Note (3) — SHAN MAC ANANTY

A shadow darkened his queer little face. “Ah,” says he, “they’re changed times. I was an old man when Setanta got his hero-name,(3) and look at me now,” says he, “clean past my time. No one knows me, barring yourself there. No one can talk to me; and at Scrabo it’s worse than here. They’re all planters there,” says he, “all strange, dour folk, long in the jaw and seldom-spoken, and with no heart in the old customs. Never a John’s-Fire lighted, never a dance danced, never a blessing said, never a . . . .”