“Is it thrue?” he asked—­and was so frightened that he looked even sterner than usual—­“is it thrue what I’m afther hearing, Bridget McCaura, that ye’ve taken the Dark Man, Lonergan, to live with ye—­to live in the Farm?”

“Is it thrue?  ’Tis so,” said Bridget.

“But ye’re not going to keep him, are ye now?”

“Keep him?  I am that,” said Bridget.

Peter screwed up his courage and told her warily, that though it was well-meant of her, and “’tis you have the kind warm heart, Bridget me dear,” still, that propriety forbade it.

He was afraid to look at her as he spoke.  Bridget was purple.

“What! a misfortnit ould omadhaun the likes of that?” she cried.

“I know, I know,” said Peter (this is a pet phrase of his and usually means that he does not know).  “I know, I know, but ’tis because ye’re a lone woman, tell me now are ye listening to me?  If ye’d been married now, ’twould have been another thing.”

“Married!” cried Bridget with infinite scorn—­“Married!  If that’s all, I’ll marry the craythur to-morrow!”

And so Dark Andy was married to the richest woman in Moher.  He seemed indifferent; as for Bridget, she had made up her mind to shelter him, and there was an end of it, she took pleasure in astounding her neighbours.

[Illustration:  “I’LL MARRY THE CRAYTHUR TO-MORROW!”]

There was never such excitement in Clare as when those banns were read.  Everyone saw that poor Bridget McCaura—­“dacint woman”—­had been bewitched.  All the old stories about Dark Andy came to life, there was no room for doubt now, and the bravest unbelievers trembled before him.  There was many a woman would never hear his name without crossing herself, and he got the credit of every misfortune between Kilkee and Kinvarra, though some doubted whether a blind man could have the Evil Eye.  It was felt that he should be asked to give up his post by the Cross-roads, since it was inconvenient for the neighbours to have to climb two stone walls to avoid passing him.  However, no one could be found to suggest this to him, so he still sat there daily, for he liked to feel that he was earning his own livelihood.

* * * * *

One rough afternoon during my first visit to Clare I was caught in a storm of rain, and took refuge at the Liscannor Cross-roads under a thick clump of trees that are stunted and bent eastward by cowering from the sea-wind.  As I reached them I heard a shrill cry, “Remember the Dark Man!” Then I saw the blind beggarman sitting huddled in a ragged great-coat so much too big for him that till he stood up I did not see how tiny he was.  He had a doleful peaked face, set in a shock of grey hair.  By him sat a little brown dog—­the queerest of mongrels—­with a tin can tied round his neck.

Andy was friendly that day, and talked eagerly in a shrill, stammering voice.  I found later that he was wretched in still weather, and loved the malicious rush of the rain; he was happiest when the wind rattled in his ears and the rain whipped his face.  “Call that rain?” he said, “sure th’ air is flooded, an’ ye might as well swim as walk.”