Continuing the story called 'The Dihreoch' written by John Keegan of Laois, published in Dolman's Magazine September 1846. Source: John Keegan Selected Works, published by Galmoy press: ISBN 0 9531583 0 6 edited by Tony Delaney 1997 Mr. B. at this period lived at Shanahoe, not far from that note auberge - the 'Fighting Cocks.' He was a Protestant. Indeed, some said he was an infidel, whilst others of his more nicely-discriminating neighbours said that in religious matters, 'he was nothing', as he was never seen at 'church, mass, or meeting', since he came to reside in the neighbourhood. Be that as it may, Mr. B. was certainly a humane, generous, and kindly-hearted gentleman, insomuch that it was, and still remains, a kind of proverb in the neighbourhood that 'nobody ever rubbed to Mr. B.'s skirts without being the better of him.' But I must not wander from my narrative, which I should do were I to dwell on one-half the good things which is still told of that gentleman throughout that part of the country in which he at this time resided. About eleven o'clock on the night in question, Mr. B. was returning home in his carriage from some ball or party in the neighbourhood. It was, as I have just said, a tremendous night. The wind moaned dismally amongst the naked old elms which over-shadowed the road (I know that road and those old elms well), and vast flakes of snow, intermingled, by fits, with raiding hail-stones, and splashing sleet, fell down from the pitch dark sky. Still Mr. B. came on gallantly his horses were prime, and silently and steadily they did their work, and, as the vehicle moved rapidly along, the red flame from the lamps flung a faint and sickly glare on the snow-drifts at either side of the way. There was, and is still, a certain spot on the same road called the 'lougbeen', from a little plash or pool of water which lay in a small hollow hard by the high-road. On arriving at this particular spot, the horses suddenly stood still, and doggedly refused moving an inch further. The coachman tried his skill; in vain: they kicked and plunged and curvetted, but not a step would they move in the required direction. "Hoolahau," cried Mr.B.,addressing the coachman, "what ails you? Get on: get on, John, quickly." "It's not my fault, sir," replied the man; "whatever"s the reason, they won't budge a peg. Rodney is kicking as if the red devil was standing in his body, and Freney seems determined to not be out-done in contrariness by his companion." "What must be the matter with the brutes?" cried Mr. B. in a tone of surprise; "Eh, John, what must be the cause of this violence?" "Devil a bit of myself knows," replied John; "barring it be something that's not right they see - maybe it's a spirit that's crossing them, sir, the Lord save us from harm." "Fudge, you fool;" cried Mr. B. in dudgeon. "Get down instantly and try to set them to rights." In obedience to his master's orders, the coachman descended from his seat, and, going towards the deep fosse on the road-side, he commenced probing the snow-drifts with the long handle of his whip. "What are you doing there?" cried Mr. B., impatiently. An involuntary scream of terror was the man's reply, as he hastily retreated towards his master, whose head was protruded through the carriage window. "What's the matter, John?" again asked Mr. B. "Och bedad, sir," cried John, in a tremulous voice, "theres a man or something lying dead in the drift there beyond at the ditch." Mr. B. jumped from the carriage, and, going to the spot pointed out by the affrighted coachman, found that his report was correct. Lying on his back at full length, amid the snow, was an old man, grasping in one hand a huge pole or wattle, whilst the other clutched a long rosary with silver beads and a crucifix of massive gold. "He is some benighted wanderer," cried the compassionate Mr. B. "Let us try, John, what we can do for him. I hope he is not dead, for I find a warmth about the regions of the heart, and his limbs are not so stiff and rigid as if the vital spark had fled." They lifted the body of the insensible man into the carriage. The red glare of the lamps fell fully on his livid features. It was the poor 'Dihreoch' who had some hours before been so cruelly expelled from the door of the 'Fighting Cocks'. His eyes were closed as if in the sleep of his death; his wretched garments were sheeted with snow, and from his long, stiffened grey hair were hanging pellets, or icicles of frozen sleet, which glittered with an unearthly radiance in the ghastly lamp-light. On his back was strapped the little bundle, alluded to before, and from his girdle still hung the tin can or vessel which held the cold potatoes. Mr. B. resumed his seat, and, kindly placing the old man's head on his lap, desired the coachman to proceed. John plied his whip; Rodney and Freney set forward at a thundering pace, and in a few minutes afterwards the carriage wheeled on the well-gravelled area before the door of Mr. B.'s fine mansion. Help was called; the still senseless form of the stranger was gently carried into the house, and laid down on the hearth-rug before the blazing parlour fire. Restoratives were instantly applied, and every expedient which the skill or humanity of Mr. B. could devise were put into requisition for the relief of the sufferer. Their humane efforts were at length successful, and, after some time, the patient not only recovered his faculties of body, but also his memory and sensibility. He opened his eyes, gazed eagerly around, but remained silent. "Speak, my poor fellow," cried Mr. B. "It delights me to he the instrument of your preservation; speak, and let us know who you are, or by what mischance you became an outcast from human shelter on such a dread night as this." "I am a wanderer over the earth these many weary years," said the old man in a feeble voice. "I was once, even as you are now, - rolled in the comforts and wealth of this world. I am the luckless descendant of a family once renowned in the annals of their country, and I commenced my career under flattering and brilliant auspices. But I strayed from the path-way of righteousness. I erred; grievously erred, - yet I will not shock you by a rehearsal of my iniquities. I was converted; I became repentant, and, for many a long year, I have roamed in pain and privation over my native land, sleeping some-times in the ash-corners of the peasantry, but more generally under the dews of heaven. My clothing has been the veriest rags I could find, and my food of the coarsest description, and such as merely supported existence. My name or family I never revealed to mortal. They call me 'The Dihreoch' - a name which you may call me too, if you think fit, but any further disclosures I am not disposed to make. All, therefore, that remains for me to say is, that my last prayer to heaven shall be, that you may he rewarded for the mercy you have extended to me this night - the last of my mortal existence."