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Romance and reality.
'But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.' Charles Wolfe.
At midnight I heard a faint tap at my door, and Francesca walked in, her eyes wide and bright, her cheeks flushed, her long, dark braid of hair hanging over her black travelling cloak.

I laughed as I saw her, she looked so like Sir Patrick Spens in the ballad play at Pettybaw,--a memorable occasion when Ronald Macdonald caught her acting that tragic role in his ministerial gown, the very day that Himself came from Paris to marry me in Pettybaw, dear little Pettybaw! "I came in to find out if your bed is as bad as mine, but I see you have not slept in it," she whispered.
"I was just coming in to see if yours could be any worse," I replied.
"Do you mean to say that you have tried it, courageous girl?
I blew out my candle, and then, after an interval in which to forget, sat down on the outside as a preliminary; but the moon rose just then, and I could get no further." I had not unpacked my bag.

I had simply slipped on my macintosh, selected a wooden chair, and, putting a Cromwellian towel over it, seated myself shudderingly on it and put my feet on the rounds, quoting Moore meantime-- 'And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!" Francesca followed my example, and we passed the night in reading Celtic romances to each other.

We could see the faint outline of sweet Slievenamann from our windows--the mountain of the fair women of Feimheann, celebrated as the hunting-ground of the Finnian Chiefs.
'One day Finn and Oscar Followed the chase in Sliabh-na-mban-Feimheann, With three thousand Finnian chiefs Ere the sun looked out from his circle.' In the Finnian legend, the great Finn McCool, when much puzzled in the choice of a wife, seated himself on its summit.