A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin.
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.
Chapter 3.—The Barrachan Girl.
The disappearance of Cormac Art and his fair partner at first caused no surprise, as it was thought, in the hurry and confusion which the whirlwind occasioned, that they had retired unnoticed to avoid the stifling dust which blew all round; but when after some time they were no where to be seen, the people began to look surprised, and many a strange conjecture as to what had become of them was whispered about. A diligent search was soon instituted to discover the missing pair, but in vain; although the young men dived int every nook and cranny, cave and dill, until late into the night, their efforts were unavailing, for no trace of their leader could they anywhere find. Another party sought him at his father’s castle, but it was still the same. Greta was the agony and grief of Art More, his father, when some days had passed by, and still no tidings were heard of his missing son. At length he bethought him as a ancient Druid, who lived on the side of mangerton, and who was noted thro’ the Green Isle his wisdom and sanctity. The heart broken father repaired to his sage in the mountain to ask his advice, and to see if he could give him any account of his missing son. The druid, after hearing his story and his description of the young girl with whom he danced, said he must have been enchanted by the spells of Queen Cliodhna, and that she must have taken him away to her rocky palace. He also said, that, if she could keep him for fourteen clear days from the hour of taking him away, no power on earth could release him from her toils. "There is not in Ireland," said he, "any such enchanter who can free him from her witchery except the Old hag of Ulster, who lives on the shores of Lough Swilly. I would, therefore, advise you to repair with all possible speed to her, and that she consents to come with you, all may yet be well, provided you arrive in time; otherwise your efforts are fruitless, and you will never again see your son." Old Art More was bewildered by what he heard; eight days were already past, and he had but six left to journey to the far end of Donegal and back again, in case he could induce the old hag to come with him. Now, that distance in these days of engineering and railroad skill would be of no significance, but in the brave old days of our ancestors it was far different. However, he resolutely determined to do all that could be done under the circumstances. Hastily proceeding home, he chose a few valuable presents to propitiate the good graces of the old Hag, and, saddling his fleetest steed, he set off for Ulster. On thro’ the rich alluvial lands of Limerick, down by the lordly Shannon, far away over the fertile plains of Roscommon, over
