utterly exhausted and powerless.  He was unable even to articulate the name of the man to whose house he was directed to take me, or the locality where he lived.  It was only from circumstances and a dim recollection of the name that I was able to apprise the owner of the cabin whither I was bound; and after all, much remained for the exercise of his sagacity, which was not long at fault.  We brought my old guide to the cabin, thrown across a pony, and I set out anew, guided by the dweller on the hills.  He forced me to mount the pony, and led the way over the crags.  He bounded from rock to rock with the agility of a deer, though the stones were sharp as flint, and he barefooted.  He was a man of powerful proportions and extreme activity.  My pony, on the other hand, crept his way through narrow pathways, worn by the rain.  In this way we crossed two considerable mountains, and, leaving the pony at the summit of the last, I pursued my companion’s flight down the slope with the best speed my stiffened limbs could be forced to.  Arriving over a valley which is called, I think, Branlieu, situated in a western direction from Gougane Barra, he pointed to a lone house at the extremity of the valley, as my destination.  It was about four o’clock, but the rays of the sun had ceased to irradiate this gloomy valley, over which hung the shades of night.  At the western side the mountain was steep as a wall, and down from the summit dashed headlong torrents, swelled by the morning’s rain.  The waters gleamed like sheeted ice through the haze, and their roar fell upon the ear with a dull sense of loneliness and pain.  On the eastern slope wound a new road, one of those heartless experiments which the inventive genius of the Board of Works in Ireland substituted for the exploded trial of prolonging beggars’ lives by Soyer soup and chained spoons.  On these roads the people were to perform the greatest possible amount of work, and live on the least possible quantity of food.  But, although these operations cost much waste of blood, the roads opened no new and fruitful sources of industry in these mountain valleys, only frequented by the footsteps of the sportsman, or scanned by the eye of the votaries of pleasure.  The house where I called was intended for my guide.  However, I found my claim for hospitality at once recognised on pronouncing the password of my host by the sea.  The cabin—­it was literally such—­was in the most filthy state.  The dung of the cattle had not been removed for days, and half-naked children squatted in it as joyously as if they rolled on richest carpets.  The housewife merely replied to my question in the affirmative.  But she immediately proceeded, with the help of two little girls, to remove the filth.  I was so fatigued and hungry that I could willingly postpone the process of cleaning for the sake of providing any sort of food.  I was doomed to disappointment.  No appearance of supper interrupted the busy operation, until the dung was removed, and the floor drained.  I retired, and endeavoured to ascend the eastern hill, to a point where I could catch a glimpse of the setting sun.