“Wherever we go I hope better luck will be ours than we had this day
twelvemonths.”
“Yes,” said a third; “on that night we carried off a rich prize, the
fair daughter of O’Connor; but that clown, the Kern of Querin, broke
our spell and took her from us. Yet little pleasure has he had of his
bride, for she has neither eaten nor drank nor uttered a word since she
entered his house.”
“And so she will remain,” said a fourth, “until he makes her eat off
her father’s table-cloth, which covered her as she lay on the bier, and
which is now thrown up over the top of her bed.”
On hearing all this, the Kern rushed home, and without waiting even for
the morning, entered the young girl’s room, took down the table-cloth,
spread it on the table, laid meat and drink thereon, and led her to it.
“Drink,” he said, “that speech may come to you.” And she drank, and ate
of the food, and then speech came. And she told the Kern her story—how
she was to have been married to a young lord of her own country, and
the wedding guests had all assembled, when she felt herself suddenly
ill and swooned away, and never knew more of what had happened to
her until the Kern had passed his hand over her face, by which she
recovered consciousness, but could neither eat nor speak, for a spell
was on her, and she was helpless.
Then the Kern prepared a chariot, and carried home the young girl to
her father, who was like to die for joy when he beheld her. And the
Kern grew mightily in O’Connor’s favour, so that at last he gave him
his fair young daughter to wife; and the wedded pair lived together
happily for many long years after, and no evil befell them, but good
followed all the work of their hands.
This story of Kern of Querin still lingers in the faithful, vivid Irish
memory, and is often told by the peasants of Clare when they gather
round the fire on the awful festival of _Samhain_, or November Eve,
when the dead walk, and the spirits of earth and air have power over
mortals, whether for good or evil.