The Leprechaun
The us to the house of Yolara. Larry was me. We again the where we had the and the Voice. And as we stood, again the portal appeared with all its disconcerting, abruptness.
But now the was changed. Around the table were a number of figures—Lugur, Yolara him; seven others—all of them fair-haired and all men save one who sat at the left of the priestess—an old, old woman, how old I not tell, her of that must once have been as great as Yolara's own, but now ravaged, in some way awesome; through its the fearful, out like a of a corpse!
Began then our examination, for such it was. And as it I was more and more by the in the O'Keefe. All was gone, did his of itself in any of his answers. He was like a swordsman, fencing, guarding, studying his opponent; or rather, like a chess-player who some far-reaching purpose in the game: alert, contained, watchful. Always he the power of our surface races, their multitudes, their solidarity.
Their questions were myriad. What were our occupations? Our of government? How great were the waters? The land? Intensely were they in the World War, into its causes, its effects. In our their was avid. And they were minute in their of us as to the which had our curiosity; their position and surroundings—and if others than ourselves might be to and pass through their entrance!
At this I a at Lugur. He did not interested. I if the Russian had told him as yet of the girl of the of the Moon Pool Chamber and the for our search. Then I answered as as possible—omitting all to these things. The red me with amusement—and I Marakinoff had told him. But Lugur had his from Yolara; and as she had spoken to none of that when O'Keefe's had the Keth-smitten vase. Again I that of bewilderment—of search for to all the tangle.
For two hours we were questioned and then the called Rador and let us go.
Larry was as we returned. He walked about the room uneasily.
"Hell's here all right," he said at last, stopping me. "I can't make out just the particular brand—that's all that me. We're going to have a fight, that's sure. What I want to do quick is to the Golden Girl, Doc. Haven't her on the lately, have you?" he queried, fantastic.
"Laugh if you want to," he on. "But she's our best bet. It's going to be a her and the O'Keefe banshee—but I put my money on her. I had a while I was in that garden, after you'd left." His voice solemn. "Did you see a leprechaun, Doc?" I my again, as solemnly. "He's a little man in green," said Larry. "Oh, about as high as your knee. I saw one once—in Carntogher Woods. And as I sat there, asleep, in Yolara's garden, the of him out from one of those bushes, a little shillalah.
"'It's a tight box ye're gettin' in, Larry avick,' said he, 'but don't ye be downhearted, lad.'
"'I'm on,' said I, 'but you're a long way from Ireland,' I said, or I did.
"'Ye've a o' friends there,' he answered. 'An' where the rests the are to follow. Not that I'm sayin' I'd like to live here, Larry,' said he.
"'I know where my is now,' I told him. 'It rests on a girl with and the and swan-white of Eilidh the Fair—but me don't to me to her,' I said."
The thickened.
"An' the little man in green his an' his shillalah.
"'It's what I came to tell ye,' says he. 'Don't ye for the Bhean-Nimher, the woman wit' the eyes; she's a of Ivor, lad—an' don't ye do nothin' to make the brown-haired o' ye, Larry O'Keefe. I great, great an' his him, aroon,' says he, 'an' o' the O'Keefe failin's is to think their big to all the o' the world. A heart's to only permanently, Larry,' he says, 'an' I'm warnin' ye a girl don't like to move into a place all up another's washin' an' mendin' an' cookin' an' other pertainin' to wife work. Not that I think the blue-eyed is for mendin' an' cookin'!' says he.
"'You don't have to be comin' all this way to tell me that,' I answer.
"'Well, I'm just a tellin' you,' he says. 'Ye've got some comin', Larry. In fact, ye're in for a of a time. But, that ye're the O'Keefe,' says he. 'An' while the are all ye, avick, ye've got to be on the job yourself.'
"'I hope,' I tell him, 'that the O'Keefe can her way here in time—that is, if it's necessary, which I it won't be.'
