Hero-Tales
of
Ireland

COLLECTED BY
JEREMIAH CURTIN

LONDON
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1894

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.

TO
THE RIGHT HON. JOHN MORLEY,
Secretary of State for Ireland.

Sir,—

To you, a thinker who values every age of human history, and a statesman who takes deep interest in the nation which produced and kept these tales, I beg to dedicate this volume.

JEREMIAH CURTIN.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

The tales included in this volume, though told in modern speech, relate to heroes and adventures of an ancient time, and contain elements peculiar to early ages of story-telling. The chief actors in most of them are represented as men; but we may be quite sure that these men are substitutes for heroes who were not considered human when the stories were told to Keltic audiences originally. To make the position of these Gaelic tales clear, it is best to explain, first of all, what an ancient tale is; and to do this we must turn to uncivilized men who possess such tales yet in their primitive integrity.

We have now in North America a number of groups of tales obtained from the Indians which, when considered together, illustrate and supplement one another; they constitute, in fact, a whole system. These tales we may describe as forming collectively the Creation myth of the New World. Since the primitive tribes of North America have not emerged yet from the Stone Age of development, their tales are complete and in good preservation. In some cases simple and transparent, it is not difficult to recognize the heroes; they are distinguishable at once either by their names or their actions or both. In other cases these tales are more involved, and the heroes are not so easily known, because they are concealed by names and epithets. Taken as a whole, however, the Indian tales are remarkably clear; and a comparison of them with the Gaelic throws much light on the latter.

What is the substance and sense of these Indian tales, of what do they treat? To begin with, they give an account of how the present order of things arose in the world, and are taken up with the exploits, adventures, and struggles of various elements, animals, birds, reptiles, insects, plants, rocks, and other objects before they became what they are. In other words, the Indian tales give an account of what all those individualities accomplished, or suffered, before they fell from their former positions into the state in which they are now. According to the earliest tales of North America, this world was occupied, prior to the appearance of man, by beings called variously “the first people,” “the outside people,” or simply “people,”—the same term in all cases being used for people that is applied to Indians at present.

These people, who were very numerous, lived together for ages in harmony. There were no collisions among them, no disputes during that period; all were in perfect accord. In some mysterious fashion, however, each individual was changing imperceptibly; an internal movement was going on. At last, a time came when the differences were sufficient to cause conflict, except in the case of a group to be mentioned hereafter, and struggles began. These struggles were gigantic, for the “first people” had mighty power; they had also wonderful perception and knowledge. They felt the approach of friends or enemies even at a distance; they knew the thought in another’s heart. If one of them expressed a wish, it was accomplished immediately; nay, if he even thought of a thing, it was there before him. Endowed with such powers and qualities, it would seem that their struggles would be endless and indecisive; but such was not the case. Though opponents might be equally dexterous, and have the power of the wish or the word in a similar degree, one of them would conquer in the end through wishing for more effective and better things, and thus become the hero of a higher cause; that is, a cause from which benefit would accrue to mankind, the coming race.

The accounts of these struggles and conflicts form the substance of the first cycle of American tales, which contain the adventures of the various living creatures, plants, elements, objects, and phenomena in this world before they became what they are as we see them. Among living creatures, we are not to reckon man, for man does not appear in any of those myth tales; they relate solely to extra-human existences, and describe the battle and agony of creation, not the adventures of anything in the world since it received its present form and office. According to popular modes of thought and speech, all this would be termed the fall of the gods; for the “first people” of the Indian tales correspond to the earliest gods of other races, including those of the Kelts. We have thus, in America, a remarkable projection of thought, something quite as far-reaching for the world of mind as is the nebular hypothesis for the world of matter. According to the nebular hypothesis, the whole physical universe is evolved by the rotary motion of a primeval, misty substance which fills all space, and which seems homogeneous. From a uniform motion of this attenuated matter, continued through eons of ages, is produced that infinite variety in the material universe which we observe and discover, day by day; from it we have the countless host of suns and planets whose positions in space correspond to their sizes and densities, that endless choral dance of heavenly bodies with its marvellous figures and complications, that ceaseless movement of each body in its own proper path, and that movement of each group or system with reference to others. From this motion, come climates, succession of seasons, with all the variety in this world of sense which we inhabit. In the theory of spiritual evolution, worked out by the aboriginal mind of America, all kinds of moral quality and character are represented as coming from an internal movement through which the latent, unevolved personality of each individual of these “first people,” or gods, is produced. Once that personality is produced, every species of dramatic situation and tragic catastrophe follows as an inevitable sequence. There is no more peace after that; there are only collisions followed by combats which are continued by the gods till they are turned into all the things,—animal, vegetable, and mineral,—which are either useful or harmful to man, and thus creation is accomplished. During the period of struggles, the gods organize institutions, social and religious, according to which they live. These are bequeathed to man; and nothing that an Indian has is of human invention, all is divine. An avowed innovation, anything that we call reform, anything invented by man, would be looked on as sacrilege, a terrible, an inexpiable crime. The Indian lives in a world prepared by the gods, and follows in their footsteps,—that is the only morality, the one pure and holy religion. The struggles in which creation began, and the continuance of which was creation itself, were bequeathed to aboriginal man; and the play of passions which caused the downfall of the gods has raged ever since, throughout every corner of savage life in America.

This Creation myth of the New World is a work of great value, for by aid of it we can bring order into mythology, and reconstruct, at least in outline, and provisionally, that early system of belief which was common to all races: a system which, though expressed in many languages, and in endlessly varying details, has one meaning, and was, in the fullest sense of the word, one,—a religion truly Catholic and Œcumenical, for it was believed in by all people, wherever resident, and believed in with a vividness of faith, and a sincerity of attachment, which no civilized man can even imagine, unless he has had long experience of primitive races. In the struggle between these “first people,” or gods, there were never drawn battles: one side was always victorious, the other always vanquished; but each could give one command, one fateful utterance, which no power could resist or gainsay. The victor always said to the vanquished: “Henceforth, you’ll be nothing but a ——,” and here he named the beast, bird, insect, reptile, fish, or plant, which his opponent was to be. That moment the vanquished retorted, and said: “You’ll be nothing but a ——,” mentioning what he was to be. Thereupon each became what his opponent had made him, and went away over the earth. As a rule, there is given with the sentence a characteristic description; for example: “The people to come hereafter will hunt you, and kill you to eat you;” or, “will kill you for your skin;” or, “will kill you because they hate you.”

One opponent might be turned into a wolf, the other into a squirrel; or one into a bear, the other into a fox: there is always a strict correspondence, however, between the former nature of each combatant and the present character of the creature into which he has been transformed, looked at, of course, from the point of view of the original myth-maker.

The war between the gods continued till it produced on land, in the water, and the air, all creatures that move, and all plants that grow. There is not a beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, or plant which is not a fallen divinity; and for every one noted there is a story of its previous existence.

This transformation of the former people, or divinities, of America was finished just before the present race of men—that is, the Indians—appeared. This transformation does not take place in every American mythology as a result of single combat. Sometimes a great hero goes about ridding the world of terrible oppressors and monsters: he beats them, turns them into something insignificant; after defeat they have no power over him. We may see in the woods some weak worm or insect which, in the first age, was an awful power, but a bad one. Stories of this kind present some of the finest adventures, and most striking situations, as well as qualities of character in the hero that invite admiration.

In some mythologies a few personages who are left unchanged at the eve of man’s coming, transform themselves voluntarily. The details of the change vary from tribe to tribe; but in all it takes place in some described way, and forms part of the general change, or metamorphosis, which is the vital element in the American system. In many, perhaps in all, the mythologies, there is an account of how some of the former people, or gods, instead of fighting and taking part in the struggle of creation, and being transformed, retained their original character, and either went above the sky, or sailed away westward to where the sky comes down, and passed out under it, and beyond, to a pleasant region where they live in delight. This is that contingent to which I have referred, that part of “the first people” in which no passion was developed; they remained in primitive simplicity, undifferentiated, and are happy at present. They correspond to those gods of classic antiquity who enjoyed themselves apart, and took no interest whatever in the sufferings or the joys of mankind.

It is evident, at once, that to the aborigines of America the field for beautiful stories was very extensive.

Everything in nature had a tale of its own, if some one would but tell it; and during the epoch of constructive power in the race,—the epoch when languages were built up, and great stories made,—few things of importance to people of that time were left unconsidered; hence, there was among the Indians of America a volume of tales as immense, one might say, as an ocean river. This statement I make in view of materials which I have gathered myself, and which are still unpublished,—materials which, though voluminous, are comparatively meagre, merely a hint of what in some tribes was lost, and of what in others is still uncollected. What is true of the Indians with reference to the volume of their stories, is true of all races.

From what is known of the mind of antiquity, and from what data we have touching savage life in the present, we may affirm as a theory that primitive beliefs, in all places, are of the same system essentially as the American. In that system, every individual existence beyond man is a divinity, but a divinity under sentence,—a divinity weighed down by fate; a divinity with a history behind it, a history which is tragedy or comedy as the case may be. These histories extend along the whole line of experience, and include every combination conceivable to primitive man.

Of the pre-Christian beliefs of the Kelts, not much is known yet in detail and with certainty. What we may say at present is this, that they form a very interesting variant of that aforementioned Œcumenical religion held in early ages by all men. The peculiarities and value of the variant will be shown when the tales, beliefs, and literary monuments of the race are brought fully into evidence.

Now that some statement has been made touching Indian tales and their contents, we may give, for purposes of comparison, two or three of them, either in part or condensed. These examples may serve to show what Gaelic tales were before they were modified in structure, and before human substitutes were put in place of the primitive heroes.

It should be stated here that these accounts of a former people, and the life of the world before this, as given in the tales, were delivered in one place and another by some of these “former people” who were the last to be transformed, and who found means to give needful instruction to men. On the Klamath River, in Northwestern California, there is a sacred tree, a former divinity, which has been a great source of revelation. On a branch of the Upper Columbia is a rock which has told whole histories of a world before this.

Among the Iroquois, I found a story in possession of a doctor,—that is, a magician, or sorcerer,—who, so far as I could learn, was the only man who knew it, though others knew of it. This story is in substance as follows:

Once there was an orphan boy who had no friends; a poor, childless widow took the little fellow, and reared him. When the boy had grown up somewhat, he was very fond of bows and arrows, became a wonderful shot. As is usual with orphans, he was wiser than others, and was able to hunt when much smaller than his comrades.

He began to kill birds for his foster-mother; gradually he went farther from home, and found more game. The widow had plenty in her house now, and something to give her friends. The boy and the woman lived on in this fashion a whole year. He was good, thoughtful, serious, a wise boy, and brought game every day. The widow was happy with her foster-son.

At last he came late one evening, later than ever before, and hadn’t half so much game.

“Why so late, my son; and why have you so little game?” asked the widow.

“Oh, my mother, game is getting scarce around here; I had to go far to find any, and then it was too late to kill more.”

The next day he was late again, a little later than the day before, and had no more game; he gave the same excuse. This conduct continued a week; the woman grew suspicious, and sent out a boy to follow her foster-son, and see what he was doing.

Now what had happened to the boy? He had gone far into the forest on the day when he was belated, farther than ever before. In a thick and dense place he found a round, grassy opening; in the middle of this space was a large rock, shaped like a millstone, and lying on one side, the upper part was flat and level. He placed his birds on the rock, sprang up, and sat on it to rest; the time was just after midday. While he was sitting there, he heard a voice in the stone, which asked: “Do you want me to tell a story?” He was astonished, said nothing. Again the voice spoke, and he answered: “Yes, tell me a story.”

The voice began, and told him a wonderful story, such as he had never heard before. He was delighted; never had he known such pleasure. About the middle of the afternoon, the story was finished; and the voice said: “Now, you must give me your birds for the story; leave them where you put them.” He went away toward home, shot what birds he could find, but did not kill many.

He came the next day, with birds, and heard a second story; and so it went on till the eighth day, when the boy sent by the foster-mother followed secretly. That boy heard the story too, discovered himself, and promised not to tell. Two days later the widow sent a second boy to watch those two, and three days after that a third one. The boys were true to the orphan, however, and would not tell; the magic of the stories overcame them.

At last the woman went to the chief with her trouble; he sent a man to watch the boys. This man joined the boys, and would not tell. The chief then sent his most trusty friend, whom nothing could turn aside from his errand. He came on the boys and the man, while they were listening to a story, and threatened them, was very angry. The voice stopped then, and said: “I will tell no more to-day; but, you boys and you men, listen to me, take a message to the chief and the people,—tell them to come here to-morrow, to come all of them, for I have a great word to say to every person.”

