THE BRANCH OF WHITE LILIES - A Basque Traditional Tale – Chapter IV

The bells of the monks of Burceña were ringing for prayers, and Catharina was weeping bitterly in despair on seeing that the time was fast speeding away, and the hour approached in which Martino was to depart, perhaps never to return, and never more to see him. In vain did she look at the flowing water, waiting to discover the stones which served as a bridge; the stones remained concealed beneath the swollen currents which every moment swept down with greater power and roared with greater fury.

"What have I done, Holy Virgin," she would cry out in her deep sorrow, "that Martino should thus doubt me, and be going away to die in the wars which are destroying the bravest knights and the most honoured youths of Biscay? Some dreadful misunderstanding or some calumny has no doubt taken place which has made us both wretched. A single word from me would at once undeceive Martino and dissuade him from his sad resolve, yet I cannot approach him, nor even speak to him, because the river, wild and swollen, interposes between us. Ah! I would give my life to be able to cross this furious current before the bells of Burceña chime the hour of midnight, and each stroke of the hour tells me that no longer will there be any happiness, either for Martino or myself, in this world!"

Thus spoke the hapless Catharina, as she wept at the foot of the chestnut tree, and looked towards the river in hopes of its subsiding, and of discovering the stones, over which she had so often merrily passed, and which now were under water, and then turning towards the house and fields of Iturrioz sought the well-known form of Martino, who, alas! did not appear as was his wont to do, frequenting the river shore to exchange a loving word with his beloved Catharina.

Suddenly she heard footsteps behind, and on turning round she saw coming up to her the mysterious visitor of the previous night, he who had sought a shelter at her mother's house. A hope, wild, because it was founded on an absurdity, beamed over the soul of Catharina.

"From this," she said to herself, "up to Aranguren, which is on the boundary of the valley of Salcedo, there is no bridge whatever, yet this man has crossed the river at no great distance from here. Perhaps some of the gigantic trees growing on the shores have been wrenched by the storm and fallen down across the stream, and, enabled the man to cross over as though it were a bridge.

Should it be so, this man can tell me, and then I shall be able to cross over and see Martino in time to prevent him from going to the wars."

All this did Catharina turn over in her mind during the brief moments of surprise occasioned by the appearance of the man.

"By what part of the river did you cross?" she anxiously asked of the stranger.

"I crossed over by the bridge of Aranguren," he replied,

"How could that be, for the bridge of Aranguren stands some three leagues from here?"

"By making prodigious efforts!" he cried.

"Prodigies indeed! Ah, would that I could work them as you have done!"

"Which would you wish to do first?"

"I would wish to cross the river."

"In that case it would be necessary to have a bridge to be able to cross the river."

"Most certainly."

"I can make one."

"How? perhaps by felling some of the trees and placing them across on both sides of the river?"

"That would be impossible: because the river is very wide, and none of the trees, however high, would reach across to the opposite shore."

"How then?"

"By constructing a stone bridge."

"That would take too long a time, for I must cross over, at latest, when the bells of Burceña strike the hour of midnight."

"I can easily erect it by that hour."

"Do it then."

What will you give me if I do?"

"My life."

"Your life is not enough payment for me."

"What more do you require?

"I must have your soul!"

"Well, then, have it, so that you erect the bridge without delay."

Catharina seemed to be under some irresponsible influence when she uttered these words, and knew not what she said. But scarcely had she spoken these wild words than reason asserted itself in her mind, and she clearly comprehended the grave import of her words, and she then wished to recall them, or at least to explain them; but the mysterious stranger had already departed far from that spot; while on the river shores, obscured by the shades of night, which was a very dark one, nothing was heard but the noise of hatchets, pickaxes, spades, saws, and hammers, as though a multitude of workmen, stonemasons, carpenters, and other artificers, were digging, sawing wood, cutting huge blocks of granite and stone, and laying the foundation, erecting the pillars, and forming the arch of the bridge.

The idea that this man dressed in black was the evil one began to take possession of the imagination of Catharina, and what more terrified her than the thought of losing her lover was the conviction that she was going to lose her soul. Catharina in her distress cried out to that man, "Do not erect that bridge at the expense of my soul, because I do not wish to give it to you!" But her voice was drowned in the noise of the rushing waters of the Cadagüa, and the uproar of hammers and pickaxes which continued to be heard on the river banks, as though an invisible legion of carpenters and stonemasons were working there; while amid that unearthly roar the hapless girl seemed to hear a voice rising above it all which replied to her, "It is too late! It is too late!"

