sound of it was like the voice of the dead in the wind; and the
troopers remembered the belief that tells how the dead in purgatory
are spitted upon the points of the trees and upon the points of the
rocks. They turned a little to the south, in the hope that they might
strike the beaten path again, but they could find no trace of it.

Meanwhile, the moaning grew louder and louder, and the dance of the
white moon-fires more and more rapid. Gradually they began to be
aware of a sound of distant music. It was the sound of a bagpipe, and
they rode towards it with great joy. It came from the bottom of a
deep, cup-like hollow. In the midst of the hollow was an old man with
a red cap and withered face. He sat beside a fire of sticks, and had
a burning torch thrust into the earth at his feet, and played an old
bagpipe furiously. His red hair dripped over his face like the iron
rust upon a rock. 'Did you see my wife?' he cried, looking up a
moment; 'she was washing! she was washing!' 'I am afraid of him,'
said the young trooper, 'I fear he is one of the Sidhe.' 'No,' said
the old trooper, 'he is a man, for I can see the sun-freckles upon
his face. We will compel him to be our guide'; and at that he drew
his sword, and the others did the same. They stood in a ring round
the piper, and pointed their swords at him, and the old trooper then
told him that they must kill two rebels, who had taken the road
between Ben Bulben and the great mountain spur that is called Cashel-
na-Gael, and that he must get up before one of them and be their
guide, for they had lost their way. The piper turned, and pointed to
a neighbouring tree, and they saw an old white horse ready bitted,
bridled, and saddled. He slung the pipe across his back, and, taking
the torch in his hand, got upon the horse, and started off before
them, as hard as he could go.