The boys and men went home, and delivered the message. On the following day, the whole people went out in a body. They cleared away the thick grass in the open space; and all sat down around the stone, from which the voice came as follows:—

“Now, you chief and you people, there was a world before this, and a people different from the people in the world now,—another kind of people. I am going to tell you of that people. I will tell you all about them,—what they did; how they fixed this world; and what they became themselves. You will come here every day till I have told all the stories of the former people; and each time you will bring a little present of what you have at home.”

The stone began, told a story that day, told more the next day. The people came day after day, week after week, till the stone told all it knew. Then it said: “You have heard all the stories of the former world; you will keep them, preserve them as long as you live. In after times some man will remember nearly all of these stories; another will remember a good many; a third, not so many; a fourth man, a few; a fifth, one story; a sixth, parts of some stories, but not all of any story. No man will remember every story; only the whole people can remember all. When one man goes to another who knows stories, and he tells them, the first man will give him some present,—tobacco, a bit of venison, a bird, or whatever he has. He will do as you have done to me. I have finished.”

Very interesting and important are these statements touching the origin of stories; they indicate in the Indian system revelation as often as it is needed. In Ireland, the origin of every Fenian tale is explained in a way somewhat similar. All the accounts of Fin Mac Cool and his men were given to Saint Patrick by Ossian, after his return from Tir nan Og, the Land of the Young, where he had lived three hundred years. These Fenian tales were written down at that time, it is stated; but Saint Patrick gave an order soon after to destroy two-thirds of the number, for they were so entertaining, he said, that the people of Erin would do nothing but listen to them.

In every case the Fenian tales of Ireland, like the tales of America, are made up of the adventures of heroes who are not human. Some writers assert that there have never been such persons on earth as Fin Mac Cool and his men; others consider them real characters in Irish history. In either case, the substantial character of the tales is not changed. If Fin and his men are historical personages, deeds of myth-heroes, ancient gods of Gaelic mythology, have been attributed to them, or they have been substituted for heroes who were in the tales previously. If Fin and his men are not historical, they are either the original non-human heroes, or a later company of similar character substituted in the tales for the original heroes, or for some successors of those heroes; at this date it would be difficult to decide how often such substitutions may have been made.

The following tale of Pitis and Klakherrit, though condensed, is complete; it is given here not because it is the best for illustration, but because it is accessible. The tale is dramatic; the characters are well known; it is ancient, and may be used to show how easily the character of stories may be modified without changing their structure, simply by changing the heroes. This tale of Pitis and Klakherrit is not more than third rate, if compared with other Indian tales, perhaps not so high in rank as that, still, it is a good story.

At a place called Memtachnokolton lived the Pitis people; they were numerous, all children of one father. They lived as they liked for a long time, till one of them who had gone hunting did not return in the evening. Next day two of his brothers went to look for him, and found his headless body four or five miles away, at the side of a deer-trail. They carried the body home, and buried it.

On the following day, another went to hunt, and spent the night out in like manner. Next day his headless body was found, brought home, and buried. Each day a Pitis went to hunt till the last one was killed; and the way they died was this:—

Not very far south of the deer-trail were the Klak people, at Klakkewilton. They lived together in one great house, and were all blind except one Klakherrit, who was young and strong, bad, a great liar, and very fond of gambling. This Klakherrit hated the Pitis people, and wanted to kill them all; he used to go out and watch for them. When a Pitis went hunting, and was following the deer, Klakherrit sat down at the trail, some distance ahead; and, as the Pitis came up, he would groan, and call out, “Oh, I have a big splinter in my foot; I cannot take it out alone, help me!”

The Pitis pitied him always, and said: “I will pull it out for you;” then he sat down, took the foot in his hand, looked at it, and pulled at the splinter.

“Oh, you cannot pull it out with your fingers; you must take it between your teeth.” The Pitis took the end of the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull; that moment Klakherrit cut his head off, and carried it to Klakkewilton, leaving the body by the roadside.

When Klakherrit killed the last Pitis, he took his skin, put it on and became just like Pitis. He went then to Memtachnokolton, and said to the Pitis women and children, “I killed a deer to-day; but Klakherrit ran off with it, so I come home with nothing.”

“We have enough to eat; never mind,” said the women, who thought he was their man.

About dark that evening, Klakherrit, the counterfeit Pitis, killed all the women and children except one little child, a boy, who escaped by some wonderful fortune, and hid under the weeds. Klakherrit burned the village then, and went home, thinking: “I have killed every Pitis.”

Next morning little Pitis came out of his hiding-place, and wandered around the burnt village, crying. Soon an old woman, Tsosokpokaila, heard the child, found him, took him home, called him grandson, and reared him; she gave him seeds to eat which she took from her own people,—a great many of them lived in her village. She was a small person, but active.

In a few days, little Pitis began to talk; and soon he was able to run around, and play with bows and arrows. The old woman said to him then: “My grandson, you must never go to the south nor to the east. Go always to the north or west, and don’t go far; you needn’t think to meet any of your people, they are dead, every one of them.”

All this time Klakherrit went out every morning, and listened long and carefully; hearing no sound of a Pitis, he went in one day, and said to his blind relatives: “I hear nothing, I see nothing of the Pitis people; they are all dead.”

There was one old man in the house, an uncle of Klakherrit, and he answered: “My nephew, I can’t see anything; but some day you may see a Pitis. I don’t think all the Pitis people are dead yet; I think some are living in this world somewhere.”

Klakherrit said nothing, but went out every morning as before; at last he saw far away in the west a little smoke rising, a slender streak of it. “Some people are living off there,” thought he; “who can they be, I must know.” He hurried to the house for his choicest clothes, and weapons, and made ready. He took his best bow, and a large quiver of black fox-skin, this he filled with arrows; then he put beads of waterbone on his neck, and a girdle of shining shells around his waist. When dressed to his wish, he started, and went straight toward the fire. As he came near it, he walked slowly, to see who was there; for a time he saw no one, but he heard pounding at the other side of a big pine-tree. He went around slowly to the other side, and saw a man pounding something. He would pound a while, and then pick up nuts, crack the shells with his teeth, and eat the kernels. This person was Kaisusherrit; and he was so busy that he did not see Klakherrit, who stood looking on a good while. “Hallo, my friend!” said Klakherrit, at last, “why are you alone; does no one else live around here?”

Kaisusherrit said nothing; he went on pounding pine cones, getting nuts out of them, didn’t look at the stranger. Around his neck he had a net bag filled with pine nuts. After a while he stopped pounding, cracked some nuts, put the kernels in his mouth, and then pounded pine cones again.

“My friend, you are alone in this place. I came here by myself; there are only two of us. I saw your smoke this morning; and I said, before I started, ‘I will go and see a good man to-day.’ I thought that you were here, and I found you.”

Kaisusherrit said nothing, but pounded away.

“My friend, why not talk to me; why not say something? Let us gamble: there is plenty of shade under the trees here; we might as well play.”

Kaisusherrit was silent, didn’t take his eyes off the pine cones.

“Why not talk to me, my friend? If you don’t talk to me, who will; there are only two of us in this place. I came to see you this morning, to have a talk with you. I thought you would tell me what is going on around here where you live; and I would tell you what I know. Stop eating; let’s gamble, and have a good talk.”

Klakherrit talked, and teased, and begged, all the forenoon. He didn’t sit down once; he was on his feet all the time. At last, a little after noon, Kaisusherrit looked up, and said: “Why do you make all this fuss? That is not the way for one grown person to talk to another. You act like some little boy, teasing, and talking, and hanging around. Why don’t you sit down quietly, and tell me who you are, what you know, and where you live? Then I can tell you what I like, and talk to you.”

Klakherrit sat down, and told who he was. Then he began again: “Well, my friend, let us play; the shade is good here under the trees.”

“Why do you want to play?” asked Kaisusherrit; “do you see anything here that you like? I have nothing to bet against your things.”

“Oh, you have,” said Klakherrit,—“you have your pounding stone, your net full of nuts, your pine cones.”

“Very well,” said Kaisusherrit; “I will bet my things against yours;” and he placed them in one pile. Klakherrit took off his weapons and ornaments, and tied them up with Kaisusherrit’s things in one bundle, so that the winner might have them all ready to carry away. Kaisusherrit brought sticks to play with, and grass to use with the sticks. He sat down then with his back to the tree, and motioned to the other to sit down in front. The bundle was near the tree, and each had a pile of grass behind him.

“Let us go away from this tree to the shade out there; I don’t like to be near a tree,” said Klakherrit.

“Oh, I can’t go there; I must have my back against a tree when I play,” said Kaisusherrit. “Oh, come, I like that place; let us go out there.” “No, my back aches unless I lean against a tree; I must stay here.” “Never mind this time; come on, I want to play out there,” urged Klakherrit. “I won’t go,” said Kaisusherrit; “I must play here.”

They talked and disputed about the place till the middle of the afternoon: but Kaisusherrit wouldn’t stir; and Klakherrit, who was dying to play, agreed at last to let Kaisusherrit put his back to the tree, and to sit opposite himself. They began, and were playing about two hours, when Klakherrit was getting the advantage; he was winning. Both were playing their best now, and watching each other. Kaisusherrit said then in his mind, “You, Klakherrit’s grass, be all gone, be grass no more, be dust.” The grass in Klakherrit’s hand turned to dust. He reached behind to get more grass, but found none; then he looked to see where it was. That moment Kaisusherrit snatched the bundle, and ran up the tree. Klakherrit sprang to his feet, looked through the branches; and there he saw Kaisusherrit with the bundle on his back.

“Oh, my friend,” cried he, “what is the matter; what are you doing?” Kaisusherrit said nothing, sat on a limb, and looked at the stranger. “Oh, my friend, why go up in the tree? Come, let us finish the game; maybe you’ll win all my things. Come down.”

Klakherrit talked and talked. Kaisusherrit began to come down slowly, stopping every little while; he reached the lower limbs. Klakherrit thought he was coming surely; all at once he turned, and hurried up again, went to the very top, and sat there. Klakherrit walked around the tree, persuading and begging. Kaisusherrit slipped down a second time, was near the ground, seemed to be getting off the tree; Klakherrit was glad. Kaisusherrit didn’t get off, though; he went up to the next limb, smiled, and looked at Klakherrit, who was getting terribly angry. Kaisusherrit went higher. Klakherrit could hold in no longer; he was raging. He ran, picked up sharp rocks, and hurled them at Kaisusherrit. The first one hit the limb on which he was sitting, and cut it right off; but he was very quick and sprang on to another. Klakherrit hurled stone after stone at the tree, with such force and venom that a limb fell whenever a stone struck it. At dusk there wasn’t a limb left on the tree; but Kaisusherrit was there yet. He was very quick and resolute, and dodged every stone. Klakherrit drew breath a moment, and began again to hurl stones at Kaisusherrit; wherever one struck the tree, it took the bark off. At dark the tree was all naked and battered, not a branch nor a bit of bark left. Kaisusherrit was on it yet; but Klakherrit couldn’t see him. Klakherrit had to go home; when he went into the house, he said, “Well, I’ve met a man to-day who is lucky; he won all my things in play.”

“My son,” said Klakherrit’s father, who was very old, “you have been telling us that you are a great player; but I thought all the time that you would meet a person some day who would beat you. You have travelled much to find such a one; you have found him.”

Next morning Klakherrit went out, and saw a smoke in the west. “That is my friend,” said he; “I must see him.” He took his best dress and weapons, and soon reached the fire. “Hallo, my friend,” said Klakherrit, “I’ve come to play with you to-day.” “Very well,” answered Kaisusherrit, who was wearing Klakherrit’s clothes that he had carried up the tree. “But, my friend, you won’t do as you did yesterday?” “Oh, no; I’ll play nicely to-day, I’ll play to please you.” They tied the stakes in one bundle, brought sticks and grass. Kaisusherrit put his back to a tree much larger than the first one. Klakherrit wished to play in the open; Kaisusherrit wouldn’t go there. They disputed and quarrelled till Klakherrit had to yield; but he made up his mind not to let Kaisusherrit go up the tree this time.

They played as before till the middle of the afternoon, when Klakherrit was winning. Kaisusherrit turned the grass into dust, and was up the tree before Klakherrit could stop him. The deeds of the day before were repeated with greater force. Kaisusherrit was more cynical in his conduct. Klakherrit was more enraged; he cut all the limbs, and stripped all the bark from this tree with stone-throwing. At dark he had to go home, leaving Kaisusherrit unhurt.

