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Jack seemed pacified, and Harry continued his strain.

“And fill a bumper to the brim–
A flowing one–and drink to him
Who, let the world go sink or swim,
Would arm for Britain’s liberty.

“No matter what may be his hue,
Or black, or white, or green, or blue,
Or Papist, Paynim, or Hindoo,
We’ll drink to him right cordially.”

Jack was so pleased with the friendly turn which the latter part of Harry’s song took that he joyfully stretched out his hand, and even joined in chorus to the concluding stanza.

The fire had now decayed on the hearth, the whisky-bottle was almost emptied, and the two sentinels, getting drowsy, put out the candle and laid down their heads to slumber. The song and the laugh and the jest were now hushed, and no sound was to be heard but the incessant “click, click,” of the clock in the inner room and the deep, heavy breathing of old Moya in the chimney-corner.

They had slept they knew not how long when the old hag awakened with a wild shriek. She jumped out of bed, and crouched between the men; they started up, and asked her what had happened.

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “the banshee, the banshee! Lord have mercy on us! she is come again, and I never heard her so wild and outrageous before.”

Jack O’Malley readily believed old Moya’s tale; so did Harry, but he thought it might be some one who was committing some depredation on the premises. They both listened attentively, but could hear nothing; they opened the kitchen door, but all was still; they looked abroad; it was a fine, calm night, and myriads of twinkling stars were burning in the deep-blue heavens. They proceeded around the yard and hay-yard; but all was calm and lonely, and no sound saluted their ears but the shrill barking of some neighbouring cur, or the sluggish murmuring of the little tortuous river in the distance. Satisfied that “all was right,” they again went in, replenished the expiring fire, and sat down to finish whatever still remained in the whisky-bottle.

They had not sat many minutes when a wild, unearthly cry was heard without.

“The banshee again,” said Moya, faintly. Jack O’Malley’s soul sank within him; Harry started up and seized the blunderbuss; Jack caught his arm. “No, no, Harry, you shall not; sit down; there’s no fear–nothing will happen us.”

Harry sat down, but still gripped the blunderbuss, and Jack lit his tobacco-pipe, whilst the old woman was on her knees, striking her breast, and repeating her prayers with great vehemence.

The sad cry was again heard, louder and fiercer than before. It now seemed to proceed from the window, and again it appeared as if issuing from the door. At times it would seem as if coming from afar, whilst again it would appear as if coming down the chimney or springing from the ground beneath their feet. Sometimes the cry resembled the low, plaintive wail of a female in distress, and in a moment it was raised to a prolonged yell, loud and furious, and as if coming from a thousand throats; now the sound resembled a low, melancholy chant, and then was quickly changed to a loud, broken, demoniac laugh. It continued thus, with little intermission, for about a quarter of an hour, when it died away, and was succeeded by a heavy, creaking sound, as if of some large waggon, amidst which the loud tramp of horses’ footsteps might be distinguished, accompanied with a strong, rushing wind. This strange noise proceeded round and round the house two or three times, then went down the lane which led to the road, and was heard no more. Jack O’Malley stood aghast, and Harry Taylor, with all his philosophy and scepticism, was astonished and frightened.

“A dreadful night this, Moya,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said she, “that is the dead-coach; I often heard it before, and have sometimes seen it.”