The old man took out of a niche in the wall the silver cup from which
her mother and her mother's mother had drunk the toasts of their
betrothals, and poured Poteen out of a porcelain jug and handed the
cup to his daughter with the customary words, 'Drink to him whom you
love the best.'
She held the cup to her lips for a moment, and then said in a clear
soft voice: 'I drink to my true love, Tumaus Costello.'
And then the cup rolled over and over on the ground, ringing like a
bell, for the old man had struck her in the face and the cup had
fallen, and there was a deep silence.
There were many of Namara's people among the servants now come out of
the alcove, and one of them, a story-teller and poet, a last remnant
of the bardic order, who had a chair and a platter in Namara's
kitchen, drew a French knife out of his girdle and made as though he
would strike at Costello, but in a moment a blow had hurled him to
the ground, his shoulder sending the cup rolling and ringing again.
The click of steel had followed quickly, had not there come a
muttering and shouting from the peasants about the door and from
those crowding up behind them; and all knew that these were no
children of Queen's Irish or friendly Namaras and Dermotts, but of
the wild Irish about Lough Gara and Lough Cara, who rowed their skin
coracles, and had masses of hair over their eyes, and left the right
arms of their children unchristened that they might give the stouter
blows, and swore only by St.
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