On the third morning, Klakherrit was watching for smoke; he wanted to win back what he had lost in the west. Soon he saw a herd of deer pass, followed by a Pitis.

It was the end of summer; little Pitis had grown very fast, was a young man now. While Klakherrit was gambling, Pitis told his grandmother that he wanted to hunt. “Oh, my grandson,” said she, “you must never go hunting; all your people were killed while out hunting. I don’t want you to hunt; I don’t want you to be killed.”

“I don’t want to be killed, my grandmother; but I don’t like to stay around the house here all the time. I want to find food and bring it home; I want, besides, to see where my people were killed. I want to see the place where they died; I want to look at the person who killed them.”

“My grandson, I don’t like to hear you talk in that way; I don’t want you to go far from this house. There is a very bad person south of us: he is the one who killed all your people; he is Klakherrit.”

“My grandmother, I can’t help going,—I must go; I must see the place where my people were killed. If I can find him, I must look at Klakherrit, who killed all my relatives.”

Next morning, young Pitis rose, and dressed himself beautifully. He took a good bow, and a quiver of black fox-skin; his arrows were pointed with white flint; in his hair he had Winishuyat[1] to warn him of danger. “My grandmother,” said he, at parting, “do the best you can while I am gone.” The old woman began to cry, and said, “Oh, my grandson, be on the watch, and guard yourself well; take good care, my grandson.”

Pitis started off; and, when out of sight, Winishuyat said, “My brother, a little ahead of us are deer. All your relatives were killed by Klakherrit for the sake of these deer. The deer obeyed your people, and went wherever they told them.” Pitis saw twenty deer, and, a few moments later, twenty more. He shouted; they ran around, stopped, and looked at him. “I want you, deer,” said Pitis, “to go toward the south, and go past Klakherrit’s house, so that he can see you and I can see him.”

Pitis shouted three times; and Klakherrit, who was watching for Kaisusherrit’s smoke, heard him. The forty deer went on one after another in a line, Pitis following. When Klakherrit saw them, he ran into the house, and called to his relatives: “Deer are coming; and a Pitis is with them!”

“Oh, my nephew,” cried the blind uncle, “you kept saying all the time that there was not another Pitis in this world; but I knew there were some left somewhere. Didn’t I say that you would see Pitis people; didn’t I tell you that you hadn’t killed all that people, my nephew? You will meet a Pitis to-day.”

Klakherrit made no answer; he took his bow and quiver quickly, and hurried out. The deer had passed the house and Pitis was just passing. Klakherrit saw him well; and Pitis had a good look at Klakherrit. Klakherrit went away on one side of the trail, got ahead of the deer, and sat down at the side of the trail near a rock. When they came up, the deer passed him; but Winishuyat said to Pitis, “My brother, Klakherrit is near that rock right there; when you pass, don’t stop, don’t speak to him. It is he who killed our people; he wants to kill you.”

When Pitis came to the rock; Klakherrit jumped up on one leg, and cried, “Oh, my friend, I can’t travel farther. I was going to help you, but I have this great splinter in my foot; draw it out for me.” Pitis didn’t look at him, went straight past. A little later, Winishuyat said, “My brother, on the other side of that clump of bushes your enemy is sitting: go by; don’t speak to him.” When Pitis came, Klakherrit begged him again to pull the splinter out of his foot; but Pitis didn’t stop, didn’t speak to him. Five times that day did Klakherrit run ahead by side-paths, and beg Pitis to pull a splinter out of his foot; but Pitis never stopped, never answered him. In the evening, Pitis said to the deer, “You, deer, meet me in the morning where you met me to-day.” That night, Pitis said to his grandmother, “I saw Klakherrit; he bothered me all day. Five times he was ahead of me with a sore foot; but if his foot is sore, how can he travel so? There must be a great many of his people just like him.”

“My grandson, Klakherrit has many relatives; but he is the only one of that people who can travel. All the rest are blind; he is the one who was ahead of you all day.”

“Well, grandmother, I have seen Klakherrit; I know all about him. I know what I can do to him; I shall follow the deer to-morrow.” (Pitis didn’t hunt deer; he just followed them.) Next morning, Pitis rose very early, bathed in the creek, ate his breakfast, and dressed for the road; then he brought two flat stones, a blue and a white one, each about a foot wide, put them down before the old woman, and said, “My grandmother, watch these two stones all day. If you see thick black spots of blood on the blue stone, you may know that I am killed; but if you see light red blood on the white stone, you may know that I am safe.” The old woman began to cry; but he went to the place where he met the deer the day before. He sent them by the same road; and, after a while, he met Klakherrit, who begged him to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis passed in silence; when out of sight, he stopped the deer, and said, “Now, my deer, let the strongest of you go ahead; and if Klakherrit is by the trail again, run at him, and stamp him into the ground with your fore-feet; jump on him, every one of you.”

Some distance farther on, they saw Klakherrit sitting at the side of the trail. The first deer ran and thrust his hoofs into his body; the second and the third did the same, and so did the whole forty. He was all cut to pieces, one lump of dirt and blood. The deer went on; Pitis followed. Soon Pitis called to the deer, “We’ll go back again;” and he walked ahead till they returned to where they had trampled his enemy. Klakherrit was up again, begging, “Oh, my friend, pull this great splinter out of my foot; I cannot do it alone, help me!” Pitis sent the deer at him again; they trampled him into the ground, and went on. When they had gone perhaps two miles, Klakherrit was sitting at the roadside as before, and begged Pitis to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis was terribly angry now; he stopped in front of Klakherrit, and walked up to him. “My friend,” said he, “what are you talking about; what do you want? Are you one person, or are there many like you? You bothered me all yesterday; what do you want to-day?”

“I am only one person,” said Klakherrit; “but, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot pains me terribly.”

“But how do you run so fast, and go ahead of me every time, if your foot is hurt; how do you pull the splinter out?”

“I get it out at last, and run ahead; but by that time there is another splinter in my foot.”

“Why do you follow me; what do you want; why don’t you let me alone?” inquired Pitis, sitting down.

“Oh, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot is so sore I cannot talk. Pull the splinter, and I will tell you.”

Pitis took hold of the splinter and pulled, but no use, he could not draw it out. “Take it between your teeth, that is the only way,” said Klakherrit.

“My brother,” said Winishuyat, “look out for your life now; that is the way in which Klakherrit killed all your people. Do what he says; but dodge when I tell you.”

Pitis took the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull. That moment Klakherrit drew his knife, and struck; but before the knife came down, Winishuyat cried, “Dodge to the left!” Pitis dodged, and just escaped. Pitis struck now with his white-flint knife. Every blow he gave hit Klakherrit; he dodged every blow himself so that it struck only his clothes. Klakherrit was very strong, and fought fiercely. Pitis was quick, and hit all the time. The fight was a hard one. In the middle of the afternoon, Pitis was very tired, and had all his clothes cut to pieces; and Klakherrit’s head was cut off. But the head would not die; it fought on, and Pitis cut at it with his knife.

Now Winishuyat called out, “My brother, you can’t kill Klakherrit in that way; you can’t kill him with any weapon on this earth. Klakherrit’s life is in the sky; Klakherrit’s heart is up there on the right side of the place where the sun is at midday.”

Pitis looked up, and saw the heart. He stretched out his right hand then, pulled down the heart, and squeezed it; that moment Klakherrit died.

Pitis took the skin off Klakherrit’s body, put it on himself, and became just like him. He cut up his enemy’s flesh, then carried it to Klakkewilton, went into the house and said, “I have some venison to-day; I will roast it.” He roasted Klakherrit’s flesh, and gave it to his relatives. All ate except the old uncle, who grumbled, and said, “This meat doesn’t seem right to me; it has the smell of our people.” Pitis walked out, pulled off Klakherrit’s skin, threw it into the house, and was himself again; then he set fire to the house, and stopped the door. He listened; there was a great noise inside and an uproar. If any broke through, he threw them back again. At last one woman burst out, and rushed away; she escaped, and from her were born all the Klaks in the world. But she and they were a people no longer; they had become rattlesnakes. The Pitis people became quails, and Kaisusherrit’s people, gray squirrels.

The old woman, Tsosokpokaila, who reared Pitis, became a weed about a foot high, which produces many seeds; the quails are fond of these seeds.

The following summary shows in outline the main parts of a tale which could not be so easily modified as the preceding, and one which is much more important as to contents.

Before thunder and lightning were in this world, Sulapokaila (trout old woman) had a house on the river Winimem, near Mount Shasta. One evening, a maiden called Wimaloimis (grisly bear maiden) came, and asked a night’s lodging of the old woman; she gave it. Next morning, Wimaloimis wanted to eat Sulapokaila, and had almost caught her, when the old woman turned into water, and escaped. Wimaloimis went her way then, but remained in the neighborhood. She built a house, lay down near the door, and gazed at the sun for a long time; at last she grew pregnant from gazing. In time she had twins. When the first one was born, she tried to swallow it; but the infant gave out a great flash of light and frightened her. When the second child was born, she tried to eat that; but it roared terribly, and she was so frightened that she rushed out of the house, and ran off. The old woman, Sulapokaila, came and took the children home, washed them, cared for them, named the first-born Walokit (Lightning), and the second Tumukit (Thunder).

The boys grew very fast, and were soon young men. One day, Walokit asked, “Brother, do you know who our mother is, who our father is?”

“I do not know,” answered Tumukit; “let us ask our grandmother.”

They went and asked the old woman. “I know your father and mother,” replied the old woman. “Your mother is very bad; she came to my house, and tried to eat me. She wanted to eat trees, bushes, everything she saw. When you were born, she tried to eat you; but somehow you little boys frightened her. She ran away, and is living on that mountain yonder. Your father is good; he is living up there in the sky.”

A couple of days later, Walokit said to his brother, “Let us go and find our mother.” They went off, and found her half-way up on the slope of a mountain, sitting in front of her house, and weaving a basket. Her head was down; she did not see them even when near. They stood awhile in silence, and then walked right up to her.

“Oh, my children!” cried she, putting the basket aside, “come into the house, and sit down.” She went in; the boys followed. She sat down.

“Come here, and I’ll comb your hair; come both of you, my children.” They sat down in front of her, and bent their heads. She stroked their hair, took her comb, and began to comb; next, she opened her mouth wide, and was going to swallow both at one gulp. That moment some voice said, “Look out, boys; she is going to eat you.” They saw no one, but heard the voice. Next instant, Walokit flashed, and Tumukit roared. The mother, dazzled, deafened, rushed out of the house in great terror.

“I don’t believe she is our mother,” said Tumukit.

“I don’t believe she is either,” answered Walokit. They were both very angry, and said, “She is a bad woman anyhow. She may be our mother; but she is a bad woman.”

They went home, and later Walokit found his mother, and killed her. Tumukit merely stood by, and roared. The woman’s body was torn to pieces, and scattered. The brothers wept, and went to their grandmother, who sent them to various sacred springs to purify themselves, and wash away the blood of their mother. When they had done that, after many pilgrimages, they said, “We will go to our father, if we can.”

Next day they said, “Grandmother, we will stay with you to-morrow, and leave you the next day.” On the second morning, they said, “We are going, and you, our grandmother, must do the best you can without us.”

“To what place are you going, my grandsons?”

“We are going to our father, if we can.”

When the old woman heard this, she went into the house, and brought out a basket cup full of trout blood (water), and gave it to Walokit, “Rub this over your whole body; use it always; it will give you strength. No matter how much you use the blood, the basket will never be empty.”

They took farewell of the old woman, and went to the upper side of the sky, but did not go to their father. They live up there now, and go over the whole world, sometimes to find their father, sometimes for other purposes. When they move, we see one, and hear the other.

This tale has a few of the disagreeable features peculiar to some of the early myth-tales of all races,—tales which, if not forgotten, are misunderstood as the race advances, and then become tragedies of horror. Still, such tales are among the most precious for science, if analyzed thoroughly.

In another tale, told me by the same man who related this one, the sun, after his road had been marked out, finally, was warned against his own children, the grisly bears, who would beset his path through the sky, and do their best to devour him.