The night advanced, and Catharina amid the gloom saw rising on either side of the river white columns, which were no doubt the base or buttress to sustain the arch of the bridge. A gleam of hope suddenly strengthened the fainting heart of Catharina, and she at once started towards the coast of Castrejana, and on reaching to the foot of the chestnut tree of Altamira, she fell on her knees, and, looking in the direction of the temple of Begoña, she invoked the protection of the Virgin, saying, "Holy Mother of God! save my soul which is in peril of losing its eternal salvation

The valley of Ibaizabal was as darksome as the depths of Cadagüa; but scarcely had Catharina said these words of fervent prayer, than it appeared to her that a soft resplendency illumined the valley, which for a thousand years has been protected and watched over by the Mother of God from the heights of the hills of Artagan. What light could it have been? Ah! perchance it was that of hope! Enlightened and strengthened by this light, Catharina descended the slope of Castrejana. The soft light which shone over the valley of the Ibaizabal 3 was spreading also along the valley of the Cadagüa, and by its gleams Catharina saw that the two buttresses which she had seen, or imagined she saw, rising up on both shores of the river, and the erection proceeding on either side, were meeting in the centre to form a perfect arch. Towards the side of Iturrioz there shone a light similar to a flaming torch, which began to descend to the chestnut wood and disappeared among the leafy branches. The heart of Catharina beat fast in anguish. That light appeared to her to indicate that midnight was fast approaching, and Martino must be quitting the paternal home, and was about to forsake, perhaps for ever, his native valley.

Catharina looked steadfastly before her, never removing her eyes from the bridge, which now was almost finished, and nothing was wanting for its completion but the key-stone. Suddenly a form was seen ascending the almost finished bridge. It was the form of a beauteous lady, who carried in her hand a branch of lovely white lilies, and as she reached to the open gap between the two sides of the arch she laid the stem across the opening and disappeared, leaving a luminous trail, which extended to a great distance, until it eventually became lost in the depths of the valley of Ibaizabal.

When Catharina turned her gaze away from the east, where that singular vision had disappeared, and looked towards the bridge which was constructed in such a, marvellous manner, she saw the man in the black suit holding in his hands an enormous block of stone, which he carried as easily as though it were a light ball, and running up along the arch was about to place the heavy slab in the opening and thus complete the bridge. However, in spite of all the efforts of the artificer to fix the slab or block in the opening, the slab did not fit in. The man hammered desperately at the stone, accompanying, each blow with an oath, but the stone resisted all his efforts, as though it were prevented fitting in by a strong bar of iron laid beneath. And the man in black redoubled his furious efforts as he heard the sound of the bells of the monastery of Burceña vibrating through the valley announcing the midnight hour, and on hearing the chimes he uttered a cry of desperation, and cast himself headlong into the river, and was carried away in the furious currents and disappeared altogether. At the moment when he flung himself into the seething waters a sound was heard on the bridge like the noise of a branch snapping in two, and in that instant the key-stone, or huge slab which the man in black had been unable to fit in, fell gently into its place, and the bridge remained perfect; while a huge cataract of water now descended roaring along the windings of Alonsótegui, carrying down towards the Zubileta all the scaffolding and temporary erections employed in building the bridge. Catharina then rapidly crossed over by the bridge which had been so marvellously constructed, and ran to the chestnut wood of Iturrioz.

Half an hour later a number of youths, clad in mail and armed with war weapons, ascended along the Cadagüa, lamenting that Martino de Iturrioz should prefer the effeminate blandishments of love to the manly and glorious exercise of war.

Martino, leading Catharina by the hand, accompanied her to the house of Castrejana, where he bade her an affectionate farewell, passed over the Devil's Bridge, sped across the lands, and returned to the house of Iturrioz.

THE END

NOTE: Between the joints of the enormous blocks of stone which constitutes the key-stone and the lateral slabs of the bridge, there used to spring up every year some beautiful white lilies, which the damsels of the valley of Ibaizabal gathered on the morning of St. John's Day, and these flowers were called Cataloros, a name derived from the Basque word Catalenlorac, which means "flowers of Catharina," but owing to the great fall of rain and inundation which occurred on the 22nd of September, 1523, the foundations of the bridge were shaken and the buttresses unsafe, and it was found necessary to substitute smaller stones to replace the massive key-stone, which it was feared would fall down and destroy one of the noblest and most elegant bridges of the Basque provinces.

