Finn got off the cart and ran after the man. Half way down the lane he caught him.

"My uncle bids me ask where could we get lodgings in the village," said he.

"Is it lodgings for man and beast?"

"It is, sir. Bartley has the horse and Tim has a pigeon."

"Well, I tell you, you won't find such lodgings in the village tonight. Dan Mulcahy is the only person who provides entertainment for man and beast, and Dan is at a wake beyond the mountains this night and all his family is with him. But tell your uncle not to be troubled by that mischance. There's room in our house for the three of you and there's stabling for the horse as well. Tell your uncle that if he'll bring you to the house at the end of this lane you'll get as good a rest as anywhere else."

Finn ran back with this message to Bartley. They brought the cart to the top of the lane and Bartley shouted out, "Thank you, honest man. We'll come down to you."

The man with the horse went on while Bartley led his own horse, and Finn and Tim walked beside the cart. The lane was very crooked and it was filled with the smell of the elder-blossoms. When they came to the front of the house they saw another man with their friend of the road. He had just come out of the house. This man came forward and shook hands with Bartley, with Tim and with Finn. "You're heartily welcome," he said to each.

Finn noticed that his fingers were long and that his hands were very soft.

"Go inside, children, and we'll deal with the horses," said the man who was with them on the road.

It was a comfortable house that Finn and Tim went into. The big black cat that was lying on a stool before the fire had a blue ribbon round her neck. The hearth was swept clear, a fine fire of peat was burning on it and a pot of porridge was bubbling beside the fire. On the chimney board two candles were burning in tall brass candle-sticks, and between them was a pair of china dogs. Little white curtains were across the windows; the tins on the dresser were shining, and the crocks of milk on the table were carefully covered. The boys spoke in whispers, for they thought some woman would appear any minute. But no woman came. Finn noticed that there was a low table like one that a tailor sits on, and beside it were sacks and lengths of sacking. When they found that nobody came, the boys sat down at the fire. In a while the two men of the house came in with Bartley. They were both of the same age and build and both wore their beards in the same way—not on their cheeks but around their necks. In the coat of the man who had been in the house a big curved needle was stuck.

"Our name is Muldowney," said the man who had met them on the road. "I'm Martin Muldowney and my brother here is Matthew Muldowney. We're born-twins and the pair of us are old bachelor men."

"Martin goes to the market or fair and I keep house," said Matthew.

"And well he does it," said Martin. "Look round the house! Did you ever see a place as tidy? There's not the breadth of a sloe in dirt in it—not the breadth of a sloe."

"I'm a sewing-man," said Matthew. "I make sacks for the mill." He pointed to the low table and the sacks and lengths of sacking upon it. "We're going to eat our supper now," he said, "and you'll all have to sit over to the table. There's enough porridge in the pot. Will any of you drink tea?"

"We'll all drink tea," said Martin.

"Very well then," said Matthew. "And will any of you have an egg?"

"We'll all have eggs," said Martin.

"Very well then." Matthew put five eggs in two tins and placed them on the fire. Then he filled porringers with milk out of the crock and set a dish of porridge before them. They started with that.

"Martin," said Matthew, "do you know that something happened today."

"Was it anything extraordinary?"

"It was. The bantam laid an egg."

"The bantam laid an egg! Well, that's wonderful."

"But wait till you hear what happened to it. Peter broke it."

"Did he, indeed?"

"He broke it before my two very eyes."

Matthew then put a loaf on the table with a big piece of fresh butter on a plate with salt beside it. He poured out the tea into big mugs.

When the supper was finished Matthew said,

"Did you remember to bring me anything from the town, Martin?"

"I did."

"I thought you'd forgot it."

Martin handed him a little tin box of snuff. He began taking in the snuff very greedily.

"What about your horse?" Bartley asked.

"We'll leave it in the stable for tonight," said Martin.

"I'd advise you to put it out on grass tonight," said Bartley.

"I'll put it out tomorrow. The pasture is on an island in the lake and I'd want somebody to help me to land the horse from the float."

"I'll help you," said Bartley, "with one of the boys."

"Very well," said Martin.

"Well, boys, which of you will come?"

"I will," said Tim.

"I will," said Finn.

"Leave this little fellow to keep me company while you're away," said Matthew, indicating Finn. So Martin went outside and Bartley and Tim followed.

After Finn had watched the lame horse being taken down a path he came back to the fire and sat down on a stool. Matthew told him how the others would get the horse into a big flat-bottomed boat and cross to the island in the lake. When they pushed into the shore big herons would rise up from where they had been fishing. One would make the horse splash into the water and then pull it up the bank. Tim and Bartley would see the high round tower that had stood for two thousand years.

It was a wonderful island they had gone to. When Saint Patrick was preaching in Ireland a holy man had come to it and had lived on it as a hermit. The walls of his church were to be seen. The altar stone had a hollow in it and this hollow was always filled with water. The hottest day could not dry this water up. If anyone emptied it the water would come again out of the stone.