The grisly bear maiden, Wimaloimis, is a terrible criminal; she piles horror upon horror. She tries to eat up the hospitable trout woman who gives her lodging; she has twins from her own father; she tries to eat her own children; she brings them to commit matricide under cruel conditions. The house of Pelops and Lot’s daughters, combined, barely match her. If the tale of Wimaloimis had belonged to early Greece, and had survived till the time of the Attic tragedians, the real nature of the actors in it would have been lost, in all likelihood, and then it might have served as a striking example of sin and its punishment. Instead of discovering who the dramatis personæ were really, the people of that time would have made them all human. In our day, we try to discover the point of view of the old myth-maker, to learn what it really was that he dealt with. In case we succeed, we are able to see that many of the repulsive features of ancient myths were not only natural and explicable, but absolutely unavoidable. The cloud, a grisly bear, is a true daughter of the sun. The sun and the cloud are undoubtedly the parents of the twin brothers, Thunder and Lightning; there are no other parents possible for them. That the cloud, according to myth description, tried to devour her own children, and was destroyed at last, and torn to pieces by them, is quite true. When we know the real elements of the tale, we find it perfectly accurate and truthful. If the personages in it were represented as human, it would become at once, what many a tale like it is made to be, repulsive and horrible.

Among Gaelic tales there are few in which the heroes are of the earliest period, though there are many in which primitive elements are prominent, and some in which they predominate. In a time sufficiently remote, Gaelic tales were made up altogether of the adventures of non-human heroes similar to those in the tales of America,—that is, heroes in the character of beasts, birds, and other living creatures, as well as the phenomena and elements of nature.

Beasts and birds are frequent in Gaelic tales yet; but they never fill the chief rôle in any tale. At most they are friends of the hero, and help him; not infrequently he could not gain victory without them. If on the bad side, the rôle is more prominent, a monster, or terrible beast, may be the leading opponent, or be one in a series of powerful enemies.

In a few Gaelic tales, phenomena or processes of nature appear still as chief actors; but they appear in human guise. The two tales in which this position is most evident, are those of Mor and Glas Gainach,—not the tale of Mor as given in this volume, but an older tale, and one which, so far as I know, exists only in fragments and sayings. This tale of Mor, which I gathered bit by bit in one place and another through West Kerry, is, in substance, as follows:

Mor (big), a very large woman, came by sea to Dunmore Head, with her husband, Lear, who could not live with Mor, and went around by sea to the extreme north, where he stayed, thus putting, as the phrase runs, “All Ireland between himself and the wife.” Mor had sons, and lived at Dun Quin (the ruins of her house Tivorye [Mor’s house], are shown yet) at the foot of Mount Eagle. She lived on pleasantly; much came to her from the sea. She was very proud of her sons, and cared for no one in the world except them. The woman increased greatly in substance, was rich and happy till her sons were enticed away, and went to sea.

One day, she climbed to the top of Mount Eagle, and, for the first time, saw Dingle Bay with the highlands of Iveragh and Killarney. “Oh, but isn’t Erin the big country; isn’t it widely spread out!” cried she. Mor was enormously bulky, and exerted herself to the utmost in climbing the mountain. At the top, certain necessities of nature came on her; as a result of relieving these, a number of deep gullies were made in Mount Eagle, in various directions. These serve to this day as water-courses; and torrents go through them to the ocean during rainfalls.

News was brought to Mor on the mountain that her sons had been enticed away to sea by magic and deceit. Left alone, all her power and property vanished; she withered, lost her strength, went mad, and then disappeared, no man knew whither. “All that she had came by the sea,” as people say, “and went with the sea.” She who had been disagreeable and proud to such a degree that her own husband had to leave her; the woman whose delight was in her children and her wealth,—became the most desolate person in Erin, childless, destitute, a famishing maniac that disappeared without a trace.

There is an interesting variant to this story, referring to Lear, Mor’s husband. This represents him not as going to the other end of Erin, but as stopping where he touched land first; there he died, and was buried. This is the version confirmed by the grave mound at Dunmore Head.

From the artistic point of view, it is to be regretted that the tale of Mor has not come down to us complete with its variants; but we may be thankful for what we have. The fragments extant, and the sayings, establish the character of the tale, especially in view of a most interesting bit of testimony preserved in a book published in 1757.

After I had collected all the discoverable scraps and remnants of the tale, I came upon the statement in Smith’s “History of Kerry,” page 182, that Dunmore Head was called by the people thereabout, “Mary Geerane’s house.” The author adds the name in Gaelic (which he did not know), in the following incorrect form: “Ty-Vorney Geerane.” Now this sentence does not mean Mary Geerane’s house at all, but the house of Mor, daughter of the sun, Tigh Mhoire ni Greine, pronounced, “Thee Vorye nyee Grainye.” Here is the final fact needed,—a fact preserved with an ignorance of its nature and value that is absolutely trustworthy.

What does the story mean now? Mor, daughter of the sun, leaves her husband, Lear, and comes to land herself. The husband cannot follow; for Lear is the plain of the sea,—the sea itself in its outward aspect. Lear is the Neptune of the Gaels. One version represents Lear as coming to his end at Dunmore Head; the other, as going around the island to Donaghedee, to live separated from a proud and disagreeable wife by the land of all Ireland. Each of these variants is equally consonant with the character of the couple. Let us pursue the tale further. Mor, the cloud woman,—for this she is,—has issue at Dun Quin, has sons (the rain-drops), and is prosperous, is proud of her sons, cares only for them; but her sons cannot stay with her, they are drawn to the sea irresistibly. She climbs Mount Eagle, is amazed at the view from the summit, sits down there and performs her last act on earth, the result of which is those tortuous and remarkably deep channels on the sides of Mount Eagle. After that she hears on the mountain that her sons are gone, she vanishes from human ken, is borne out of sight from the top of Mount Eagle.

Such is the myth of the cloud woman, Mor (the big one), a thing of wonder for the people.

In “Glas Gainach,” with which this volume opens, we have, perhaps, the best tale preserved by memory in Ireland. The tale itself is perfect, apparently, and its elements are ancient.

The prize for exertion, the motive for action, in this tale, is a present from King Under the Wave to his friend the King of Spain. This King of Spain is, of course, supposititious. Who the former friend was whose place he usurped, we have no means of knowing; but we shall not be far out of the way, I think, if we consider him to be the monarch of a cloud-land,—a realm as intangible as the Nephelokokkygia of Aristophanes, but real.

In Elin Gow, the swordsmith, we have a character quite as primitive as the cow or her owners. Elin Gow is found in Scotland as well as in Ireland. Ellin Gowan’s Height, in Guy Mannering, is simply Elin Gow’s Height, Gowan (Gobhan in Gaelic) being merely the genitive case of Gow (Gobha). Elin Gow means simply Elin the smith. Under whatever name, or wherever he may be, Elin Gow occupies a position in Gaelic similar to that of Hephæstos in Greek, or Vulcan in Latin mythology; he is the maker of weapons, the forger of the bolt.

In a short tale of Glas Gavlen, which I obtained near Carrick, County Donegal, it is stated that the cow came down from the sky. According to the tale, she gives milk in unlimited quantities to all people without exception. Time after time the rich or powerful try to keep her for their own use exclusively, but she escapes. Appearing first at Dun Kinealy, she goes finally to Glen Columkil near the ocean, where a strong man tries to confine her; but she rises in the air, and, clearing the high ridge on the northern side of the glen, disappears. Since then, there is no free milk in Erin, and none but that which common cows give.

The cow, Glas Gainach or Gaunach or Gavlen, for all three refer to the same beast, betrays at once her relationship with those cows of India so famous in the Rig Veda, those cloud cows whose milk was rain, cows which the demon Vritra used to steal and hide away, thus causing drought and suffering. Indra brought death to this demon with a lightning bolt; for this deed he received the name Vritrahan (slayer of Vritra). The cows were freed then from confinement; and the world was refreshed by their milk, which came to all, rich and poor, in like manner. So far the main characters of the tale are quite recognizable. Cian and Cormac are simply names current in Irish history, and are substituted for names of original heroes, who were characters as far from human and as mythologic as King Under the Wave or Glas Gainach.

A comparison of Gaelic tales with the Indian tales of America shows that the Gaelic contain materials some of which is as ancient as the Indian, while the tales themselves are less primitive.

There are many Indian tales which we can analyze, genuine myths,—a myth, in its earliest form, being a tale the substance of which is an account of some process in nature, or some collision between forces in nature, the whole account being given as a narrative of personal adventure.

Among the Irish tales there are very few ancient myths pure and simple, though there are many made up of myth materials altogether. The tale of Mor, reconstructed from fragments, is a myth from beginning to end; the history of a cloud in the guise of a woman, as Glas Gainach is the history of a cloud in the guise of a cow.

Tales like Glas Gainach and Mor are not frequent in Gaelic at present; but tales of modified structure, composite tales to which something has been added, and from which something has been taken away, are met with oftener than any. The elements added or taken away are not modern, however; they are, if we except certain heroes, quite ancient.

In course of time, and through change of religion, ancient heroes were forgotten in some cases, rejected in others, and new ones substituted; when the argument of a tale, or part of it, grew less distinct, it was strengthened from the general stock, made more complete and vivid. In this way came adventure tales, constructed of materials purely mythic and ancient. Parts were transferred from one tale to another, the same incidents and heroes being found in tales quite different in other respects.

The results to be obtained from a comparison of systems of thought like the Indian and the Gaelic would be great, if made thoroughly. If extended to all races, such a comparison would render possible a history of the human mind in a form such as few men at present even dream of,—a history with a basis as firm as that which lies under geology. If this work is to be accomplished, we must make large additions indeed to our knowledge of primitive peoples. We must complete the work begun in America. We must collect the great tales of Africa, Asia, and the islands of the Pacific,—tales which embody the philosophy of the races that made them. The undertaking is arduous, and there is need to engage in it promptly. The forces of civilized society, at present, are destroying on all sides, not saving that which is precious in primitive people. Civilized society supposes that man, in an early degree of development, should be stripped of all that he owns, both material and mental, and then be refashioned to serve the society that stripped him. If he will not yield to the stripping and training, then slay him.

In view of this state of things, there is no time for delay; primitive man is changing, and the work is extensive.

Of Chinese thought we know very little, especially of Taoism, the most ancient system of the country,—the one which has grown up from Chinese myth-tales. Of African tales, only few have been collected, and those of small value mainly.

In Asia and Eastern Europe, the Russians have done the best work by far; besides many good volumes of Slav tales, they have given us much from the Tartars and Mongols of exceptional value and ancient. In the United States, little was accomplished till recent years; of late, however, public interest has been roused somewhat, and, since Major Powell entered the field, and became Director of the Bureau of Ethnology, more has been done in studying the native races of America than had been done from the discovery of the country up to that time.

To sum up, we may say, that the Indian tales reveal to us a whole system of religion, philosophy, and social polity. They take us back to the beginning of things; they describe Creation and the establishment of the present order in the world.

Those tales form a complete series. The whole mental and social life of the race to which they belong is evident in them. The Gaelic tales are a fragment of a former system. The earliest tales in that system are lost; those which formed the Creation myth, and related directly to the ancient faith and religious practices of the Gaels, were set aside and prohibited at the introduction of Christianity. In many of those that remained, leading heroes were changed by design, or forgotten, and others put in their places. In general, they were modified consciously and unconsciously,—some greatly, others to a less degree, and a few very little.

We find various resemblances in the two systems, some of which are very striking in details, and others in general features; the question, therefore, rises readily enough: Can we not use the complete system to aid us in explaining and reconstructing, in some degree, the imperfect one? We can undoubtedly; and if to materials preserved by oral tradition, like those in this volume, be added manuscript tales, and those scattered through chronicles ecclesiastical and secular, we may hope to give some idea of what the ancient system of Gaelic thought was, and discover whether the Gaelic gods had a similar origin with the Indian. What is true of the Gaelic is true also of other ancient systems in Europe, such as the Slav and Teutonic. These have much less literary material than the Gaelic; but the Slav has vastly greater stores of oral tradition, and tales which contain much precious thought from pre-Christian ages.

During eight years of investigation among Indian tribes in North America, I obtained the various parts of that Creation myth mentioned in this introduction, from tribes that were remote from one another, and in different degrees of development. Such tales I found in the east, in the central regions, and finally in California and Oregon. Over this space, the extreme points of which are three thousand miles apart, each tribe has the Creation myth,—one portion being brought out with special emphasis in one tribe, and another portion in a different one. In tribes least developed, the earliest tales are very distinct, and specially valuable on some points relating to the origin and fall of the gods. Materials from the extreme west are more archaic and simple than those of the east. In fact the two regions present the two extremes, in North America, of least developed and most developed aboriginal thought. In this is their interest. They form one complete system, a single conception richly illustrated.

Shall we find among tribes of Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands, tales which are component parts of great Creation myths like that of North America? We shall find them no doubt, if we spend time and skilled labor sufficient.

The discovery and collection of these materials, and the proper use of them afterward, constitute, for scientific zeal and activity, a task as important as self-knowledge is important to man.