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From LEGENDS and POPULAR TALES of the BASQUE PEOPLE by Mariana Monteiro

ISBN: 978-1-907256-32-5

URL: http://www.AbelaPublishing.com/Basque.html

THE BRANCH OF WHITE LILIES - A Basque Traditional Tale – Chapter III

The rain, which had partly subsided during the night, quite ceased at daybreak, and the traveller rose early, saying that he must try and cross the river before the currents should swell it, and he be unable to cross over. Catharina had a great wish to ask him why he had attempted to destroy her beautiful lily, but she did not dare to do so, as there was something in the face and looks and voice of the stranger which instilled fear and terror--she knew not why. Catharina and her mother besought him to stay a few moments until they prepared breakfast for him, but he insisted on departing at once and asked what he was indebted to them for the supper and accommodation.

"You owe us nothing but a good will," both the women replied.

"Very well, I am much obliged to you, and wish you very good health," said the stranger, and he departed, fording the Cadagüa along some enormous stones laid across, which then stood in the place of a bridge, and on the very spot where at the present day stands the bridge of Castrejana.

The fears of the stranger were well founded that he might find the river quickly impassable, for when he forded it the water was already beginning to cover the huge stones.

Catharina looked out from the side of the house which faced the river, and divided her attention between the traveller, who was hastening to take the road to Iturrioz, and Martino, who was mending a broken paling at the further end of the garden, and through which some goats had made their way into the field. This paling was on the side of the high road along which the stranger had to pass. This unknown visitor stopped to speak to Martino as he passed him. The distance and the noise of the river rushing down prevented Catharina from hearing what they said, but she noticed that Martino grew wrathful, and looked towards the house of Castrejana with menacing gestures. We know not whether it was from want of water in the house, or to have a chat with Martino, that Catharina lifted a pitcher to her head, and, telling her mother that she was going for water before the river should become so swollen that it would be impossible to cross it, she started off; but on reaching to the bank she had to turn back, as the water completely hid the stones, and the current was fearfully rapid.

A little later, Catharina, with a basket of vegetables on her head and the branch of white lilies in her hand started from home, taking the road to Bilbao, as she did every morning, to sell her goods in the market; but this morning she did not trip along with a light heart, nor did she sing as usual, but went her way silently and sad. In going and returning from Bilbao, on passing Altamira, she always stopped singing and knelt at the foot of the giant chestnut tree from whence could be descried the church of Begoña. On that morning she knelt as usual, and prayed more fervently than ever, and she even wept while she prayed. What change was this that had been worked in poor Catharina? She could not tell; but she felt in her heart a deep sadness as though some great misfortune was threatening her.

She reached the market-place of Bilbao, and while she sold her vegetables she watched her lily so that no one should break her branch. Many persons, charmed by the lovely flowers, wanted to purchase them, but Catharina would reply that she could not part with her flowers at any price, because she had brought them with her, not for sale, but to take them to the church of Begoña and deck the Virgin's altar with them as her offering.

When she had finished her sale, she went to the church, placed her beautiful lilies on the altar of Our Lady, and crossing again the Ibaizabal by the only bridge which then existed--which is the one called now the bridge of Saint Anthony--she went towards Castrejana. The river Cadagüa continued rising, because during the morning it had rained in torrents all over the Encartaciones.

Catharina kept looking towards the fields and house of Iturrioz, but did not see Martino. What was her surprise and terror, when the sun was sinking behind the mountains, to perceive the youth ascending the slope towards Baracaldo, above Zubileta, which is on the opposite bank of the Cadagüa, and that he was furnished with weapons, and clad in a coat of mail such as was worn by warriors in that epoch by various bands.

The bands called Onhacino and Gamboino were not then devastating the seigniority of Biscay and the Encartaciones, but were contending without ceasing against the districts of Castile, particularly on all the land along the Ebro from Puentelarra to Valdivielso, commanded by the Salazares and Velascos, and they had constantly in Biscay agents who were charged to enlist men, who, allured with flattering promises of much glory and renown, had found to their cost nothing certain but a probable grave amid the rocks.

Catharina ran to the river shore and waited for Martino to reach the opposite margin; and in truth Martino did arrive, but it was to fling a folded parchment fastened to a stone across the water to Catharina, and continued to walk towards the house of Iturrioz, while Catharina in dismay read the following lines which had been written by Martino upon the folded parchment:

"I would sooner die far from hence, fighting against the enemies of the Salazares, than die here combating against your faithlessness and want of love. At midnight I join other young men beneath the chestnut tree of Iturrioz, and with them shall depart to the suburbs of Castile, where I hope death or absence will make me forget you."

