Padraig was as curious as a squirrel and as determined as a mink, and he wished very much to know what this meant. He did not exactly believe the werewolf story, although it had so impressed him that he could not help making the picture; but he did not like to think of it in connection with the mysterious absence of Brother Basil. A priest of the Church might be able to defy a loup-garou, but if the wolves were real ones they might not know him from any ordinary man. There is no land so full of fairy-lore and half-forgotten legends as Ireland. Princes in their painted halls and slaves in their mud cabins listened to the shanachies or wandering story-tellers, with wonder, terror and delight. Cluricaunes, banshees, giants, witches, monsters, pookas and the little red-capped people of the fairy rings, were known to the dwellers in many a wattled hut where Padraig had slept. Old people who spoke no language but their own luminous Irish winged his young imagination with tales far more marvelous than those of Nennius, the monk of Bangor. Still, Padraig had never himself seen any of these extraordinary beings. He also suspected that Brother Basil would not vouch for the truth of everything in the Latin books he taught his pupils how to read. Days passed, and Brother Basil had not returned. The uneasiness among the monks was growing. It was said that the Abbot himself was as much in the dark as they were. Padraig had just made up his mind that he could endure it no longer, when the Abbot sent for him. It had been decided, Padraig learned, that he, as Brother Basil's wonted companion on such excursions, would have the best chance of finding him now. All that any one knew was that he had gone out of the great gate one morning early, and no one had seen him since. “Nobody would,” said Padraig, “if he went straight north into the hills. No one lives near the old road through the forest.” It was in that direction that all the wolf-tracks had led from the sheep-fold, and the country was a wilderness of marsh and mountain. The Abbot looked at the boy keenly, kindly. “Are you willing to go alone?” he asked. “It is the best way,” Padraig replied quickly. “One can get on faster,--and there are not many here who can climb like him. I think he must have met with an accident far from any dwelling.” “He is well beloved by the people. If any one had found him we should have heard. And you have no fear?” Padraig hesitated. “There are many frightful things in the world,” he said slowly. “Long ago I knew that if I let myself fear, fear would be my master all the days of my life. But I am not like the others. I am his dog. I will find him if I live.” “Go, my son, and God be with you,” said the Abbot solemnly. And Padraig went.