In 1887, I made a journey to Ireland; when I collected tales from which were selected the twenty forming the “Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland,” Boston, Little, Brown, and Company, 1889. While in Ireland, during that first visit, and this one, I have met with much good will and kindness which are pleasant to remember.

I must mention, to begin with, my indebtedness to Rev. P. A. Walsh, of the St. Vincent Fathers, Cork, a widely known Gaelic scholar, and a man whose acquaintance with the South of Ireland is extensive and intimate. Father Walsh gave me much information concerning the people, and letters to priests. I am greatly obliged to J. J. MacSweeny, Esq., of the Royal Irish Academy, for help in many ways, and for letters to people in Donegal. To Rev. Eugene O’Growney, Professor of Gaelic at Maynooth, I am grateful for letters and advice.

If I were to mention all who have done me deeds of kindness, the list would be long indeed. I must name, however, in Dingle, the venerable Canon O’Sullivan and Father Scollard, in Bally Ferriter, Rev. John O’Leary. To Mr. Patrick Ferriter, of Dingle, a man of keen intelligence and an excellent Gaelic scholar, I am deeply indebted for assistance in Gaelic. Canon Brosnan, of Cahirciveen, placed all his knowledge of the region where he lives at my service, and on one occasion led in an unwilling story-teller. Father MacDevitt, of Carrick, County Donegal, assisted me much in his neighborhood. Rev. James MacFadden, of Glena, County Donegal, and his curate, Rev. John Boyle, of Falcarra, helped me effectively, and showed the most courteous hospitality. I should return special thanks to Prof. Brian O’Looney, of Dublin, whose knowledge of ancient Gaelic lore is unmatched, and who at all times was as willing as he was able to aid me.

In America, the list of my obligations is short; there is only one man on that continent to whom thanks are due in connection with this volume, but that man, like the hero in Gaelic tales, was worth more than the thousands on all four sides of him. The contents of this book would not have been collected without the co-operation of Hon. Charles A. Dana, who published fifty of these Gaelic tales in the Sunday edition of “The Sun.” At that time no other editor was willing to join in the enterprise; and I did not feel able to endure both the financial burden and the labor of finding and collecting Gaelic tales, as I had done in 1887. Mr. Dana, with his keen eye for literary character, noted at once in the “Myths and Folk-lore” the originality of Gaelic tales and their heroes. When I told him that relics like the Cuculin and Gilla na Grakin of my first book were on the verge of extinction, he joined hands with me to save them, and I set out on my second journey to Ireland.

JEREMIAH CURTIN.

London, England, August, 1894.

HERO-TALES OF IRELAND.

ELIN GOW, THE SWORDSMITH FROM ERIN, AND THE COW GLAS GAINACH.

Once King Under the Wave went on a visit to the King of Spain, for the two were great friends. The King of Spain was complaining, and very sorry that he had not butter enough. He had a great herd of cows; but for all that, he had not what butter he wanted. He said that he’d be the richest man in the world if he had butter in plenty for himself and his people.

“Do not trouble your mind,” said King Under the Wave. “I will give you Glas Gainach,—a cow that is better than a thousand cows, and her milk is nearly all butter.”

The King of Spain thanked his guest for the promise, and was very glad. King Under the Wave kept his word; he sent Glas Gainach, and a messenger with instructions how to care for the cow, and said that if she was angered in any way she would not stay out at pasture. So the king took great care of her; and the report went through all nations that the King of Spain had the cow called Glas Gainach.

The King of Spain had an only daughter, and he was to give the cow with the daughter; and the cow was a great fortune, the best dower in the world at that time. The king said that the man who would do what he put on him would get the daughter and the cow.

Champions came from every part of the world, each man to try his fortune. In a short time hundreds and thousands of men lost their heads in combat. The king agreed then that any man who would serve seven years, and bring the cow safe and sound every day of that time to the castle, would have her.

In minding the cow, the man had to follow her always, never go before her, or stop her, or hold her. If he did, she would run home to the castle. The man must stop with her when she wanted to get a bite or a drink. She never travelled less than sixty miles a day, eating a good bite here and a good bite there, and going hither and over.

The King of Spain never told men how to mind the cow; he wanted them to lose their heads, for then he got their work without wages.

One man would mind her for a day; another would follow her to the castle for two days; a third might go with her for a week, and sometimes a man could not come home with her the first day. The man should be loose and swift to keep up with Glas Gainach. The day she walked least she walked sixty miles; some days she walked much more.

It was known in Erin that there was such a cow, and there was a smith in Cluainte above here, three miles north of Fintra, and his name was Elin Gow. He was the best man in Erin to make a sword or any weapon of combat. From all parts of Erin, and from other lands also, young princes who were going to seek their fortunes came to him to have him make swords for them. Now what should happen but this? It came to him in a dream three nights in succession that he was to go for Glas Gainach, the wonderful cow. At last he said, “I will go and knock a trial out of her; I will go toward her.”

He went to Tramor, where there were some vessels. It was to the King of Munster that he went, and asked would he lend him a vessel. Elin Gow had made many swords for the king. The king said that he would lend the vessel with willingness, and that if he could do more for him he would do it. Elin Gow got the vessel, and put stores in it for a day and a year. He turned its prow then to sea and its stern to land, and was ploughing the main ocean till he steered into the kingdom of Spain as well as if he had had three pilots, and there was no one but himself in it. He let the wind guide the ship, and she came into the very harbor of the province where the king’s castle was.

When Elin Gow came in, he cast two anchors at the ocean side and one at the shore side, and settled the ship in such a way that there was not a wave to strike her, nor a wind to rock her, nor a crow to drop on her; and he left her so that nothing would disturb her, and a fine, smooth strand before her: he left her fixed for a day and a year, though he might not be absent an hour.

He left the vessel about midday, and went his way walking, not knowing where was he or in what kingdom. He met no man or beast in the place. Late in the evening he saw, on a broad green field at a distance, a beautiful castle, the grandest he had ever set eyes on.

When he drew near the castle, the first house he found was a cottage at the wayside; and when he was passing, who should see him but a very old man inside in the cottage. The old man rose up, and putting his two hands on the jambs of the door, reached out his head and hailed him. Elin Gow turned on his heel; then the old man beckoned to him to enter.

There were four men in front of the castle, champions of valor, practising feats of arms. Flashes of light came from their swords. These men were so trained that they would not let a sword-stroke touch any part of their bodies.

“Come in,” said the old man; “maybe you would like to have dinner. You have eaten nothing on the way.”

“That was a mistake of my own,” said Elin Gow; “for in my ship are provisions of all kinds in plenty.”

“Never mind,” said the old man; “you will not need them in this place;” and going to a chest, he took out a cloth which he spread on a table, and that moment there came on it food for a king or a champion. Elin Gow had never seen a better dinner in Erin.

“What is your name and from what place are you?” asked the old man of his guest.

“From Erin,” said he, “and my name is Elin Gow. What country is this, and what castle is that out before us?”

“Have you ever heard talk of the kingdom of Spain?” asked the old man.

“I have, and ’tis to find it that I left home.”

“Well, this is the kingdom of Spain, and that building beyond is the castle of the king.”

“And is it here that Glas Gainach is?”

“It is,” said the old man. “And is it for her that you left Erin?”

“It is then,” said Elin Gow.

“I pity you,” said the old man; “it would be fitter for you to stop at home and mind something else than to come hither for that cow. ’Tis not hundreds but thousands of men that have lost their heads for her, and I am in dread that you’ll meet the same luck.”

“Well, I will try my fortune,” said Elin Gow. “’Tis through dreams that I came.”

“I pity you,” said the old man, “and moreover because you are from Erin. I am half of your country, for my mother was from Erin. Do you know now how this cow will be got?”

“I do not,” said Elin Gow; “I know nothing in the world about it.”

“You will not be long,” said the old man, “without knowledge. I’ll tell you about her, and what conditions will be put on you by the king. He will bind you for the term of seven years to bring the cow home safe and sound to his castle every evening. If you fail to bring her, your head will be cut off that same evening. That is one way by which many kings’ sons and champions that came from every part of the world were destroyed. There are spikes all around behind the castle, and a head on each spike of them. You will see for yourself to-morrow when you go to the castle, and a dreadful sight it is, for you will not be able to count the heads that are there on the spikes. I will give you now an advice that I have never given any man before this, but I have heard of you from my mother. You would be a loss to the country you came from. You are a great man to make swords and all kinds of weapons for champions.

“The king will not tell you what to do, but I’ll tell you: you’ll be as swift as you can when you go with the cow; keep up with her always. The day she moves least she will travel thirty miles going and thirty miles coming, and you will have rest only while she’ll be feeding, and she will take only a few minutes here and a few minutes there; wherever she sees the best place she’ll take a bite; and do not disturb her wherever she turns or walks, and do not go before her or drive her. If you do what I say, there will be no fear of you, if you can be so swift as to keep up with the cow.”

“I am not in dread of falling back,” said Elin Gow.

“Then there will be no fear of you at all,” said the old man.

Elin Gow remained in the cottage that night. In the morning the old man spread his cloth on the table; food and drink for a king or a champion were on it that moment. Elin Gow ate and drank heartily, left good health with the old man, and went to the castle. The king had a man called the Tongue-speaker, who met and announced every stranger. “Who are you or why do you come to the castle?” asked this man of Elin Gow.

“I wish to speak to the king about Glas Gainach.”

“Oh,” said the speaker, “you are badly wanted, for it is three days since the last man that was after her lost his head. Come, and I will show it to you on the spike, and I am in dread your own head will be in a like place.”

“Never mind,” said Elin Gow; “misfortune cannot be avoided. We will do our best.”

The Tongue-speaker went to the king then, and said, “There is a man outside who has come for Glas Gainach.”

The king went out, and asked Elin Gow what he wanted or what brought him. He told him, as he told the speaker, that it was for the cow he had come.

“And is it in combat or in peace that you want to get her?”

“’Tis in peace,” said Elin Gow.

“You can try with swords or with herding, whichever you wish.”

“We will choose the herding,” said Elin Gow.

“Well,” said the king, “this is how we will bind ourselves. You are to bring Glas Gainach here to me every evening safe and sound during seven years, and, if you fail, ’tis your head that you will lose. Do you see those heads on the spikes there behind? ’Tis on account of Glas Gainach they are there. If you come home with the cow every night, she will be yours when seven years are spent,—I bind myself to that,” said the king.

“Well,” said Elin Gow, “I am satisfied with the conditions.”

Next morning Glas Gainach was let out, and both went together all day, she and Elin Gow. She went so swiftly that he threw his cap from him; he could not carry it half the day. All the rest he had was while she was feeding in any place. He was after her then till she came home, and he brought her back as safe and sound as in the morning. The king came out and welcomed him, saying, “You’ve taken good care of her; many a man went after her that did not bring her home the first day.”

“Life is sweet,” said Elin Gow; “I did the best hand I could. I know what I have to get if I fail to bring her.”

The king gave Elin Gow good food and drink, so that he was more improving than failing in strength, and made his way and brought the cow every day till he had the seven years spent; then he said to the king, “My time is up; will I get the cow?”

“Oh, why not?” said the king. “You will: you have earned her well; you have done more than any man who walked the way before. See now how many have lost their heads; count them. You are better than any of them. I would not deny or break my word or agreement. You were bound to bring her, and I am bound to give her. Now she is yours and not mine, but if she comes back here again, don’t have any eye after her; you’ll not get her.”

“That will do,” said Elin Gow. “I will take good care not to let her come to you. I minded her the last seven years.”

“Well,” said the king, “I don’t doubt you.”

They gave the cow food that morning inside; did not let her out at all. Elin Gow bound the cow in every way he wished, to bring her to the vessel. He used all his strength, raised the two anchors on the ocean side, pulled in the vessel to put the cow on board. When Elin Gow was on board, he turned the stem of the ship toward the sea, and the stern toward land. He was sailing across the wide ocean till he came to Tramor, the port in Erin from which he had started when going to Spain. Elin Gow brought Glas Gainach on shore, took her to Cluainte, and was minding her as carefully as when he was with the King of Spain.

Elin Gow was the best man in Erin to make swords and all weapons for champions; his name was in all lands. The King of Munster had four sons, and the third from the oldest was Cian. He was neither dreaming nor thinking of anything night or day but feats of valor; his grandfather, Art Mac Cuin, had been a great champion, and was very fond of Cian. He used to say, “Kind father and grandfather for him; he is not like his three brothers.”

