townland, there crept into his sowl an’ fastened itself there the chanst that the headless dhriver might slip past thim all an’ gobble him up.
In wain he tould himself that there were a million spots in Ireland where the death-carriage was more likely to be than in his own path. But in spite of all raysons, a dhreading, shiverin’ feelin’ was in his bones, so that as he splashed along he was flinging anxious looks behind or thremblin’ at the black, wavering shadows in front.
Howsumever, there was some comfort to know that the weather was changin’ for the betther. Strong winds had swept the worst of the storm out over the ocean, where it lingered slow, growlin’ an’ sputtherin’ lightening.
A few scatthered, frowning clouds, trowing ugly looks at the moon, sulked behind.
“Lord love your shining face,” says Darby, looking up to where the full moon, big as the bottom of a tub, shone bright an’ clear over his head. “An’ it’s I that hopes that the blaggard of a cloud I see creeping over at you from Sleive-na-mon won’t raich you an’ squinch your light before I meet up with Brian Connors.”
