Cooking utensils, some of metal, some of pottery, but all alike of strange form, were bestowed on the floor on either side of the hearth. There was a single wooden chair, with a high, pointed back, standing against the wall, and in front of this lay a rug of cowskin, the reddish hair of which came off at the touch. Beside this chair was a low, oblong wooden chest, with a lifting-lid curiously carved, and apparently containing nothing but rolls of parchment and leather-bound volumes. At the other and wider end of the room was an archway built in the stone, and curtained by hangings of thick, mildewed cloth. The O’Mahony drew these aside, and Jerry advanced with the light. In a little recess, and reaching from side to side of the arched walls, was built a bed of oaken beams, its top the height of a man’s middle. Withered and faded straw lay piled on the wood, and above this both thick cloth similar to the curtains and finer fabrics which looked like silk. The candle shook in Jerry’s hand, and came near to falling, at the discovery which followed. On the bed lay stretched the body of a bearded and tonsured man, clad in a long, heavy, dark woolen gown, girt at the waist with a leathern thong--as strangely dried and mummified as are the dead preserved in St. Michan’s vaults at Dublin or in the Bleikeller of the Dom at Bremen. The shriveled, tan-colored face bore a weird resemblance to that of the hereditary bard. The O’Mahony looked wonderingly down upon this grim spectacle, the while Jerry crossed himself. “Guess there won’t be much use of callin’ a doctor for _him_,” said the master, at last. Then he backed away, to let the curtains fall, and yawned. “I’m about tuckered out,” he said, stretching his arms. “Let’s go up now an’ take somethin’ warm, and git to bed. We’ll keep mum about this place. P’rhaps--I shouldn’t wonder--it might come in handy for O’Daly.” CHAPTER XI--A FACE FROM OUT THE WINDING-SHEET. The sun was shining brightly in a clear sky next morning, when the people of Muirisc finally got up out of bed, and, still rubbing their eyes, strolled forth to note the ravages of last night’s storm, and talk with one another about it. There was much to marvel at and discuss at length in garrulous groups before the cottage doors. One whole wing of the ancient convent structure--that which tradition ascribed to the pious building fervor of Cathal _an Diomuis_, or “the Haughty”--had been thrown down during the night, and lay now a tumbled mass of stones and timber piled in wild disorder upon the _débris_ of previous ruins. But inasmuch as the fallen building had long been roofless and disused, and its collapse meant only another added layer of chaos in the deserted convent-yard, Muirisc did not worry its head much about it, and even yawned in Cormac O’Daly’s face as he wandered from one knot of gossips to another, relating legends about Cathal the Proud.