When twenty years old, Cian said,“I will go to try my fortune. My father has heirs enough. I would try other kingdoms if I had a sword.”

“You may have my sword,” said the father.

Cian gave the sword a trial, and at the first turn he broke it. “No sword will please me,” said Cian, “unless, while grasping the hilt with the blade pointed forward, I can bend the blade till its point touches my elbow on the upper side, then let it spring back and bend it again till the point touches my elbow on the under side.”

“There is not a man in Erin who could make a sword like that,” said the father, “but Elin Gow, and I am full sure that he will not make it at this time, for he is minding Glas Gainach. He earned her well, and he will guard her; seven years did he travel bareheaded without hat or cap,—a thing which no man could do before him. It would be useless to go to him, for he has never worked a stroke in the forge since he brought Glas Gainach to Erin, and he would not let her go. He would make the sword but for that. It’s many a sword he made for me.”

“Well, I will try him,” said Cian. “I will ask him to make the sword.”

Cian started, and never stopped till he stood before Elin Gow at Cluainte, and told him who he was.

Elin Gow welcomed the son of the king, and said, “Your father and I were good friends in our young years. It was often I made swords and other weapons for him. And what is it that brought you to-day?”

“It is a sword I want. I wish to go and seek my fortune in some foreign land. I want a good sword, and my father says you are the best man in Erin to make one.”

“I was,” said Elin Gow; “and I am sorry that I cannot make you one now. I am engaged in minding Glas Gainach; and I would not trust any one after her but myself, and I have enough to do to mind her.”

Cian told how the sword was to be made.

“Oh,” said Elin Gow, “I would make it in any way you like but for the cow, and I would not wish to let your father’s son go away without a sword. I will direct you to five or six smiths that are making swords now, in place of me since I went for Glas Gainach.”

He gave the names, and the king’s son went away.

None of them could make the sword in the way Cian wanted. He came back to Elin Gow.

“You have your round made?” said Elin Gow.

“I have,” said Cian, “but in vain; for none of them would make the sword in the way asked of him.”

“Well, I do not wish to let you go. I will take the risk.”

“Very well,” said Cian; “I will go after Glas Gainach to-morrow, while you are making the sword, and if I don’t bring her, you may have my head in the evening.”

“Well,” said Elin Gow, “I am afraid to trust you, for many a champion lost his head on account of her before; but I’ll run the risk. I must make the sword for you.”

The king’s son stopped that night with Elin Gow, who gave him the best food and drink he had, and let out Glas Gainach before him next morning, and told him not to come in front of her in any place where she might want to feed or drink. He advised him in every way how to take care of her. Away went Cian with the cow, and he was doing the right thing all day. She moved on always, and went as far as Caorha, southwest of Tralee, the best spot of land in Kerry for grass. When she had eaten enough, she turned toward home, and Cian was at her tail all the day. When he and Glas Gainach were five miles this side of Tralee, near the water at Derrymor, where she used to drink, Cian saw her going close to deep water; he came before her, and turned her back; and what did she do but jump through the air like a bird, and then she went out through the sea and left him. He walked home sad and mournful, and came to Elin Gow’s house. The smith asked him had he the cow, and he said, “I have not. I was doing well till I came to Derrymor, and she went so near deep water that I was afraid she would go from me. I stopped her, and what did she do but fly away like a bird, and go out through the sea.”

“God help us,” said Elin Gow, “but the misfortune cannot be helped.”

“I am the cause,” said Cian; “you may have my head.”

“What is done, is done. I would never take the head off you, but she is a great loss to me.”

“I am willing and satisfied to give you my head,” said Cian. “Have you the sword made?”

“I have,” said Elin Gow.

Cian took the blade, tested it in every way, and found that he had the sword he wanted.

He swore an oath then to Elin Gow that he would not delay day or night, nor rest anywhere, till he had lost his head or brought back Glas Gainach.

“I am afraid your labor will be useless,” said Elin Gow, “and that you will never be able to bring her back. I could not have brought her myself but for the advice of an old man that I met before I saw the King of Spain.”

Cian went home to his father’s castle. The king saw him coming with the sword. “I see that Elin Gow did not refuse you.”

“He did not,” said Cian. “He made the sword, and it is a sore piece of work for him. He has parted with Glas Gainach. I promised to give my head if I did not bring her home to him in safety while he was making the sword. I minded her well all day till she came to a place where she used to drink water. I did not know that; but it was my duty to know it, for he directed me in every way needful how to mind her. I was bringing her home in safety till I brought her to Derrymor River; and I went before her to turn her back,—and that was foolish, for he told me not to turn her while I was with her,—and she did nothing but spring like a bird and out to sea and away. I promised Elin Gow in the morning if I did not bring the cow to give him my head; and I offered it when I came, as I had not the cow, but he said, ‘I will never take the head off a son of your father, even for a greater loss.’ And for this reason I will never rest nor delay till I go for Glas Gainach and bring her back to Elin Gow, or lose my head; so make ready your best ship.”

“The best ship,” said the king, “is the one that Elin Gow took.”

The king’s son put provisions for a day and a year in the vessel. He set sail alone and away with him through the main ocean, and he never stopped till he reached the same place to which Elin Gow had sailed before. He cast two anchors on the ocean side, and one next the shore, and left the ship where there was no wind to blow on her, no waves of the ocean to touch her, no crows of the air to drop on her. He went his way then, and was walking always till evening, when he saw at a distance the finest castle he had ever set eyes on. He went toward it; and when he was near, he saw four champions at exercise near the castle. He was going on the very same road that Elin Gow had taken, and was passing the same cottage, when the old man saw him and hailed him. He turned toward the cottage.

“Come to my house and rest,” said the old man. “From what country are you, and what brought you?”

“I am a son of the King of Munster in Erin; and now will you tell me what place is this?”

“You are in Spain, and the building beyond there is the king’s castle.”

“Very well and good. It was to see the king that I left Erin,” said Cian.

“It is for Glas Gainach that you are here, I suppose,” said the old man. “It is useless for you to try; you never can bring her from the king. It was a hundred times easier when Elin Gow brought her; it is not that way now, but by force and bravery she is to be taken. It is a pity to have you lose your head, like so many kings and champions.”

“I must try,” said Cian; “for it was through me that Elin Gow lost Glas Gainach. I wanted a sword to try my fortune, and there was not a smith in Erin who could make it as I wanted except Elin Gow; he refused. I told him that I would give my head if I did not bring the cow home to him in safety. I followed her well till, on the way home, she went to drink near the sea, and I went before her; that moment she sprang away like a bird, and went out through the water.”

“I am afraid,” said the old man, “that to get her is more than you can do. You see those four men? You must fight and conquer them before you get Glas Gainach.”

The old man spread out the table-cloth, and they ate.

“I care not,” said the king’s son, “what comes. I am willing to lose my head unless I can bring back the cow.”

“Well,” said the old man, “you can try.”

Next morning breakfast was ready for Cian; he rose, washed his hands and face, prayed for mercy and strength, ate, and going to the pole of combat gave the greatest blow ever given before on it.

“Run out,” said the king to the Tongue-speaker; “see who is abroad.”

“What do you want?” asked the Tongue-speaker of Cian.

“The king’s daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

The speaker hurried in and told the king. The king went out and asked, “Are you the man who wants my daughter and Glas Gainach?”

“I am,” answered Cian.

“You will get them if you earn them,” said the king.

“If I do not earn them, I want neither the daughter nor the cow,” replied Cian.

The king ordered out then the four knights of valor to kill Cian. He was as well trained as they, for he had been practising from his twelfth year, and he was more active. They were at him all day, and he at them: he did not let one blow from them touch his body; and if a man were to go from the Eastern to the Western World to see champions, ’tis at them he would have to look. At last, when Cian was hungry, and late evening near, he sprang with the strength of his limbs out of the joints of his bones, and rose above them, and swept the heads off the four before he touched ground.

The young champion was tired after the day, and went to the old man. The old man asked, “What have you done?”

“I have knocked the heads off the four champions of valor.”

The old man was delighted that the first day had thriven in that way with Cian. He looked at the sword. “Oh, there is no danger,” cried he; “you have the best sword I have ever seen, and you’ll need it, for you’ll have more forces against you to-morrow.”

The old man and Cian spent the night in three parts,—the first part in eating and drinking, the second in telling tales and singing songs, the third in sound sleep.

The old man told how he had been the champion of Spain, and at last when he grew old the king gave him that house.

Next morning Cian washed his face and hands, prayed for help and mercy, ate breakfast with the old man, went to the pole of combat, and gave a greater blow still than before.

“What do you want this day?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“I want three hundred men on my right hand, three hundred on my left, three hundred after my poll, three hundred out in front of me.” The king sent the men out four deep through four gates. Cian went at them, and as they came he struck the heads off them; and though they fought bravely, in the evening he had the heads off the twelve hundred. Cian then left the field, and went to the old man.

“What have you done after the day?” asked the old man.

“I have stretched the king’s forces.”

“You’ll do well,” said the old man.

The old champion put the cloth on the table, and there was food for a king or a champion. They made three parts of that night,—the first for eating and drinking, the second for telling tales and singing songs, the third for sleep and sound rest.

Next morning, Cian gave such a blow on the pole of combat that the king in his chamber was frightened.

“What do you want this time?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“I want the same number of men as yesterday.”

The king sent the men out; and the same fate befell them as the other twelve hundred, and Cian went home to the old man untouched. Next morning Cian made small bits of the king’s pole of combat.

“Well, what do you want?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“Whatever I want, I don’t want to be losing time. Let out all your forces against me at once.”

The king sent out all the forces he wished that morning. The battle was more terrible than all the others put together; but Cian went through the king’s forces, and at sunset not a man of them was living, and he let no one nearer than the point of his sword.

“How did the day thrive with you?” asked the old man when Cian came in.

“I have killed all the king’s champions.”

“I think,” said the old man, “that you have the last of his forces down now; but what you have done is nothing to what is before you. The king will come out and say to-morrow that you will not get the daughter with Glas Gainach till you eat on one biscuit what butter there is in his storehouses, and they are all full; you are to do this in the space of four hours. He will give you the biscuit. Take this biscuit from me, and do you hide the one that he will give you,—never mind it; put as much as you will eat on this, and there’ll be no tidings of what butter there is in the king’s stores within one hour,—it will vanish and disappear.”

Cian was very glad when the old man told him what to do. They spent that night as they had the nights before. Next morning Cian breakfasted, and went to the castle. The king saw him coming, and was out before him.

“What do you want this morning?” asked the king.

“I want your daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

“Well,” said the king, “you will not get my daughter and Glas Gainach unless within four hours you eat on this biscuit what butter there is in all my storehouses in Spain; and if you do not eat the butter, your head will be on a spike this evening.”

The king gave him the biscuit. Cian went to the first storehouse, dropped the king’s biscuit into his pocket, took out the one the old man had given him, buttered it, and began to eat. He went his way then, and in one hour there was neither sign nor trace of butter in any storehouse the king had.

That night Cian and the old man passed the time in three parts as usual. “You will have hard work to-morrow,” said the old man, “but I will tell you how to do it. The king will say that you cannot have his daughter and Glas Gainach unless within four hours you tan all the hides in Spain, dry and green, and tan them as well as a hand’s breadth of leather that he will give you. Here is a piece of leather like the piece the king will give. Clap this on the first hide you come to; and all the hides in Spain will be tanned in one hour, and be as soft and smooth as the king’s piece.”

Next morning the king saw Cian coming, and was out before him. “What do you want now?” asked the king.

“Your daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

“You are not to get my daughter and Glas Gainach unless within four hours you tan all the dry and green hides in Spain to be as soft and smooth as this piece; and if you do not tan them, your head will be on one of the spikes there behind my castle this evening.”

Cian took the leather, dropped it into his pocket, and, taking the old man’s piece, placed it on the first hide that he touched. In one hour all the hides in Spain were tanned, and they were as soft and fine as the piece which the king gave to Cian.

The old man and Cian spent this night as they had the others.

“You will have the hardest task of all to-morrow,” said the old man.

“What is that?” asked the young champion.

“The king’s daughter will come to a window in the highest chamber of the castle with a ball in her hand: she will throw the ball through the window, and you must catch it on your hurley, and keep it up during two hours and a half; never let it touch the ground. There will be a hundred champions striving to take the ball from you, but follow my advice. The champions, not knowing where the ball will come down when the king’s daughter throws it, will gather near the front of the castle; and if either of them should get the ball, he might keep it and spoil you. Do you stand far outside; you will have the best chance. I don’t know, though, what you are to do, as you have no hurley, but wait. In my youth I was great to play at hurley, and I never met a man that could match me. The hurley I had then must be in this house somewhere.”