Tomorrow Chapter IV – the final chapter in this story…………………

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From LEGENDS and POPULAR TALES of the BASQUE PEOPLE by Mariana Monteiro

ISBN: 978-1-907256-32-5

URL: http://www.AbelaPublishing.com/Basque.html

THE BRANCH OF WHITE LILIES - A Basque Traditional Tale – Chapters I and II

I.

IN the narrow deep valley along which runs the turbulent stream of Cadagüa 1 to empty itself into the sea which extends its arms as though to receive it, there is a high, noble bridge. The bridge of Castrejana, for such is it called, was constructed by Mestre Pedro Ortiz de Lequetio, and was commenced on the 9th of June, 1435, and concluded on the 4th of May, 1436. We learn this important fact from some curious historical notes which were found about the year 1730 among the papers of an Augustinian monk of Bilbao; nevertheless the people maintain that the said Mestre did no more than appropriate to himself a work which had cost the evil one many labours, as it was this dire enemy (that never beholds the countenance of God) who was the real constructor of the bridge of Castrejana.

We shall relate this curious story just as it was told to us by the dwellers of Irauregui and Zubileta, who affirm that ever since Mestre Pedro Ortiz de Lequetio usurped from the devil the glory of having constructed the bridge of Castrejana, the evil one had been so furious with the plagiarists that, whenever he can catch them in a lonely spot, he subjects them to great barbarities.

About the year 1485 there existed on the right margin of Cadagüa a humble dwelling-house, surrounded by a splendid market-garden, and protected by a circle of fine fruit-trees; while behind the house there was an apple orchard, which stretched along the base of Pagazarri. In the house of Castrejana, for such was the dwelling called, there resided a poor widow, and her daughter Catharina, who was about eighteen years of age. Catharina was the pride and charm of the valley, and from Burceña down to Alonsótegui there was no one but loved her for her goodness and admired her for her beauty. Her mother was advanced in years, and little able to attend to household duties; but the industrious daughter perfectly supplied the deficiency of hands in cultivating the market-garden, the care of the orchard, and tending to the herds. Moreover she conducted the sales, in the markets of Bilbao, of the fruit, milk, and vegetables, which formed the principal resources for the support. of the humble dwellers of Castrejana. Catharina was always at work and always cheerful. She would go singing to draw water from the fountain close to the chestnut wood on the river side, and with a song on her lips she would return. To the market of Bilbao she proceeded, singing all the way, and also returned singing until she passed the chestnut plantation of Altamira, when she always hushed her song for a few moments. Singing she worked in the garden, and gathered the fruit from the trees, or led the cattle to drink on the banks of Pagazarri.

On the other side of the river stood the house of Iturrioz, whose lands extended to close upon the fountain of the chestnut wood, from which no doubt it derived the name of Fonte fria--the cold fountain. Whenever Catharina went to the fountain to draw water, the lads of Iturrioz, who worked on his estate, used to start a lively chat with her, and Martino, the oldest of the lads, hastened down to the valley to offer her the best fruit of the trees on the estate.

Martino and Catharina had loved one another almost from childhood, and their parents had arranged a marriage between them which would be celebrated when the sowing of the maize, which takes place in May, should be ended, as Martino wished to help his father and brothers before leaving them to reside on the lands of Castrejana.

 

II.

On a dark stormy night a man knocked at the door of the widow's house, and Catharina, taking a candle, opened the wicket window of the door and asked the stranger what he wanted.

"I have come from Bilbao, and am going towards Galdemes," replied the traveller, who by the candlelight appeared to be a youth dressed in a black suit. "The river is no doubt swollen, and the night is too stormy to be able to cross in safety the high rocky mountains through which I have to journey. Give me shelter for this night, and by daybreak I shall proceed on my journey safely."

Catharina consulted with her mother, and, with her advice, she opened the door to admit the stranger. He was a young man with a handsome face and a very sweet voice, yet there was something in his voice and in his countenance which destroyed all the charm; and his bright eyes, his constant smile, and his measured, low tones and melodious accentuation rather annoyed than pleased. While the widow conversed with the traveller, the daughter was busy preparing the supper.

When the stranger finished his supper, the old woman said to him, "We have not yet said our night prayers, and if you are willing we shall be happy if you join us."

The youth made a sign of displeasure, and replied that he was very tired, and as he had to be up very early he would prefer to retire.

The widow lit a candle and led the way to a chamber, where they hastily made up a bed for him, and arranged the room as well as they could in their humble way. The window of this chamber was open, and through it came the perfume of the flowers in the garden after the rain, and more particularly was the scent perceived, above all the other flowers, of a fine plant of white lilies which grew just beneath the window, and the long stem of blossom almost reached the window-sill.

"What a rich perfume that white lily is shedding!" said the mother of Catharina, as she approached the window.

