Part 6

Of coorse Saint Pathrick knew for sartin then that the dhragon didn’t recognize him, so he made up his mind to have a bit of a play wud him before banishin’ him intirely.

“An’ where have you been,” says he, “that you didn’t hear of the new rules an’ regulations about craychurs of your kind?”

“What’s that to you?” says the dhragon, who had no intintion of lettin’ anybody know where his hidin’ hole was.

“You might keep a civil tongue in your head, anyhow,” says Saint Pathrick. “Civility is chape, an’, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll thry to save those fumes of fire an’ sulphur that you’re spittin’ out there for some betther land, for no more on Irish soil have you the laiste chance of harmin’ a son or a daughther of Erin. That’s wan of the new rules and regulations, Misther Dhragon,” says Saint Pathrick, nearly out of breath afther the long spayche.

“Mighty fine bounce intirely!” says the dhragon. “Wan ’ud think ’twas Saint Pathrick himself you wor by the darin’ manner you have. An’ now,” says he, “as I haven’t much time to spare I must only just make wan male of the pair of yez. I’m sorry I can’t make two coorses of ye, but I’m in no end of a hurry an’ as hungry as a Friar on Ash Wednesday.”

Wud that the dhragon opened his mouth so wide that you cud see about two or three hundred feet of his inside, an’ the two fangs he had at aich corner of his jaw stud up like a pair of telegraph poles.

Saint Pathrick got a bit of a turn at the sighth, for this was the biggest dhragon he’d ever seen in all his thravels, but he just said a short prayer, an’ begor, there was the dhragon fixed to the spot wud his mouth wide open just like the enthrance of a cave.

“That’s what we calls lockjaw,” says Saint Pathrick, wud a hearty laugh. “I hopes you enjoy it. That’s another of the new rules and regulations, my sweet fellow. Now maybe you’d keep a civil tongue in your head if I gev you the chance again, an’ talk less of breakin’ yer fast off meself an’ the horse.”

There was an implorin’ look in the dhragon’s eye just as much as to say, “Sure you know I have no chance agen you, an’ of coorse I’ll be civil-spoken if you gives me wan more opportunity.” An’ Saint Pathrick seein’ this said another prayer, an’ down dropped the baste’s jaws wud a snap as loud as the burstin’ of a cannon-piece.

“O murdher!” says the dhragon, wud a sigh out of him like half a gale of win’; “but that’s the mischief’s own rule an’ regulation. An’ what may your name be, your honour?” says he.

“Well, as you axes a civil questhion,” says the Saint, “I’ll give you a civil answer. My name is Saint Pathrick.”

“Saint Pathrick!” shouted the dhragon. “Oh what cursed luck druv’ you in my road this mornin’?”

“Take care of yer langwidge, now,” says Saint Pathrick, “or maybe I’d give you a taste of another new rule an’ regulation. An’ now that we undherstands aich other, might I ax you how dar’ you remain in the counthry afther my ordhers that all the varmint wor to be banished?”

“I’m no varmint,” says the dhragon, pluckin’ up courage again; “an’ whether I am or not I have a laygal right to remain in the land of my forefathers.”

“Arrah whisht!” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ don’t be thryin’ to rise my timper. Of coorse you’re varmint, an’ bad varmint too.”

“You wrong me there,” says the dhragon, “for I’m a descindant of an ould anshent king, an’ ’twas by witchcraft I was changed at nurse.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew right well that himself an’ all his family for generations wor the dirtiest set of bla’guard dhragons that ever blasted a counthry, but he thought he’d work on the Saint’s feelin’s by tellin’ him the yarn about his bein’ an’ Irish prince that was changed at nurse.

“Show me your certificate of baptism,” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ I’ll believe you, but not before.”

“I left it at home on the dhresser,” says the dhragon, in a thremblin’ voice.