The old man searched the house through, and where did he find the hurley but up in the loft, and it full of dust; he brought it down. Cian swung it, knocked the dust from the hurley, and it was as clean as when made.

“It is glad I am to find this, for any other hurley in the kingdom would not do you, but only this very one. This hurley has the virtue in it, and only for that it would not do.”

Both were very glad, and made three parts of that night, as they had of the nights before. Next morning Cian rose, washed his hands and face, and begged mercy and help of God for that day.

After breakfast he went to the king’s castle, and soon many champions came around him. The king was outside before him, and asked what he wanted that day.

“I want your daughter and Glas Gainach.”

“You will not get my daughter and Glas Gainach till you do the work I’ll give, and I’ll give you the toughest task ever put before you. At midday, my daughter will throw out a ball through the window, and you must keep that ball in the air for two hours and a half: it must never touch ground in that time, and when the two hours and a half are spent, you must drive it in through the same window through which it went out; if not, I will have your head on a spike this evening.”

“God help us!” said Cian.

All the champions were together to see which man would get the ball first; but Cian, thinking of the old man’s advice, stood outside them all. At midday the king’s daughter sent out the ball through the highest window; and to whom should it go but to Cian, and he had the luck of getting it first. He drove the ball with his hurley, and for two hours and a half he kept it in the air, and did not let another man touch it. Then he gave it a directing blow, and sent it in through the window to the king’s daughter.

The king watched the ball closely; and when it went in, he ran to Cian, shook his hand warmly, and never stopped till he took him to his daughter’s high chamber. She kissed him with joy and great gladness. He had done a thing that no other had ever done.

“I have won the daughter and Glas Gainach from you now,” said Cian.

“You have,” said the king; “and they are both yours. I give them with all my heart. You have earned them well, and done what no other man could do. I will give you one-half of the kingdom till my death, and all of it from that out.”

Cian and the king’s daughter were married. A great feast was made, and a command given out that all people of the kingdom must come to the wedding. Every one came; and the wedding lasted seven days and nights, to the pleasure of all, and the greatest delight of the king. Cian remained with the king; and after a time his wife had a son, the finest and fairest child ever born in Spain, and he was increasing so that what of him didn’t grow in the day grew in the night, and what did not grow in the night grew in the day, and if the sun shone on any child, it shone on that one. The boy was called Cormac after Cian’s father, Cormac Mac Art.

Cian remained with the King of Spain till Cormac’s age was a year and a half. Then he remembered his promise to Elin Gow to bring back Glas Gainach.

Cian put stores in the vessel in which he had come, and placed Glas Gainach inside, firmly fettered. He gave then the stem of his ship to the ocean, the stern to land, raised the limber sails; and there was the work of a hundred men on each side, though Cian did the work all alone. He sailed through the main ocean with safety till he came to Tramor,—the best landing-place in Erin at that time. Glas Gainach was brought to shore carefully, and Cian went on his way with her to go to Elin Gow’s house at Cluainte.

There was no highway from Tramor but the one; and on that one were three brothers, three robbers, the worst at that time in Erin. These men knew all kinds of magic, and had a rod of enchantment. Cian had brought much gold with him on the way, coming as a present to his father.

The three brothers stopped Cian, saluted him, and asked would he play a game. He said that he would. They played, and toward evening the robbers had the gold won; then they said to Cian, “Now bet the cow against the gold you have lost, and we will put twice as much with it.” He laid the cow as a wager, and lost her.

One of the three robber brothers struck Cian with the rod of enchantment, and made a stone pillar of him, and made an earth mound of Glas Gainach with another blow. The two remained there, the man and the cow, by the roadside.

Cian’s son Cormac was growing to manhood in Spain, and heard his mother and grandfather talk of his father, and he thought to himself, “There was no man on earth that could fight with my father; and I promise now to travel and be walking always till I find out the place where he is, living or dead.”

As Cormac had heard that his father was from Erin, to Erin he faced, first of all. The mother was grieved, and advised him not to go wandering. “Your father must be dead, or on the promise he made me he’d be here long ago.”

“There is no use in talking; the world will not stop me till I know what has happened to my father,” said Cormac.

The mother could not stop him; she gave her consent. He turned then to his grandfather. “Make ready for me the best vessel you have,” said he. The vessel was soon ready with provisions for a day and a year, and gold two thousand pieces. He embarked, and went through the main ocean faster than his father had gone till he sailed into Tramor. He was on his way walking till he came to the robbers about midday.

They saluted him kindly, thinking he had gold, and asked, “Will you play a game with us?”

“I will,” said Cormac; “I have never refused.”

They played. The robbers gained, and let him gain; they were at him the best of the day, till they won the last piece of gold of his two thousand pieces.

When he had lost what he had, he was like a wild man, and knew not what to do for a while. At last Cormac said to himself, “It is an old saying never contradicted that strength will get the upper hand of enchantment.” He jumped then, and caught two of the three robbers, one in each hand, and set them under his two knees. The third was coming to help the two; but Cormac caught that one with his hand and held the three, kept them there, and said, “I will knock the heads off every man of you.”

“Do not do that,” begged the three. “Who are you? We will do what you ask of us.”

“I am seeking my father, Cian Mac Cormac, who left Spain eighteen years ago with Glas Gainach.”

“Spare us,” said the three brothers; “we will give back your gold and raise up your father with Glas Gainach.”

“How can ye do that,” asked Cormac, “or where is my father?”

“He is that pillar there opposite.”

“And where is Glas Gainach?”

They showed him the earth mound.

“How can ye bring them back to their own shapes?” asked Cormac.

“We have a rod of enchantment,” said the brothers; and they told where the rod was. When Cormac had a true account of the rod, what he did was to draw out his sword and cut the heads off the three brothers, saying, “Ye will never again rob any man who walks this way.” Cormac then found the rod of enchantment, went to the pillar, gave it a blow, and his father came forth as well and healthy as ever.

“Who are you?” asked Cian of Cormac.

“I am your son Cormac.”

“Oh, my dear son, how old are you?”

“I’m in my twentieth year,” said Cormac. “I heard my mother and grandfather talk of your bravery, and I made up my mind to go in search of you, and be walking always till I found you. I said I’d face Erin first, for ’twas there you went with Glas Gainach. I landed this morning, met these three robbers; they won all my gold. I was like a wild man. I caught them, and swore I would kill them. They asked who was I; I told them. They said you were the stone pillar; that they had a rod that would raise you up with Glas Gainach. They told where the rod was. I took the heads off them, and raised you with the rod.”

Now Cormac struck the earth mound, and Glas Gainach rose up as well as before. Everything was now in its own place, and they were glad. Cian would not stop till he brought Glas Gainach to Elin Gow, so he was walking night and day till he came here behind to Cluainte, where Elin Gow was living. He screeched out Elin Gow’s name, told him to come. He came out; and when he saw Cian and Glas Gainach he came near fainting from joy. Cian put Glas Gainach’s horn in his hand, and said, “I wished to keep the promise I made when you spared my head; and it was gentle of you to spare it, for great was the loss that I caused you;” and he told all that had happened,—how he had won and lost Glas Gainach, and lost her through the robbers.

“Who is this brave youthful champion with you?” asked Elin Gow.

“This is my son, and but for him I’d be forever where the three robbers put me. I was eighteen years where they left me; but for that, the cow would have been with you long ago. What were you doing all this time?” asked Cian of Elin Gow.

“Making swords and weapons, but I could not have lived without the support of your father.”

“He promised me that,” said Cian, “before I left Erin. I knew that he would help you.”

“Oh, he did!” said Elin Gow.

The father and son left good health with Elin Gow, and never stopped nor stayed till they reached the castle of Cian’s father. The old king had thought that Cian was dead, as he had received no account of him for so many years. Great was his joy and gladness, and great was the feast that he made.

Cian remained for a month, and then went to the house of the robbers, took out all its treasures, locked up the place in the way that no man could open it; then he gave one-half his wealth to his father. He took the rest to Spain with his son, and lived there.

Elin Gow had grown old, and he was in dread that he had not the strength to follow Glas Gainach, and sent a message to Caol na Crua, the fleetest champion in Kerry. Caol came. Elin Gow agreed to pay him his price for minding the cow, and was glad to get him. He told Caol carefully how to herd the cow. She travelled as before, and was always at home before nightfall.

Glas Gainach had milk for all; and when any one came to milk her she would stop, and there never was a vessel that she did not fill. One woman heard this; and once when Glas Gainach was near a river, the woman brought a sieve and began to milk. She milked a long time. At last the cow saw the river white with milk; then she raised her leg, gave the woman a kick on the forehead, and killed her.

Caol na Crua was doing well, minding the cow all the time, till one evening Glas Gainach walked between the two pillars where she used to scratch herself; when she was full, her sides would touch both pillars. This evening she bellowed, and Elin Gow heard her. Instead of going home then, she went down to a place northwest of Cluainte, near a ruin; she used to drink there at times, but not often. Caol na Crua did not know this. He thought she was going into the sea, and caught her tail to hold her back. With that, instead of drinking, she went straight toward the water. Caol tried to hold her. She swept him along and went through the ocean, he keeping the grip he had, and she going with such swiftness that he was lying flat on the sea behind her; and she took him with her to Spain and went to the king, and very joyful was the king, for they were in great distress for butter while Glas Gainach was gone.

MOR’S SONS AND THE HERDER FROM UNDER THE SEA.

In old times, there was a great woman in the southwest of Erin, and she was called Mor. This woman lived at Dun Quin; and when she came to that place the first time with her husband Lear, she was very poor. People say that it was by the water she came to Dun Quin. Whatever road she took, all she had came by the sea, and went the same way.

She built a small house, and their property was increasing little by little. After a while she had three sons, and these grew to be very fine boys and then strong young men.

The two elder sons set out to try their fortunes; they got a vessel, sailed away on the sea, and never stopped nor halted till they came to the Kingdom of the White Strand, in the eastern world. There they stayed for seven years, goaling and sporting with the people.

The king of that country wished to keep them forever, because they were strong men, and had risen to be great champions.

The youngest son remained at home all the time, growing to be as good a man as his brothers. One day he went out to look at a large field of wheat which his mother had, and found it much injured.

“Well, mother,” said he when he came in, “all our field is destroyed by something. I don’t know for the world what is it. Something comes in, tramples the grain and eats it.”

“Watch the field to-night, my son, and see what is devouring our grain.”

“Well, mother, boil something for me to eat to give me strength and good luck for the night.”

Mor baked a loaf, and boiled some meat for her son, and told him to watch well till the hour of night, when perhaps the cattle would be before him.

He was watching and looking there, till all at once, a little after midnight, he saw the field full of cattle of different colors,—beautiful colors, blue, and red, and white. He was looking at them for a long time, they were so beautiful. The young man wanted to drive the beasts home with him, to show his mother the cattle that were spoiling the grain. He had them out of the field on the road when a herder stood before him, and said, “Leave the cattle behind you.”

“I will not,” said Mor’s son; “I will drive them home to my mother.”

“I will not let them with you,” said the herder.

“I’ll carry them in spite of you,” replied Mor’s son.

He had a good strong green stick, and so had the herder; the two faced each other, and began to fight. The herder was too strong for Mor’s son, and he drove off the cattle into the sea.

“Oh,” said the herder, as he was going, “your mother did not boil your meat or bake your loaf rightly last night; she gave too much fire to the loaf and the meat, took the strength out of them. You might do something if your mother knew how to cook.”

When Mor’s son went home, his mother asked, “Did you see any cattle, my son?”

“I did, mother; the field was full of them. And when I was bringing the herd home with me to show you, a man stood there on the road to take the beasts from me; we fought, and when he beat me and was driving the cattle into the sea, what did he say but that you boiled the meat and baked the loaf too much last night. To-night, when you boil my meat, do not give it half the fire; leave all the strength in the meat and the loaf.”

“I will,” said the mother.

When night came, the dinner was ready. The young man ate twice as much of the meat and the loaf as the evening before. About the same hour, just after midnight, he went to the field, for he knew now what time the cattle would be in it. The field was full of the same cattle of beautiful colors.

Mor’s son drove the beasts out, and was going to drive them home, when the herder, who was not visible hitherto, came before him and said, “I will not let the cattle with you.”

“I will take them in spite of you,” replied Mor’s son.

The two began to fight, and Mor’s son was stronger this time.

“Why do you not keep your cattle out of my wheat?” asked he of the herder.

“Because I know very well that you are not able to take them with you.”