"What lily is it?" asked the traveller, with a sneer on his lips.

"One which my Catharina cultivates every spring to place on the lady altar of Begoña." 2

The stranger made a rude gesture, and the old woman, perceiving that he was in no humour for talking, bade him good-night and retired.

The chamber occupied by mother and daughter had a window which also looked out on the garden, and was on the same side of the house as the room occupied by the stranger. Before closing the window Catharina put out her head to breathe the night breeze laden with the scent of flowers, and great was her dismay and surprise to see that the stranger was drawing out his right hand in which he held a hook with which he was endeavouring to reach the lily, no doubt to break the stem.

"Oh! what is he going to do?" asked Catharina, in alarm. "That man must be the evil one!"

The hand armed with the hook instantly was withdrawn. The mother then related to her daughter how displeased the stranger had manifested himself when he knew that the lily was destined to deck the Virgin's altar; and Catharina, fearing lest she should find her beautiful lily destroyed, which she had tended and watched over with such loving care, were she to leave it on the plant until the morning, quietly went down to the garden and cut the lily stem from the plant and brought it up to her room with the greatest care lest it. should become broken.

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From LEGENDS and POPULAR TALES of the BASQUE PEOPLE by Mariana Monteiro

ISBN: 978-1-907256-32-5

URL: http://www.AbelaPublishing.com/Basque.html

THE DEVIL'S MILL – A Tale from Old Ireland

NOTE: This tale was recorded in the field by Samuel Lover. It has been recorded verbatim, or in the vulgate i.e. Samuel Lover recorded the words exactly as they were said. He did this in order to retain the local manner and flavour of the tale. Now, enough from me. Read on……

Beside the River Liffey stands the picturesque ruins of a mill, overshadowed by some noble trees, that grow in great luxuriance at the water's edge. Here, one day, I was accosted by a silver-haired old man that for some time had been observing me, and who, when I was about to leave the spot, approached me and said: "I suppose it's after takin' off the ould mill you'd be, sir?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"Maybe your honour id let me get a sight iv it," said he.

"With pleasure," said I, as I untied the strings of my portfolio, and drawing the sketch from amongst its companions, presented it to him. He considered it attentively for some time, and at length exclaimed:

"Throth, there it is, to the life--the broken roof and the wather-coorse; ay, even to the very spot where the gudgeon of the wheel was wanst, let alone the big stone at the corner, that was laid the first by himself;" and he gave the last word with mysterious emphasis, and handed the drawing back to me with a "thankee, sir!" of most respectful acknowledgment.

"And who was 'himself," said I, "that laid that stone?" feigning ignorance, and desiring to "draw him out," as the phrase is.

"Oh, then, maybe it's what you'd be a stranger here?" said he

"Almost," said I.

"And you never hear tell of L--'s mill," said he, "and how it was built?"

"Never," was my answer.

"Throth, then, I thought young and ould, rich and poor, knew that--far and near."

"I don't, for one," said I; "but perhaps," I added, bringing forth some little preparation for a lunch that I had about me, and producing a small flask of whisky--" perhaps you will be so good as to tell me, and take a slice of ham, and drink my health," offering him a dram from my flask, and seating myself on the sod beside the river.

"Thank you kindly, sir," says he; and so, after "warming his heart," as be said himself, he proceeded to give an account of the mill in question.

"You see, sir, there was a man wanst, in times back, that owned a power of land about here - but God keep us, they said he didn't come by it honestly, but did a crooked turn whenever 'twas to sarve himself--and sure he sould the pass, and what luck or grace could he havw afther that?"

"How do you mean be sold the pass?" said I.

"Oh, sure your honour must have head how the pass was sould, and he bethrayed his king and counthry."

"No, indeed," said I.

"Och, well," answered my old informant, with a shake of the head, which he meant, like Lord Burleigh in the Critic, to be very significant, "it's no matther now, and I don't care talkin' about it; and laist said is soonest mended--howsomever, he got a power of money for that same, and lands and what not; but the more he got, the more he craved, and there was no ind to his sthrivin' for goold evermore, and thirstin' for the lucre of gain.

"Well, at last, the story goes, the divil (God bless us!) kem to him, and promised him hapes o' money, and all his heart could desire, and more too, if he'd sell his soul in exchange."

"Surely he did not consent to such a dreadful bargain as that?" said I.

