So now Keth Mac Maragh fell on the neck of Dubthach Mac na Lugair an’ embraced him, an’ thin wint on his way at so swift a gait that the early avenin’ brought him safe into Glanngalt. ’Twas as Dubthach had said: there was the string of sorrowin’ min and women goin’ down on the wan side an’ the happy dancin’ people comin’ up on the other. An’ Keth wint with the loonatics, an’ by dark they came to the grotto of Wurra-Wurra that was to be seen from afar by the light of torches that flamed all about it. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Sure it was a grand sight—barrin’ the haythin purpose of it all. The poor loonatics stopped their screechin’ from the moment the torches revealed to thim the smilin’ face of the idol, which shone from out the arch of the grotto entrance like the moon whin ’tis full at harvest time. An’ prisintly the first of the loonatics to prostrate thimsilves at the feet of Wurra-Wurra were passin’ over to the other side, singin’ an’ dancin’, with niver a fear nor a care to worry thim. Before dawn ’twas the same with the whole bunch. With the cobwebs brushed clane out of the brains of thim, they were on their way rejoicin’, lavin’ Keth Mac Maragh alone before the idol, fingerin’ his handstone an’ wonderin’ what manner of spell was on him. [Illustration] [Illustration: _Far down Glanngalt Keth sees the torches flaming about the Grotto of Wurra-Wurra_] [Illustration] For three times Keth had raised his hand to hurl the stone, and could not. The spirit was with him, but the flesh was not. The strength had gone out of his arm intirely, an’ the fingers that held the handstone had no more grip in thim than the little white wans of Finola. [Illustration] “’Tis Lucat-Moel, or old Lochru, divil take him!” said Keth to himself. He gazed about in ivery direction, but niver a wizard nor any of their bad fairy hilpers was about the premises. Yet the arm that hild the handstone still hung limp at his side, an’ his trimblin’ fingers could scarce bear the weight of it. [Illustration] Now it began to pinetrate the mind of Keth Mac Maragh that while his arm was as heavy as lead, the soul within him was lighter than for many a day. A horrible fear rose within him that the Four Gospils had lost their grip on him, an’ it was the same with him as with the rist of the loonatics! With the sweat standin’ on his brow, he said a Latin prayer, an’ thin muttered to himsilf: [Illustration] “I will put a curse on the haythin idol. I will curse this Wurra-Wurra as niver haythin idol was cursed before, so that his face will grow dull with fear an’ the strength return to me arm.” [Illustration]