Around them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.

As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down the village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan's Field; he looked every inch a king; his kippeen was ready, his frieze coat was off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted--in Irish--"Where's the Carrala man that dare touch my coat? Where's the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at it?"

In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him, and rushed forward, with a mighty cry "Where's the face of a trembling Aughavanna man?" In a moment their kippeens clashed; in another, hundreds of kippeens crashed together, and the grandest fight ever fought in Connemara raged over Callanan's Field. After the first roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the music of the kippeens clashing and clicking on one another, or striking home with a thud.

Never was Long Mat n.o.bler; he rushed ravaging through the enemy, shattering their ranks and their heads; no man could withstand him; Red Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out of Dan O'Shaughran, of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil's Mother Mountain--never again did Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head--who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull.

For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.

At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men found themselves outnumbered and driven back to the village, a great fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not outnumber them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly a man of them could stand.

And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was p.r.o.ne, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the mud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as he would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or politics) revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will, but only gentle regret for the mishap.

II. THEIR LAST RACE.

When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying day came. All the morning long Mat Murnane's coffin lay on four chairs by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the valley from the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough hea.r.s.e, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.

The Joyces, too, had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael's funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the keening of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the other would be there first.

There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and till everyone raced at full speed, and the rival parties broke into a wild shout of "Aughavanna abu!" "Meehul Dhu for ever!"

For the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads met in Callanan's Field the horses were abreast; neck and neck they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck they reached the churchyard, and the horses jammed in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.

But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race.

The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another's hands; they hugged one another.

"Himself would be proud," they cried, "if he hadn't been dead!"

The First Lord Liftinant.

BY WILLIAM PERCY FRENCH (1854--).

(AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)

"Ess.e.x," said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, "Ess.e.x, me haro, I've got a job that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?"

"I'm no great fist at jografy," says his lordship, "but I know the place you mane. Population, three millions; exports, emigrants."

"Well," says the Queen, "I've been reading the Dublin Evening Mail and the Telegraft for some time back, and sorra one o' me can get at the trooth o' how things is goin', for the leadin' articles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife."

"That's the way wid papers all the world over," says Ess.e.x; "Columbus told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin' and conthradictin' each other at every turn--it's the way they make their livin'. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon."

"It's addled they have me betune them," says the Queen. "Not a know I know what's goin' on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand."

"Is it me?" says Ess.e.x, leppin' up off his chair. "It's not in airnest ye are, ould lady. Sure it's the hoight of the London saison. Every one's in town, and Shake's new fairy piece, 'The Midsummer's Night Mare,' billed for next week."

"You'll go when ye're tould," says the Queen, fixin' him with her eye, "if you know which side yer bread's b.u.t.tered on. See here, now," says she, seein' him chokin' wid vexation and a slice o' corned beef, "you ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you'll be at the top o'

the walk over there as vice-regent representin' me."

"I ought to have a t.i.tle or two," says Ess.e.x, pluckin' up a bit. "His Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o' that."

"How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?"

says Elizabeth.

"First cla.s.s," cries Ess.e.x. "Couldn't be betther; it doesn't mean much, but it's allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall door."

Well, boys, it didn't take him long to pack his clothes and start away for the Island o' Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though, through not knowin' the road; but by means of a pocket compa.s.s and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin' on a rock, he took off his hat, and, says he--

"That's great weather we're havin'?"

"Good enough for the times that's in it," says the ould man, c.o.c.kin' one eye at him.

"Any divarshun' goin on?" says Ess.e.x.

"You're a sthranger in these parts, I'm thinkin'," says the ould man, "or you'd know this was a 'band night' in Dalkey."

"I wasn't aware of it," says Ess.e.x; "the fact is," says he, "I only landed from England just this minute."

"Ay," says the ould man, bitterly, "it's little they know about us over there. I'll hould you," says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, "that the Queen herself doesn't know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night." Well, when Ess.e.x heard that, he disrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them--thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day--one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Mountaigle, a playboy like himself. I'll read you the one to the Queen first:--

"Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.

"Fair Enchantress,--I wish I was back in London, baskin' in your sweet smiles and listenin' to your melodious voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin' lookin' for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O'Neill or his men can I find. A policeman at the corner o' Na.s.sau Street told me they wor hidin' in Wicklow. So I am makin' up a party to explore the Dargle on Easter Monda'. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and every minute o' the day I do be wishin' it was your good-lookin' self I was gazin' at instead o' these ignorant scarecrows.

"Hopin' soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin' subject

Ess.e.x."

"P.S.--I hear Hugh O'Neill was seen on the top o' the Donnybrook tram yesterday mornin'. If I have any luck the head'll be off him before you get this.

E."

The other letter read this way:--

"Dear Monty--This is a great place, all out. Come over here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls--oh! don't be talkin'--'pon me secret honour you'll see more loveliness at a tay and a supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England.

Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems to be taken wid my appearance. Her name's Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he oughtn't to find it hard. I hear Hugh O'Neill's a terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you're not lookin'.

If he tries any of his games on wid me, I'll give him in charge. No brawlin' for your's truly

Ess.e.x."

Well, me bould Ess.e.x stopped for odds of six months in Dublin, purtendin' to be very busy subjugatin' the country, but all the time only losin' his time and money widout doin' a hand's turn, and doin' his best to avoid a ruction with "Fighting Hugh." If a messenger came to tell him that O'Neill was camping out on the North Bull, Ess.e.x would up stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin' the forty-foot hole, he'd write off to Elizabeth, saying that, "owing to their suparior knowledge of the country the dastard foe had once more eluded him."

The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Ess.e.x to finish up his business and not be makin' a fool of himself.

"Oh, that's the talk, is it," says Ess.e.x; "very well, me ould sauce-box"