"Oh, no, sir," said the old man, with a slight play of muscle about the corners of his mouth, which, but that the awfulness of the subject suppressed it, would have amounted to a bitter smile--" oh, no, he was too cunnin' for that, bad as he was--and he was bad enough, God knows--he had some regard for his poor sinful sowl, and he would not give himself up to the divil, all out; but the villian, he thought he might make a bargain with the ould chap, and get all he wanted, and keep himself out of harm's way still; for he was mighty cute--and throth, he was able for Ould Nick any day.

"Well, the bargain was struck, and it was this-a-way: The divil was to give him all the goold ever he'd ask for, and was to let him alone as long as he could; and the timpter promised him a long day, and said 'twould be a great while before he'd want him, at all, at all; and whin that time kem, he was to keep his hands aff him, as long as the other could give him some work be couldn't do.

"So when the bargain was made, 'Now,' says 'the Colonel to the divil, 'give me all the money I want.'

"As much as you like,' says Ouid Nick. 'How much will you have?'

"You must fill me that room,' says he, pointin' into a murtherin' big room, that he emptied out on purpose--'you must fill me that room,' says be, 'up to the very ceilin' with goolden guineas.'

"'And welkim,' says the divil.

"With that, sir, he began to shovel in the guineas into the room like mad; and the Colonel towld him, that as soon as he was done, to come to him in his own parlour below, and that he would then go up and see if, the divil was as good as his word, and had filled the room with the goolden guineas. So the Colonel went downstairs, and the ould fellow worked away as busy as a nailer,  shovellin' in the guineas by hundherds and thousands.

"Well, he worked away for an hour and more, and at last he began to get tired; and he thought it mighty odd that the room wasn't fillin' fasther. Well, afther restin' for a while, he began agin, and he put his shouIdher to the work in airnest; but still the room was no fuller, at all, at all.

"'Och! bad luck to me,' says the divil; 'but the likes of this I never seen,' says he, 'far and near, up and down--the dickens a room I ever kem across afore,' says he, 'I couldn't cram while a cook would be crammin' a turkey, till now; and here I am,' says he 'losin' my whole day, and I with such a power o' work an my hands yit, and this room no fuller than if I began five minutes ago.'

"By gor, while he was spakin', be seen the hape o' guineas in the middle of the flure growing littler and littler every minit; and at last they wor disappearing, for all the world, like corn in the hopper of a mill.

"Ho! ho!' says Ould Nick, 'is that the way wid you,' says he; and with that he run over to the hape of goold--and what would you think, but it was runnin' down through a great big hole in the flure that the Colonel made through the ceilin' in the room below; and that was the work he was at afther he left the divil, though he purtended he was only waitin' for him in his parlour; and there the divil, when he looked down through the hole in the flure, seen the Colonel, not content with the two rooms full of guineas, but with a big shovel throwin' them into a closet a one side of him as fast as they fell down. So putting his head through the hole, he called down to the Colonel:

"'Hillo! neighbour,' says he.

"The Colonel look up, and grew as white as a sheet when he seen he was found out, and the red eyes starin' down at him through the hole.

"'Musha, bad luck to your impudence!' says Ould Nick; 'is It sthrivin' to chate me you are,' says he, 'you villain?'

"Oh! forgive me this wanst,' says the Colonel, 'and upon the honour of a gintleman,' says he, 'I'll never--'

"'Whisht! whisht! you thievin' rogue,' says the divil, 'I'm not angry with you, at all, at all; but only like you the betther, bekase you're so cute. Lave off slaving yourself there,' says he, 'you have got goold enough for this time; and whenever you want more, you have only to say the word, and it shall be yours at command.'

"So, with that the divil and he parted for that time; and myself doesn't know whether they used to meet often afther or not; but the Colonel never wanted money, anyhow, but went on prosperous in the world--and as the saying is, if he took the dirt out o' the road, it id turn to money wid him; and so, in coorse of time, he bought great estates, and was a great man entirely--not a greater in Ireland, throth."

Fearing here a digression on landed interest, I interrupted him to ask how he and the fiend settled their accounts at last?

"Oh, sir, you'll hear that all in good time. Sure enough it's terrible, and wondherful it is at the ind, and mighty improvin' - glory be to God!"

"Is that what you say," said I, in surprise, " because a wicked and deluded man lost his soul to the tempter?"

"Oh, the Lord forbid, your honour! but don't be impatient, and you'll hear all. They say, at last, after many years of prosperity, that the old Colonel got stricken in years, and he began to have misgivin's in his conscience for his wicked doin's, and his heart was heavy as the fear of death came upon him; and sure enough, while he had such mournful thoughts, the dlvii kern to him, and tould him he should go meld hiss.

