hur to-morrow!"

And so Dark Andy was married to the richest woman in Moher. He seemed
indifferent; as for Bridget, she had made up her mind to shelter him,
and there was an end of it, she took pleasure in astounding her
neighbours.

[Illustration: "I'LL MARRY THE CRAYTHUR TO-MORROW!"]

There was never such excitement in Clare as when those banns were read.
Everyone saw that poor Bridget McCaura--"dacint woman"--had been
bewitched. All the old stories about Dark Andy came to life, there was
no room for doubt now, and the bravest unbelievers trembled before him.
There was many a woman would never hear his name without crossing
herself, and he got the credit of every misfortune between Kilkee and
Kinvarra, though some doubted whether a blind man could have the Evil
Eye. It was felt that he should be asked to give up his post by the
Cross-roads, since it was inconvenient for the neighbours to have to
climb two stone walls to avoid passing him. However, no one could be
found to suggest this to him, so he still sat there daily, for he liked
to feel that he was earning his own livelihood.

* * * * *

One rough afternoon during my first visit to Clare I was caught in a
storm of rain, and took refuge at the Liscannor Cross-roads under a
thick clump of trees that are stunted and bent eastward by cowering from
the sea-wind. As I reached them I heard a shrill cry, "Remember the Dark
Man!" Then I saw the blind beggarman sitting huddled in a ragged
great-coat so much too big for him that till he stood up I did not see
how tiny he was. He had a doleful peaked face, set in a shock of grey
hair. By him sat a little brown dog--the queerest of mongrels--with a
tin can tied round his neck.

Andy was friendly that day, and talked eagerly in a shrill, stammering
voice. I found later that he was wretched in still weather, and loved
the malicious rush of the rain; he was happiest when the wind rattled in
his ears and the rain whipped his face. "Call that rain?" he said, "sure
th' air is flooded, an' ye might as well swim as walk."

Many times after that I went out of my way on my long solitary walks to
pass the Cross-roads, but as often as not he was glum and silent, and
then Bonaparte, sharing his mood, would growl like a small thunderstorm.
The seat was well chosen, for the cowering trees are like a shed over
it, and there is a pleasant landscape in front (though that mattered
little to Andy), a landsc