He gasped short an’ jerked the comb out of his hair, for there, not tin feet away, stood a dark, shadowy woman, tall, thin, an’ motionless, laning on a crutch.
During a breath or two the parsecuted hayro lost his head completely, for he never doubted that the banshee had changed her shuit of clothes to chase back afther him.
The first clear aymotion that rayturned to him was to fling the comb on the ground an’ make a boult of it. On second thought he knew that ’twould be aisier to bate the wind in a race than to run away from the banshee.
“Well, there’s a good Tipperary man done for this time,” groaned the knowledgeable man, “unless in some way I can beguile her.” He was fishing in his mind for its civilist worrud when the woman spoke up, an’ Darby’s heart jumped with gladness as he raycognised the cracked voice of Sheelah Maguire, the spy for the fairies.
“The top of the avenin’ to you, Darby O’Gill,” says Sheelah, peering at him from undher her hood, the two eyes of her glowing like tallow candles; amn’t I kilt with a-stonishment to see you here