"Well to be sure the ould man was frekened, but he plucked up his courage and his cuteness, and towld the divil, in a bantherin' way, jokin' like, that he had partic'lar business thin, that he was goin' to a party, and hoped an ould friend wouldn't inconvaynience him, that a-way--"

"Well," said I, laughing at the "put off" of going to a party, "the devil, of course would take no excuse, and carried him off in a flash of fire?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered the old man, in something of a reproving, or, at least, offended tone - " that's the finish, I know very well, of many a story such as we're talkin' of, but that's not the way of this, which is thruth every word, what I tell you."

"I beg your pardon for the interruption," said I.

"No offince in life, sir," said the venerable chronicler, who was now deep in his story, and would not be stopped.

"Well, sir," continued he, "the divil said he'd call the next day, and that he must be ready; and sure enough, in the evenin' he kem to him; and when the Colonel seen him, he reminded him of his bargain that as long as he could give him some work he couldn't do, he wasn't obleeged to go.

"'That's thrue,' says the divil.

"'I'm glad you're as good as your word, anyhow,' says the Colonel.

"'I never bruk my word yit,' says the ould chap, cocking up his horns consaitedly--' honour bright,' says he.

"'Well, then,' says the Colonel, 'build me a mill, down there by the river,' says he, 'and let me have it finished by to-morrow mornin'.'

"'Your will is my pleasure,' says the ould chap, and away he wint; and the Colonel thought he had nick'd Ould Nick at last, and wint to bed quite aisy in his mind.

"But, jewel machree, sure the first thing he heerd the next mornin' was, that the whole counthry round was runnin' to see a fine bran-new mill, that was an the riverside, where, the evenin' before, not a thing at all, at all but rushes was standin', and all, of coorse, woudherin' what brought it there; and some sayin 'twas not lucky, and many more throubled in their mind, but one and all agreein' it was no good; and that's the very mill forniust you, that you were takin' aff and the stone that I noticed is a remarkable one--a big coign-stone--that they say the divil himself laid first, and has the mark of four fingers and a thumb an it, to this day.

"But when the Colonel heerd it, he was more throubled than any, of coorse, and began to conthrive what else he could think iv, to keep himself out iv the claws of the ould one. Well he often heerd tell that there was one thing the divil never could do, and I dar say you beard it too, sir--that is, that he couldn't make a rope out of the sands of the sae; and so when the ould one kem to him the next day and said his job was done, and that now the mill was built, he must either tell him somethin' else he wanted done, or come away wid him.

"So the Colonel said he saw it was all over wid him; 'but,' says he,' I wouldn't like to go wid you alive, and sure, it's all the same to you, alive or dead?'

"'Oh, that won't do,' says his frind; 'I can't wait no more,' says he.

"'I don't want you to wait, my dear frind,' says the Colonel; "all I want is, that you'll be plazed to kill me before you take me away.'

"'With pleasure," says Ould Nick.

"'But will you promise me my choice of dyin' one partic'lar way?' says the Colonel.

"'Half a dozen ways, if it plazes you,' says he.

"'You're mighty obleegin', says the Colonel; 'and so,' says he, 'I'd rather die by bein' hanged with a rope made out of the sands of the sae,' says he, lookin' mighty knowin' at the ould fellow.

"'I've always one about me,' says the divil, 'to obleege my frinds,' says he; and with that he pull out a rope made of sand, sure enough.

"'Oh, it's game you're makin',' says the Colonel, growin' as white as a sheet.

"'The game is mine, sure enough,' says the ould fellow, grinnn', with a terrible laugh.

"'That's not a sand-rope at all,' says the Colonel.

"'Isn't it?' says the divil, hittin' him acrass the face with the ind iv the rope, and the sand (for it was made of sand, sure enough) went into one of his eyes, and made the tears come with the pain.

"'That bates all I ever seen or heerd,' says the Colonel, sthrivin' to rally, and make another offer--' is there anything you can't do?'

"'Nothin' you can tell me,' says the divil,' 'so you may as well lay, off your palaverin', and come along at wanst.'

"'Will you give me one more offer?' says the Colonel.

"'You don't deserve it,' says the divil, 'but I don't care if I do;' for you see, sir, be was only playin' wid him, and tantalising the ould sinner.

"'All fair,' says the Colonel, and with that he ax'd him could he stop a woman's tongue.

"'Thry me,' says Ould Nick.

"'Well, then,' says the Colonel, 'make my lady's tongue be quiet for the next month, and I'll thank you.'

"'She'll never throuble you agin,' says Ould Nick; and with that the Colonel heerd roarin' and cryin', and the door of his room was throwin' open, and in ran his daughter, and fell down at his feet, telling him her mother had just dhropped dead.

