Bridget Skillicorne had had a cow sick that night. It had been
suffering from a colic, probably due to grazing among the rank grass
which had been lying under the water that had been drained away. But
Bridget was sure that "that dirt Baldromma" had "wutched" it
(bewitched it) just to spite her for what she had said.
She had tried a hot bran mash in vain. The cow still writhed and
roared, so nothing remained, if they were not to lose their creature,
but that Will should go to the Ballawhaine (a witch-doctor who lived
nine or ten miles away on the seaward side of the Curragh) and get a
charm to take off the witching.
Old Will, being a class-leader, was well aware that such sorcery was
the arts of Satan. But if the cow died it would make a big hole in
their stocking-purse to buy another, so his conscience compounded
with his pocket, and he agreed to go.
"Aw well, a few good words will do no harm at all," he said, and
carrying his stable lantern he set out towards nine o'clock on his
long journey.
Then Bridget, taking another lantern, a half-knitted stocking and a
three-legged stool, went into the cow-house to sit up with her cow
and watch the progress of its malady.
Towards midnight the creature became easier, and, gathering her legs
under her, lay down to sleep. But Bridget remained three hours
longer in the close atmosphere of the cow-house, waiting for old Will
but thinking of Dan, and making her needles go with a furious click
at the thought of his threat to evict her.
The upper half of the cow-house door stood open, and somewhere in the
dark hours towards dawn she was startled by a bright light and the
hissing and crackling of a sudden fire outside. She knew what it was
(such fires on the mountains were not uncommon), but nevertheless she
stepped out to see.
She saw more than she had expected. In the glen below her brew,
where every bush and tree stood out for a moment in the flare of the
burning gorse, she saw the figure of a woman. The woman was standing
by the _Clagh-ny-Dooiney_. She had something white under her arm.
After a moment she knelt, put her parcel under the lip of the stone
and then hurried away.
Who was she? In her present mood, with her mind running on one
subject, Bridget could have no uncertainty. It was the Collister
girl! It must be! What had she been doing down there? In her own
walk through life Bridget had never stepped aside, therefore she was
severe on those who had. There was only one thing that could bring a
girl out of bed in the middle of the night to a place like that. The
slut! The strumpet!
When Will Skillicorne reached home half-an-hour afterwards he was
carrying a wisp of straw. With this he was to make the sign of the
cross on the back of the sick cow, and say some good words about St.
Patrick and St. Bridget, giving it at the same time a hot drink of
meal and water.
"But the craythur is better these three hours," said Bridget.
"Praise the Lord!" said Will. "That must have been the very minute
the good man came down from his bed to me in his flannel drawers!"
"But did thou meet anybody as thou was coming up the glen?"
"Maybe I did."
"Was it a woman?"
"It's like it was, now."
"Did she go into the mill-house?"
"I believe in my heart she did, though."
Bridget was triumphant.
It was the Collister girl! There could not be a doubt about it. And
at break of day she would go down to the glen and see what she had
left under the _Clagh-ny-Dooiney_.
"Show me the road at Hollantide, will he? The dirt! The dirty black
toad! We'll see! We'll see!"