Matthew sat cross-legged on the board, put big spectacles over his eyes and began to sew lengths of sacking. After a while of silence he asked Finn did he know any riddles. Finn said he did.

"Will you ask me one," said Matthew, "and see can I answer it."

Finn thought for a while and then asked, "What goes round the house and round the house and sleeps in the corner at night?"

"The besom," said Matthew. "We take it round the house and round the house when we're sweeping and leave it lying in the corner at night. Look at it there. Now I'll ask you a riddle. What bears but never blossoms?"

Finn looked at the crook that hung down from the chimney. A pot and a kettle were hanging from it. "The crook," he answered.

"You heard that riddle before," said Matthew. "But I'll ask you to answer one now that you never heard. Here it is:—

Finn pondered on it for a while but couldn't find an answer. "I'll tell you what it is," said Matthew, "it's a fiddle."

"Oh, yes," said Finn. "It's made out of the wood that's in a tree, and a man plays it in the town and people give him money."

"Well, will you remember that riddle?"

"Say it for me again," said Finn, "and I'll remember it." So Matthew repeated it and Finn thought he would remember.

"Here's another riddle," said Matthew. "What comes in on the shoulders of men and goes out finer than silk?" Finn's eyes went round and round the house. He looked at the basket of peat beside the fire. Then something told him to say, "The turf."

"Well now, you're a smart boy. It's the turf surely," said Matthew. "When it comes in it's so heavy that men carry it on their shoulders, and it goes out in smoke that is finer than silk."

It was evident that Matthew was thinking of another riddle. But then Finn heard a sound as if something that had a metal throat was making a gurgling noise. He looked round and saw a jackdaw hopping towards them.

"That's Peter," said Matthew. "He always comes down at night when he hears that I've company."

The jackdaw hopped across the floor and flew up on the board.

"He wants to show his red stockings," said Matthew, "he's very proud of them."

Peter cocked his head and turned a blue and glassy eye on Finn. Finn told Matthew about Tim's pet pigeon. He went out to the cart and took the pigeon out of the box that Tim had left it in and brought it into the house. When the pigeon was put upon the board Peter flew down, making gurgling noises.

"He's mad-jealous," said Matthew. "See! He won't stay in the place at all."

Peter lifted up his wings and fluttered up the ladder to the loft.

"He'd be vexed if he came down and found me speaking to the cat," said Matthew.

Matthew began to sew another sack and Finn sat watching the fire and pondering on the things he had heard that day. His mind was on the story that Martin had told them on the road—the story of Kate Mary Ellen and the fairies and he wanted to speak of it to Matthew. But when he referred to the fairies Matthew shook his head:—

"The fairies?—Kate Mary Ellen?" he said, "I'll engage that you're thinking of some story that Martin was telling you. Martin doesn't read books or newspapers, and romances are in his head. Now I'm a reading-man and I let them fairy tales go by me. Daniel O'Connell? Yes, I could tell you about Daniel O'Connell. And it's not the stories that the people would tell you about him that I have. I'd give you Daniel O'Connell's real, true history as it's in the books, and mind you, I have day and date for everything I'll say.

"Well, Daniel O'Connell was born in Kerry in the year 1775—the year 1775, mind you. What sort of way had the people of living that time? Well, the bulk of the people of Ireland—the Catholics—were suffering under bad laws—the Penal Laws they were called—and one result of these laws was that there were no schools for Catholic children. Maybe you think that it was grand to live in those days because there were no schools? Well, the people at the time didn't think so, because they knew they were denied education so that they might look on themselves as inferiors and people who could never rise in the world. And though the bulk of the people of Ireland were Catholics no Catholic was allowed to enter Parliament. The Catholics had to pay very heavy rents for the farms they owned, and besides the heavy rents each farmer had to pay one-tenth of what he grew or reared or earned to the Protestant Church in Ireland. Daniel O'Connell got the Catholics representation in Parliament, but he did more than that for them—he put a spirit into them, and after his time no one would make them feel that they were inferior to anyone else, or that they could not make their own way in the world.

"At the time Daniel O'Connell was growing up there was a Parliament in Ireland. That Parliament had done something to make the lives of the Catholics less miserable but still no Catholic could enter it. Now the Government in England was anxious to destroy this Parliament in Dublin so that there might be the Parliament for England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales—a Parliament in London. As the Irish Catholics were not let into the Parliament in Dublin the English Government thought that they would not be strong in supporting it. But O'Connell, who was a young man at the time, made a speech and said, 'I would rather confide in the justice of my brethren, the Protestants of Ireland, than lay my country at the feet of foreigners.'

"Well, the Parliament in Dublin was at length destroyed, and the Irish members had to go to a Parliament in London. That was in the year 1800. No Irish Catholic could go into the Parliament in London either, for although the Irish Catholics had votes, every member going into the House of Parliament in London had to take an oath saying that he believed that what the Catholic Church taught was false. Of course that kept Catholics out of the Parliament in London.