"The minit the door opened, the divil runs and hides himself behind a big elbow-chair; and the Colonel was frekened almost out of his siven sinses, by raison of the sudden death of his poor lady, let alone the jeopardy he was in himself, seein' how the divil had forestall'd him every way; and after ringin' his bell, and callin' to his servants, and recoverin' his daughter out of her faint, he was goin' away wid her out o' the room, whin the divil caught hould of him by the skirt of the coat, and the Colonel was obleeged to let his daughter be carried out by the servants, and shut the door afther them.

"'Well,' says the divil, and he grinn'd and wagg'd his tail, and all as one as a dog when he's plaz'd--' what do you say now?' says he.

"'Oh,' says the Colonel, 'only lave me alone antil I bury my poor wife,' says he, 'and I'll go with you then, you villian,' says he.

"'Don't call names,' says the divil; 'you had better keep a civil tongue in your head,' says he; 'and it doesn't become a gintleman to forget good manners.'

"Well, sir, to make a long story short, the divil purtended to let him off, out of kindness, for three days, antil his wife was buried; but the raison of it was this, that when the lady, his daughter, fainted, be loosened the clothes about her throat, and in pulling some of her dhrees away, he tuk off a gould chain that was an her neck, and put it in his pocket, and the chain had a diamond crass on it, the Lord be praised! and the divil darn't touch him while he had the sign of the crass about him.

"Well, the poor Colonel, God forgive him! was grieved for the loss of his lady, and she had an iligant berrin, and they say that when the prayers was readin' over the dead, the ould Colonel took it to heart like anything, and the word o' God kem home to his poor sinful sowl at last.

"Well,' sir, to make a long story short, the ind if it was that for the three days o' grace that was given to him the poor deluded ould sinner did nothin' at all but read the Bible from mornin' till night, and bit or sup didn't pass his lips all the time, he was so intint upon the holy Book, but sat up in an ould room in the far ind of the house, and bid no one disturb him an no account, and struv to make his heart bould with the words iv life; and sure it was somethin' strinthened him at last, though as the time drew nigh that the inimy was to come, he didn't feel aisy. And no wondher! And, by dad! the three days was past and gone in no time, and the story goes that at the dead hour o' the night, when the poor sinner was readin' away as fast as he could, my jew'l! his heart jumped up to his mouth at gettin' a tap on the shoulder.

"'Oh, murther!' says he. 'Who's there?' for he was afeard to look up.

"'It's me,' says the ould one, and he stood right forninst him, and his eyes like coals o' fire lookin' him through, and he said, with a voice that a'most split his ould heart: 'Come!' says he.

"'Another day!' cried out the poor Colonel.

"'Not another hour,' says Sat'n.

"'Half an hour?'

"'Not a quarther,' says the divil, grinnin', 'with a bitther laugh. 'Give over your readin', I bid you,' says he, 'and come away wid me.'

"'Only gi' me a few minits,' says he.

"'Lave aff your palavering, you snakin' ould sinner,' says Sat'n. 'You know you're bought and sould to me, and a purty bargain I have o' you, you ould baste,' says he, 'so come along at wanst,' and he put out his claw to ketch him; but the Colonel tuk a fast hould o' the Bible,' and begg'd hard that he'd let him alone, and wouldn't harm him antil the bit o' candle that was just blinkin' in the socket before him was burned out.

"'Well, have it so, you dirty coward!' says Ould Nick, and with that he spit an him.

"But the poor ould Colonel didn't lose a minit--for he was cunnin' to the ind--but snatched the little taste o' candle that was forninst him out o' the candlestick, and puttin' it an the holy Book before him, he shut down the cover of it and quinched the light. With that the divil gave a roar like, a bull, and vanished in a flash o' fire, and the poor Colonel fainted away in his chair; but the sarvants heerd the noise--for the divil tore aff the roof o' the house when he left it--and run into the room, and brought their master to himself agin. And from that day out he was an althered man, and used to have the Bible read to him every day, for be couldn't read himself any more, by raison of losin' his eyesight when the divil hit him with the rope of sand in the face, and afther spit an him--for the sand wint into one eye, and he lost the other that-away, savin' your presence.

"So you see, sir, afther all, the Colonel, undher heaven, was "too able for the divil, and by readin' the good Book his sowl was saved, and, glory be to God! isn't that mighty improvin'?"

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From Legends and Stories of Ireland – compiled and edited by Samuel Lover

ISBN: 978-1-907256-01-1

URL: http://www.abelapublishing.com/cg_lsi.html