of it by algebra,” says the general; “but it’s wan of the biggest in Munsther, an’ the portholes in it are as plenty as peelers in a proclaimed disthrict.”

“’Tis surprisin’ how these bla’guard Irish thries to defy me!” says Crummle. “Have you any idaya as to the number of hands they keeps inside?”

“There’s a sthreet-full of people in it, I’m towld,” says the general. “They looked like a swarm of flies through the spyglass, anyhow.”

“An’ are they well armed?” axes Crummle.

“Armed, is it?” says the general. “Begor, aich of ’em is a walkin’ man-o’-war.”

“An’ what sort of a chap is the owner of this monsthrosity of a castle?” axes Crummle.

“A chap!” says the general. “Sure ’tis a faymale that owns the place.”

“Bad luck to yer impudence!” says Crummle. “Do you think I’m not a match for a faymale, or a whole ridgement of faymales, for the matther of that? The idaya,” says he, “of tellin’ me to my face that a slip of a girl could howld out agen me is nothing short of high thraison. For two pins I’d thrate you like I thrated Charlie the First.”

“Oh, you needn’t lose your timper!” says the general, “for the Countess of Don Isle is a match single-handed for a sthriker to a blacksmith. You should see the arm she have!”

“An’ do you think I’m only as good as a sthriker to a blacksmith?” says Crummle. “Look here, general,” says he, “’tis a fair coward you are!”

“Coward!” says the general. “Did you ever hear me say before that I wasn’t able to knock the daylight out of any woman in these parts? Arrah man!” says he, “this is a faymale giant, or you wouldn’t hear me singin’ small. ’Tis onnathural she is altogether, I tell you.”

“Maybe you have designs on her,” says Crummle, “an’ are aiger to protect her.”

“No more than yerself,” says the general. “All the designs I have on her are to knock herself an’ her castle into smithereens, an’ yerself bein’ the great Protecthor couldn’t have any betther designs than that.”

Begor, Crummle laughed at that, an’ says he, “I’ll christen you ‘Protecthor of faymales’ if you don’t take this castle.”

“All right,” says the general. “Of coorse I’ll do my best, but I hope we’ll see yerself to the fore in the fight, for the poor craychurs in these parts thinks ’tis the divil himself you are, an’ that gives us a great pull on ’em, glory be to heaven!”

“Depind on me,” says Crummle. “I’ll make the first offer at this faymale, and if we don’t grab the castle from her between us, I’ll send in my resignation to the Long Parlyment.”

Well, the next mornin’ Crummle rides off by himself in the direction of Thramore, an’ after a hard hour’s gallop he gets within sight of Don Isle. He pulls up his horse an’ takin’ a telescope from the tail pocket of his coat he has a spy at the castle.

“Begor,” says he to himself, “the general is right, sure enough! The dickens ever I’ll take that place except by a sthrategy. I must have a day an’ a night to think over this job,” says he, “or maybe ’tis get into disgrace I will.”

So he turns the horse’s head, an’ back he rides to the bog of Kilbarry, where his camp was pitched.

He sent at wance for the head general, an’ says to him,—

“Faix, ’tis right you are! This Don Isle is the mischiefs own place. ’Tis bad enough to be sthrugglin’ agen the Irish, but when you have to sthruggle agen natur’ too, ’tis the dickens own job altogether. No matther, general,” says Crummle, partin’ him on the showlder, “we have hapes of men, money, and gunpowdher, and those three ingraydients go a long way. Blow a blast out of your bugle now, an’ I’ll sing out my insthructions.”

So the general blew his bugle, an’ the sogers assembled at the call, and Crummle standin’ up on the top of a travellin’-thrunk addhressed ’em:—

“God save you, boys!” says he. “I’ve summoned ye from your tints to make a few remarks. At midnight to-morrow we’ll start out of this an’ skirt the town of Thramore, a thrifle to the nor’a’d. Then we’ll sthrike down by the village of Fennor, an’ I’ll encamp ye there, for I find there’s some good shebeens in the neighbourhood. At daybreak I’ll start out alone for Don Isle, an’ if I can’t put the comether on the owners of the castle, I’ll ride back an’ ax ye as honourable men to make wan _hurrish_ at it an’ take it by storm. It’s only a faymale that keeps the castle, an’ as far as my own survey this mornin’ goes, I can tell ye all that there’s hapes of women and children inside the walls—so let the watchword be, ‘Remember Wexford!’”