"After the old Irish Parliament was destroyed Daniel O'Connell became one of the leaders of the Catholics of Ireland. He taught them to work together and he taught them the rights they should have. He showed them, too, that he who was one of themselves was a match for the people who oppressed them for so long. Daniel O'Connell was a great lawyer and a great orator, and in Ireland or England or in Europe either, there was no one his equal at the time. He was educated in France and he saw the revolution there and he knew how terrible the behaviour of the people would be when they had arms in their hands. He was back in Ireland at the time of the rebellion in 1798 and he saw how the soldiers with cannon and new guns could scatter the people who had only pikes in their hands and old muskets. And so O'Connell had always a great dread of bringing the people to bloodshed. He once killed a man himself—it was in a duel—and he regretted this all his life. Maybe this was another reason why he was in dread of bloodshed.

"Now I told you that the Catholics of Ireland had the vote, but that no Catholic could enter the Parliament in London on account of the oath that had to be taken, and somebody thought that it would make a great stir in Ireland and in England if a Catholic was elected for Parliament and then refused to take the oath. Well, O'Connell decided he would go up for election himself. I can tell you there was great excitement in Ireland and England when that became known. The election was in Clare and both sides made great preparations to fight it out. The landlords were altogether against him but the tenants were in favour of O'Connell. The tenants were threatened that their way of living would be taken from them if they voted for their man, but in spite of all that they marched out and carried the election for O'Connell and for Ireland. The English government now saw that they would have to grant the Catholics their freedom to vote. If they didn't do that there would be civil war, for Ireland was roused up and the people had been knit together by O'Connell. So the Government passed the Catholic Emancipation Act. That was in 1829.

"Catholic Emancipation was a great thing, for the country could come to nothing while the bulk of the people had not the same rights and the same privileges as the rest. After O'Connell's election Catholics had the right to go into Parliament, the right to become judges and the right to have schools.

"But O'Connell knew that there was not much use in going to a Parliament that was in another country. He wanted to have an Irish Parliament in Dublin again. He won Catholic Emancipation in the first half of his life and now he tried to win back the Parliament for Ireland. For nearly twenty years he strove to win back our Parliament. He did not want the people to rise in rebellion to gain it but he wanted to show England that they were all united and all in earnest. He used to have great meetings all over the country. I was at one of the meetings myself. It was on the Hill of Tara and I was a youth of eighteen at the time. There were no trains then, and the people came on horses and cars, but most of them came on foot. They marched from the south of Ireland and from the north, from the east and from the west, and many of them were two days on the spot, sleeping in open fields. There were nearly as many at that meeting as there are men, women and children in the City of Dublin. And the strangest thing I is this—that I heard O'Connell's voice although I was so far away from him. Many men at that meeting thought it would be the last he would hold and that he would give them the word to go into rebellion. But O'Connell did not give the word and I think this disheartened the people.

"There was to be another great meeting at Clontarf near Dublin at the place where King Brian defeated the Danes. The English Government were very disturbed now, because they knew that if O'Connell could hold the country together and show the strength of his following at such great meetings he was bound to have his way. Well, the men in the Government made up their minds to stop the Clontarf meeting. I joined the people that were going to it and we marched towards Dublin. But when we drew near the city we met horsemen riding towards us. 'Turn back,' they said, 'and turn back all the others. There will be no meeting.' The Government had forbidden the meeting and they were going to use troops to prevent it.

"I have read in books that people blamed O'Connell for commanding the people to go back. If he had let the meeting come together, they say, the government would have had to give in, and then O'Connell would have won the Parliament as he had won Catholic Emancipation, or else the government would have had to order the troops to fire on the people and then there would have been an insurrection. But that would have been a terrible thing, surely, and the government that took such an action could not stand and in the end the queen would have to do what the people wanted. As it was, nothing happened at all. O'Connell was arrested and kept in jail for three months. When he came out he hadn't the strength behind him that he used to have before Clontarf. He was an old man, too, and he felt that there was little more in life for him. He went to Italy and died on his way to Rome.

"It was a black year for Ireland the year O'Connell died. The potatoes that the people lived on rotted in the ground. To be sure they had enough wheat and pigs and sheep and cattle to live on, but they were used to paying their rents with the money they got for such, and living on the potatoes. When the potatoes failed they still sold their wheat and their pigs and cattle and sheep and paid their rents. Then many died of starvation. The English government at the time didn't like the Irish people and did hardly anything to help them.

"It was well for O'Connell that he did not live to see the misery the country fell into. Two million people died of hunger and disease and another two million people left the country—such misery will never happen to Ireland again, please God."

In a while Martin came back with Bartley and Tim. The horse had been safely landed on the island. The beds for the strangers were in the loft and the three of them went up in a while. The first thing Finn heard in the morning was the jackdaw hopping across the floor. Making gurgling noises he flew down the ladder and sat beside Matthew at the table. He ate the porridge off Matthew's plate.

They started off early and Martin went with them to the top of the lane.