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Updated: May 1, 2025
"We have them now," said a voice behind me; "they'll never turn Lurra Bridge, if we only press on." The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a mountain torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath.
"Hold in!" shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the other sounds. "Hold in! or by the Eternal, I'll throw her, body and bones, into the Lurra Gash!" for such was the torrent called that boiled and foamed a few yards before us. He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant's grasp.
And your grandfather that's gone the Lord be good to him! used to walk once a year in Lurra Abbey; and sure you know the story about Tim Clinchy that was seen every Saturday night coming out of the cellar with a candle and a mug of wine and a pipe in his mouth, till Mr. Barry laid him.
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