Begor, a shout went up from the sogers at these words that you’d hear from Mizzen Head to Cape Clear, an’ Crummle wud a wave of his hand dismissed the throops an’ got off the travellin’-thrunk.

All day he spent in his own tint thinkin’ over plans for comin’ round the Countess of Don Isle; but he couldn’t hit on anything that plaized him properly.

“I’ll have a sleep over it,” says he to himself, “an maybe an idaya’ll come to me like it came to my friend Richard the Third in his dhrames.”

* * * * *

Ever since the time she heard Crummle was prowlin’ about the neighbourhood, the Countess of Don Isle kept a sharp look-out for him, though ’twas little consarn she felt for him or his sogers, knowin’ they never cud take the castle from her unless by her own consint.

’Tis a fine iligant woman she was, measurin’ about six fut in her vamps, an’ she had the right sperit in her, only on wan point, an’ ’twas on this very point, though little she thought so, the great wakeness in her armour was,—but we’ll come to that part of the story in due coorse.

Lady Catherine—I believe I towld you that was the name of the Countess—had no end of confidence in her head-gunner, Mike Morrissey; an’ ’tis raison she had to be proud of him! He stud nearly six foot an’ a half in his stockin’ feet, an’ he didn’t know what it was to be second best in anything undher the sun. There wasn’t a man in the counthry could shoot, fish, ride, or swim wud Mike or stand up agen him at a game of “forty-five,” or in a row, or a hurlin’ match; but for all that he wasn’t a quarrelsome or a conthrarey man at all, so long as he wasn’t dhruv too hard, for of coorse he had his feelin’s.

Himself an’ the Countess wor great frinds intirely, except on the wan point, an’, as I’ve said afore, it was because of this wakeness in her characther that she was laiste sthrong where she expected she was most sthrong.

Now, Lady Catherine, wud all her vartues, was a rank teetotaller; an’ Mike Morrissey was fond of a dhrop. He was never seen to take too much—an’ indeed ’twould be a power of the hard stuff that ’ud knock Mike off his head—but he liked his liquor in raison. Lady Catherine was always thryin’ to get him to sign the pledge, but she couldn’t come round him at all.

“I’d do anything for your ladyship,” Mike used often say to her of an evenin’ when she’d be sittin’ on the sofy afther taytime. “I’d fight for you wud the last dhrop of my blood; but a good glass of John Jameson now and again, and an odd pint of Guinness’s porther is as necessary to my constitution as a cup of sthrong tay is to yours, ma’am. I can walk six Irish mile an hour wud aise, an’ I’ll go bail if I was to take the pledge I’d break down at four mile inside of a week.”

Afther a time the Lady Catherine saw there was no use in thryin’ to convart Mike to her views, an’ she gev it up for a bad job; but it made her all the hardher with the other sarvants an’ follyers in the castle. She sent the butler off wud a month’s wages in place of warnin’, an’ she locked up the kays of the cellar in a chest in her own bedroom; an’ by degrees she got all the folk inside the castle grounds to take the pledge.

Mike was sore vexed at the way the Countess was actin’, but he didn’t say much, an’ whenever he felt dhry he used to take a turn outside the walls an’ spend a while in the nearest shebeen; but of coorse it disthressed him that he used to have to walk so far for his dhrop instead of havin’ it handy, as in the ould times, on the kitchen dhresser.

Well, the evenin’ of the day that Crummle addhressed his sogers at Kilbarry, Lady Catherine sent for Mike Morrissey to come to her private apartments.

“I hear, Mike,” says she, “that this bla’guard Crummle is on the march to Don Isle.”

“I partly guessed as much,” says Mike; “for when I was out havin’ a pint to-day I was towld that a sthrange horseman was seen on the horizon this mornin’, takin’ a survey of the castle through a spyglass.”

“Is that so?” says the Countess.

“’Tis,” says Mike.

“Then I hopes you’re gettin’ things snug for the visithors,” says her ladyship.