"'Don't ye worry about that,' says he. 'Not that she's on leavin' the sod, Larry. The good soul's in a o' mind about ye, aroon. I don't mind tellin' ye, lad, that she's all the an' if she has to come for ye, avick, they'll be her an' they'll this joint clean ye go. What they'll do to it'll make the Big Wind look like a on Lough Lene! An' that's about all, Larry. We a voice from the Green Isle would ye. Don't that ye're the O'Keefe an' I say it again—all the are ye. But we want t' bein' proud o' ye, lad!'
"An' I looked again and there was only a waving."
There wasn't a in my heart—or if there was it was a very one.
"I'm going to bed," he said abruptly. "Keep an on the wall, Doc!"
Between the seven that followed, Larry and I saw but little of each other. Yolara him more and more. Thrice we were called the Council; once we were at a great feast, and I can forget. Largely I was in the company of Rador. Together we two passed the green into the dwelling-place of the ladala.
They provided with needful for life. But was an oppressiveness, a together of hate, that was than material—as as the and far, more menacing!
"They do not like to with the Shining One," was Rador's and only reply to my to the cause.
Once I had of the mood. Glancing me, I saw a white, from a tree-trunk, a hand lift, a speed from it toward Rador's back. Instinctively I him aside. He upon me angrily. I pointed to where the little lay, still quivering, on the ground. He my hand.
"That, some day I will repay!" he said. I looked again at the thing. At its end was a with a glistening, substance.
Rador from a tree us a fruit like an apple.
"Look!" he said. He it upon the dart—and at once, my eyes, in less than ten seconds, the fruit had away!
"That's what would have to Rador but for you, friend!" he said.
Come now this and the to the of the history this is—only and necessarily observations.
First—the nature of the opacities, out the the pavilion-pillars or their like roofs, These were magnetic fields, light absorbers, the of radiance; screens of electric which as a to light as would have screens of steel.
They night appear in a place where no night was. But they no to air or to sound. They were in their inception—no more than is glass, which, inversely, the of light, but out those ones we call air—and, partly, those others which produce upon our nerves the we call sound.
Briefly their was this:
[For the same that Dr. Goodwin's of the of the was deleted, his of the light-destroying screens has been by the Executive Council.—J. B. F., President, I. A. of S.]
There were two of the ladala—the soldiers and the dream-makers. The dream-makers were the most social phenomena, I think, of all. Denied by their the of us of the world, the Murians had perfected an of through the imagination.
They were, too, musical. Their were flutes; pipe-organs; harps, great and small. They had another up of a of small which gave to the centres.
It was this love of music that gave to one of the of our life. Larry came to me—it was just after our fourth sleep, I remember.
"Come on to a concert," he said.
We off to one of the garrisons. Rador called the two-score to attention; and then, to my stupefaction, the whole company, O'Keefe leading them, out the anthem, "God Save the King." They sang—in a closer approach to the English than might have been of miles England's level. "Send him victorious! Happy and glorious!" they bellowed.
He with at my of surprise.
"Taught 'em that for Marakinoff's benefit!" he gasped. "Wait till that Red it. He'll up.
"Just wait until you Yolara a little thing I her," said Larry as we set for what we now called home. There was an in his eyes.
And I did hear. For it was not many minutes later that the to me to come to her with O'Keefe.
"Show Goodwin how much you have learned of our speech, O lady of the of flame!" Larry.
She hesitated; at him, and then from that perfect mouth, out of the throat, in the voice that was like the of little bells, she a familiar to me indeed:
"She's only a bird in a cage,
A bee-yu-tiful to see—"
And so on to the end.
"She thinks it's a love-song," said Larry when we had left. "It's only part of a I'm teaching her. Honestly, Doc, it's the only way I can keep my mind clear when I'm with her," he on earnestly. "She's a devil-ess from hell—but a wonder. Whenever I myself going I her to sing that, or Take Back Your Gold! or some other lay, and I'm again—pronto—with the right perspective! POP goes all the mystery! 'Hell!' I say, 'she's only a woman!'"
