Its blast startled him and the wooded hills seemed to fling the echo back upon him.

In better humor he flung himself down beneath a tree to wait for the ferryman--and went peacefully to sleep.
St.Kevin had once fallen asleep at a window with his arms outstretched in prayer; a swallow had made a nest in his hand and the saint had waited for the swallow's young to hatch.

Kenny, with the legend dimly adrift in his brain, dreamed that he too must wait until a ferryman grew up.

He grew up on the further shore to a youth in patches and then all at once the dream became a beautiful delight.

The youth by a twist of woodland magic turned to a maid in a glory of old brocade.
Such a maid might have stepped from an ancient tapestry to come in search of a knight of old.
"Mr.O'Neill!" Kenny did not stir.