last, when he kept on at it, it began to prey on Nancy’s mind, and she said to young Rory one day: “I don’t believe a word of what you say. Who would take me if Shamus was buried the morra?”
“Why,” says Rory, “you’d have the pick of the parish. I'd take you myself.”
“Is that true?” says Nancy.
“I pledge you my word,” says Rory, “I would.”
“Oh, well, even if you would yourself,” says Nancy, “Shamus won't be buried to-morrow, or maybe, God help me, for ten years to come yet.”
“You’ve all that in your own hands,” says Rory.
“How’s that?” says Nancy.
“Why, you can kill him off,” says Rory.
“I wouldn't have the ould crature’s blood on my head,” says Nancy.
“Neither you need,” says Rory.
And then he sat down and began to tell Nancy how she could do away with Shamus and still not have his blood on her head.
Now there was a prince called Connal, who lived in a wee sod house close by Nancy and Shamus, but whose fathers before him, ere their