“Well, I don’t mind ridin’ wud you to see if it’s the thruth you’re tellin’ me; but mark you,” says Saint Pathrick, “if it’s bringin’ me on a wild goose chase you are, I’ll thransmogrify you into a laughing jackass an’ ordher you to the sayside for the little boys an’ girls to ride about on in the summer time; an’ a sayside donkey you’ll remain until the Day of Judgment, like the wandherin’ Jew.”

“Oh murdher!” says the dhragon. “Sure ’twould be better go to the knacker’s at wance than that, an’ to tell you the thruth—for I see there’s no use in thryin’ to desayve you—I lost the paper hundhreds of years ago, but take my word for it, blessed Saint Pathrick, I’m not a dhragon by breed at all.”

“Prove it, as I said before,” says the Saint, “an’ I’ll see what’s to be done for you.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew he couldn’t prove the lie, an’ he bethought him he’d thry and palaver the Saint a bit, so says he,—

“I know you’re afther doin’ a dale of good for the counthry, for between ourselves most of the varmint here wor a dirty lot, an’ ’twas right glad I was to hear your own sweet self had made a clane sweep of ’em. I was thinkin’ often, many centuries back, of turnin’ informer agen the whole thribe of ’em, an’ only I got a bad touch of rheumatics about twenty-five year ago, which kept me on the bed ever since, I’d have been the first to give your own self a welcome in these parts.”

An’ then clearin’ his throat he began to sing out in a voice like a second-hand foghorn, “The dear little Shamrock.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick got such a fit of laughin’ at the dhragon’s way of singin’ a song that he nearly fell off his horse.

“’Tis the divil’s playboy you are,” says he. “Tell me,” says he, “fair an’ honest, are you afther comin’ straight from the County Cork?”

“I am,” says the dhragon, turnin’ the colour of mouldy cheese. “An’ how the mischief do you know that?”

“I know mostly everything,” says the Saint.

“So it seems,” says the dhragon, lookin’ more on aisey than ever. “What you don’t know, Pathrick,” says he, thryin’ to humour the dacent man, “isn’t worth larnin’ or I’m no judge of characther.”

“There you’re wrong,” says Saint Pathrick. “However, I’m purty sartin on wan point and that is that your afther kissin’ the Blarney Stone.”

“Well, don’t be talkin’,” says the dhragon, “but the knowledge that’s in you is enough to make me blush to the roots of my tail wud envy.”

“It’s thrue, isn’t it?” says the Saint.

“’Tis,” says the dhragon. “Just as I was abreast of Spike Island it sthruck me I’d venture inland an’ have a look at the sighths, for ’tis often I heard tell of the vartues of the Blarney Stone.”

All this time Saint Pathrick was dyin’ of curiosity to know where the mischief this dhragon was while he was deliverin’ the curse which banished the reptiles, but of coorse he didn’t like to let on to a dhragon that he was ignorant of anything. The remark about Spike Island gev him a kind of a sort of an idaya, an’ says he,—

“’Tis fond of a swim you are, Misther Dhragon.”

“You’re right there,” says the dhragon; “but how the mischief you knows all about my feelin’s an’ habits is a hardher puzzle to me every minute.”

“I towld you there wor some things I didn’t know,” says Saint Pathrick, who was never ashamed of tellin’ the thruth; “an’ if you’ll enlighten me on a few points, fair an’ honest, mind you, I’ll make an honourable thratey wud you.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, nearly ready to jump out of his scales at the notion of makin’ an honourable thratey wud the great persecuthor of the dhragon thribe. “I’ll tell you anything you axes, wudout a word of a lie, if you passes your promise to spare my life, for as dhragons go I’m only in the prime of manhood.”

“All right,” says Saint Pathrick. “I’ll tell you the terms of the thratey when you answers my queshtions, but mind that ’tis the thruth you tell me, for ’tis the divil’s own liar you are.”

“Fire away,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll answer you sthraight, for I know ’tis useless to thry an’ bamboozle a larned saint like yerself.”

“Where wor you the day I banished all the varmint from this counthry?”

“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.

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.