“I am,” says Mike. “I’ll give ’em sugar in their tay, you may be sure. I’ve been hard at it all day, an’ I’ll go bail there’ll be some exthra gray hairs on ould Crummle’s skull before he finds a wake spot in our four walls, or gets a prod of a bay’net into our stomachs—savin’ your presence, ma’am!”

“Are all the guns an’ swoords an’ things in ordher?” axes the Countess.

“They are, ma’am,” says Mike, “as far as they go. I’ve scoured the insides of the cannons until ’tis like new churns they are, an’ as for the swoords you could shave in the dark wud ’em; but indeed ’tis only for show we’ll want the swoords or the cannons, for the dickens ever Crummle will get wudin rayche of a swoord except we make a sally out afther the vagabone when he’s in full rethrate, an’ I needn’t tell yerself what sort the cannons are, but I’ll make a display wud ’em, you may depind.”

“’Tis a fine man you are!” says the Countess; “an’ if you’d only sign the pledge I’d double your wages on the spot.”

“The laiste said about that the betther,” says Mike; “for what use ’ud more wages be to me if I couldn’t enjoy meself in my own way?”

“Well, ’tis an obsthinate craychur you are,” says the Countess; “but ’tis only for your good I’m spaykin’, Mike.”

“I know that, ma’am,” says he; “an’ ’tis much obliged to you I am for the intherest you takes in me. An’ now if your ladyship would folly my advice I’d recommend you to take a lie down until mornin’, for it wouldn’t surprise me to see the sogers in the valley before we’re a day ouldher, an’ the deuce a much sleep you can expect to get while we’re firin’ the guns at the inemy.”

“All right, Mike!” says she. “I’ll retire airly to-night, an’ have a good long stretch.”

“Well, pleasant dhrames to you, ma’am!” says Mike, bowin’ down to the ground. “An’ depind yer life on me!”

Next mornin’, soon afther the break of day, the Countess was awoke out of her sleep by the sound of a thrumpet, so up she jumps an’ puts her head out of the bedroom windy.

Down in the valley under the castle walls, she sees a man on horseback wavin’ a flag of thruce, an’ at once Lady Catherine made up her mind this was an ambassadhor from Crummle himself.

The horseman didn’t see her for a spell, an’ begor, he nearly burst his _giddawn_ blowin’ blasts out of his bugle. The Countess, seein’ at last that he’d exhausted all his spare win’, gev a shout at him,—

“Did you think ’tis deaf we wor here?” says she. “What’s your business, my man?”

“Is the Countess of Don Isle at home?” says the horseman, scarcely able to make his voice rayche the castle windy, he was so hoarse from screechin’ into the thrumpet.

“She is,” says the Countess. “I’m the party in questhion, an’ who may you be, my cock-crowin’ galivanther?”

“My name is Crummle,” says the horseman; “an’ I’m glad to find ’tis your own sweet self I have the pleasure of addhressin’, Lady Catherine, my jewel.”

“I’ve heard tell of you,” says the Countess, “an’ by all accounts ’tis a dirty ruffian you are.”

“You’re not over civil, anyhow, in your spayche,” says Crummle, his cheeks gettin’ as red as a turkey-cock’s comb at the words of her ladyship. However he didn’t purtend to be offended, for the more he looked at the castle the more he made up his mind that it was only by palaver or sthrategy it could be taken.

“This is a fine hardy-lookin’ buildin’,” says he.

“’Tis,” says she. “I’m glad you admires it.”

“An’ yerself is a fine, wholesome-lookin’ faymale,” says he; “an’ only I’m a married man, maybe ’tis make you an offer of my own self I would.”

“Look here,” says she; “I want none of your soft sawdher. If you have anything to say to me on business, say it at wance.”

“Well, to tell you the thruth,” says Crummle, “I’m gettin’ sick an’ tired of all this murdher an’ bloodshed, an’ I’m come to offer you terms.”

“Terms!” says she. “What do you mane by that, you insultin’ ignoramus?”

“Well,” says he, “wan of my head generals has taken a great fancy to yerself an’ the castle. He’s a fine iligant man, an’ a rank teetotaller, an’ I’m towld you’re given that way yerself. Now, if you consints to marryin’ him, I’ll make the pair of ye a present of the place, an’ I’ll rethrate wud my throops wudout firin’ wan solithary box of a shot at you.”