“If I am not able to take the cattle, you may have them and the wheat as well,” said Mor’s son.

The herder was driving the cattle one way, and Mor’s son was driving them the opposite way; and after they had done that for a while, they faced each other and began to fight again.

Mor’s son was doubly angry at the herder this night for the short answers that he gave. They fought two hours; then the herder got the upper hand. Mor’s son was sorry; and the herder, as he drove the cattle to the sea, called out, “Your mother gave too much fire to the meat and the loaf; still you are stronger to-night than you were last night.”

Mor’s son went home.

“Well, my son,” asked the mother, “have you any news of the cattle and the herder?”

“I have seen them, mother.”

“And what did the herder do?”

“He was too strong for me a second time, and drove the cattle into the sea.”

“What are we to do now?” asked the mother. “If he keeps on in this way, we’ll soon be poor, and must leave the country altogether.”

“The herder said, as he drove the cattle away, ‘Your mother gave too much fire to the meat and the loaf; still you are stronger to-night than you were last night.’ Well, mother, if you gave too much fire to my dinner last night, give but little to-night, and I will leave my life outside or have the cattle home with me this time. If I do not beat him, he may have the wheat as well as the cattle after to-night.”

Mor prepared the dinner; and this time she barely let the water on the meat begin to bubble, and to the bread she gave but one roast.

He ate and drank twice as much as the day before. The dinner gave him such strength that he said, “I’ll bring the cattle to-night.”

He went to the field, and soon after midnight it was full of cattle of the same beautiful colors; the grain was spoiled altogether. He drove the cattle to the road, and thought he had them. He got no sight of the herder till every beast was outside the field, and he ready to drive them home to his mother. Then the herder stood before him, and began to drive the cattle toward the sea.

“You’ll not take them this time,” said Mor’s son.

“I will,” said the herder.

They began to fight, caught each other, dragged, and struggled long, and in the heel of the battle Mor’s son was getting the better of the herder.

“I think that you’ll have the upper hand of me this time,” said the herder; “and ’tis my own advice I blame for it. You’ll take the cattle to-night in spite of me. Let me go now, and take them away with you.”

“I will,” said Mor’s son. “I will take them to the house, and please my mother.”

He drove the cattle home, and said to his mother, “I have the cattle here now for you, and do whatever you wish with them.”

The herder followed Mor’s son to the house.

“Why did you destroy all my grain with your cattle?” asked Mor.

“Let the cattle go with me now, and I promise that after to-night your field of wheat will be the best in the country.”

“What are we to do?” asked Mor of the son. “Is it to let the cattle go with him for the promise he gives?”

“I will do what you say, mother.”

“We will give him the cattle,” said Mor.

“Well,” said the son to the herder, “my mother is going to give you the cattle for the promise that our grain will be the best in the country when ’tis reaped. We ought to be friends after the fighting; and now take your cattle home with you, though you vexed and hurt me badly.”

“I am very grateful to you,” said the herder to Mor’s son, “and for your kindness you will have plenty of cattle and plenty of wheat before you die, and seeing that you are such a good man I will give you a chance before I leave you. The King of Mayo has an only daughter; the fairies will take her from him to-morrow. They will bring her through Daingean, on the shoulders of four men, to the fairy fort at Cnoc na Hown. Be at the cross-roads about two o’clock to-morrow night. Jump up quickly, put your shoulder under the coffin, the four men will disappear and leave the coffin on the road; do you bring what’s in the coffin home with you.”

Mor’s son followed the herder’s directions. He went toward Daingean in the night, for he knew the road very well. After midnight, he was at the cross-roads, waiting and hidden. Soon he saw the coffin coming out against him, and the four men carrying it on their shoulders.

The young man put his shoulder under the coffin; the four dropped it that minute, and disappeared. Mor’s son took the lid off the coffin; and what did he find lying inside but a beautiful woman, warm and ruddy, sleeping as if at home in her bed. He took out the young woman, knowing well that she was alive, and placing her on his back, left the coffin behind at the wayside.

The woman could neither walk nor speak, and he brought her home to his mother. Mor opened the door, and he put the young woman down in the corner.

“What’s this you brought me? What do I want with the like of her in the house?”

“Never mind, mother; it may be our luck that will come with her.”

They gave her every kind of drink and nourishing food, for she was very weak; when daylight came, she was growing stronger, and could speak. The first words she said were, “I am no good to you in the way that I am now; but if you are a brave man, you will meet with your luck to-morrow night. All the fairies will be gathered at a feast in the fort at Cnoc na Hown; there will be a horn of drink on the table. If you bring that horn, and I get three sips from it (if you have the heart of a brave man you will go to the fort, seize the horn, and bring it here), I shall be as well and strong as ever, and you will be as rich yourself as any king in Erin.”

“I have stood in great danger before from the like of them,” replied Mor’s son. “I will make a trial of this work, too.”

“Between one and two o’clock in the night you must go to the fort,” said the young woman, “and you must carry a stick of green rowan wood in your hand.”

The young man went to the fairy fort, keeping the stick carefully and firmly in his hand. At parting, the young woman warned him, saying, “They can do you no harm in the world while you have the stick, but without the stick there is no telling what they might do.”

When Mor’s son came to Cnoc na Hown, and went in through the gate of the fairy fort, he saw a house and saw many lights flashing in different places. In the kitchen was a great table with all sorts of food and drink, and around it a crowd of small men. When he was making toward the table, he heard one of the men say,—

“Very little good will the girl be to Mor’s son. He may keep her in the corner by his mother. There will be neither health nor strength in her; but if she had three drinks out of this horn on the table here, she would be as well as ever.”

He faced them then, and, catching the horn, said, “She will not be long without the drink!”

All the little men looked at one another as he hurried through the door and disappeared. He had the stick, and they could not help themselves; but all began to scold one another for not having the courage to seize him and take the horn from him.

Mor’s son reached home with the horn. “Well, mother,” said he, “we have the cure now;” and he didn’t put the horn down till the young woman had taken three drinks out of it, and then she said,—

“You are the best champion ever born in Erin, and now take the horn back to Cnoc na Hown; I am as well and hearty as ever.”

He took the horn back to the fairy fort, placed it on the table, and hurried home. The fairies looked at one another, but not a thing could they do, for the stick was in his hand yet.

“The woman is as well as ever now,” said one of the fairies when Mor’s son had gone, “and we have lost her;” and they began to scold one another for letting the horn go with him. But that was all the good it did them; the young woman was cured.

Next day the young woman said to Mor’s son, “I am well now, and I will give you a token to take to my father and mother in Mayo.”

“I will not take the token,” said he; “I will go and seek out your father, and bring back some token to you first.”

He went away, searched and inquired till he made out the king’s castle; and when he was there, he went around all the cattle and went away home to his mother at Tivorye with every four-footed beast that belonged to the king.

“Well, mother,” said he, “it is the luck we have now; and we’ll have the whole parish under stock from this out.”

The young woman was not satisfied yet, and said, “You must go and carry a token to my father and mother.”

“Wait awhile, and be quiet,” answered Mor’s son. “Your father will send herders to hunt for the stock, and these men will have token enough when they come.”

Well, sure enough, the king’s men hunted over hills and valleys, found that the cattle had been one day in such a place and another day in another place; and they followed on till at length and at last they came near Mor’s house, and there they saw the cattle grazing above on the mountain.

There was no house in Dun Quin at that time but Mor’s house, and there was not another in it for many a year after.

“We will send a man down to that house,” said the herders, “to know can we get any account of what great champion it was that brought the cattle all this distance.”

What did the man see when he came near the house but his own king’s daughter. He knew the young woman, and was struck dumb when he saw her, and she buried two months before at her father’s castle in Mayo. He had no power to say a word, he forgot where he was, or why he was sent. At last he turned, ran up to the men above on the mountain, and said, “The king’s daughter is living below in that house.”

The herders would not believe a word he said, but at last three other men went down to see for themselves. They knew the king’s daughter, and were frightened; but they had more courage, and after a while asked, “Where is the man that brought the cattle?”

“He is sleeping,” said the king’s daughter. “He is tired after the long journey; if you wish, I will wake him.”

She woke Mor’s son, and he came out.

“What brought you here?” asked he of the men.

“We came looking for our master’s cattle; they are above on the mountain, driven to this place by you, as it seems. We have travelled hither and over till we found them.”

“Go and tell your master,” said Mor’s son, “that I brought the cattle; that Lear is my father, and Mor is my mother, and that I have his daughter here with me.”

“There is no use in sending them with that message,” said the young woman; “my father would not believe them.”

“Tell your master,” said Mor’s son, “that it is I who brought the cattle, and that I have his daughter here in good health, and ’tis by my bravery that I saved her.”

“If they go to my father with that message, he will kill them. I will give them a token for him.”

“What token will you give?”

“I will give them this ring with my name and my father’s name and my mother’s name written inside on it. Do not give the ring,” said she to the men, “till ye tell my father all ye have seen; if he will not believe you, then give the ring.”

Away went the men, and not a foot of the cattle did they take; and if all the men in Mayo had come, Mor’s son would not have let the cattle go with them, for he had risen to be the best champion in Erin. The men went home by the straightest roads; and they were not half the time going to the king’s castle that they were in finding the cattle.

On the way home, one man said to the others, “It is a great story we have and good news to tell; the king will make rich men of us for the tidings we are taking him.”

When they reached the king’s castle, there was a welcome before them.

“Have ye any news for me after the long journey?” asked the king.

“We found your daughter with a man in Tivorye in the southwest of Erin, and all your cattle are with the same man.”

“Ye may have found my cattle, but ye could not get a sight of my daughter.”

“If you do not believe us in this way, you will, in another. We may as well tell you all.”

“Ye may as well keep silent. I’ll not believe a word of what ye say about my daughter.”

“I will give you a token from your daughter,” said one of the men, pulling out a purse. He had the purse rolled carefully in linen. (And he did well, for the fairies cannot touch linen, and it is the best guard in the world against them. Linen thread, too, is strong against the fairies. A man might travel all the fairy forts of the world if he had a skein of flax thread around his neck, and a steel knife with a black handle in his pocket.) He took out the ring, and gave it to the king. The king sent for the queen. She came. He put the ring in her hand and said, “Look at this, and see do you know it.”

“I do indeed,” said she; “and how did you come by this ring?”

The king told the whole story that the men had brought.

“This is our daughter’s ring. It was on her finger when we buried her,” said the queen.

“It was,” said the king, “and what the men say must be true.” He would have killed them but for the ring.

On the following morning, the king and queen set out with horses, and never stopped till they came to Tivorye (Mor’s house). The king knew the cattle the moment he saw them above on the mountain, and then he was sure of the rest. They were sorry to find the daughter in such a small cabin, but glad that she was alive. The guide was sent to the house to say the king and queen were coming.

“Your father and mother are coming,” said he to the king’s daughter.

She made ready, and was standing in the door before them. The father and mother felt weak and faint when they looked at her; but she ran out, took them by the hands, and said, “Have courage; I am alive and well, no ghost, and ye ought to thank the man who brought me away from my enemies.”

“Bring him to us,” said they; “we wish to see him.”

“He is asleep, but I will wake him.”

“Wake him,” said the father, “for he is the man we wish to see now.”

The king’s daughter roused Mor’s son, and said, “My father and mother are above in the kitchen. Go quickly, and welcome them.”

He welcomed them heartily, and he was ten times gladder to see them than they were to see him. They inquired then how he got the daughter, and she buried at home two months before. And he told the whole story from first to last: How the herder from the sea had told him, and how he had saved her at Cnoc na Hown. They had a joyful night in the cabin after the long journey, and anything that would be in any king’s castle they had in Mor’s house that night, for the king had plenty of everything with him from the castle. Next morning the king and queen were for taking the daughter home with them; but she refused firmly, and said,—

“I will never leave the man who saved me from such straits. I’ll never marry any man but him, for I’m sure that he is the best hero ever reared in Erin, after the courage that he has shown.”

“We will never carry you away, since you like him so well; and we will send him twice as many cattle, and money besides.”

They brought in the priest of whatever religion was in it at the time (to be sure, it was not Catholic priests were in Erin in those days), and Mor’s son and the king’s daughter were married. The father and mother left her behind in Tivorye, and enjoyed themselves on the way home, they were that glad after finding the daughter alive.

When Mor’s son was strong and rich, he could not be satisfied till he found his two brothers, who had left home years before, and were in the kingdom of the White Strand, though he did not know it. He made up a fine ship then, and got provisions for a day and a year, went into it, set sail, and went on over the wide ocean till he came to the chief port of the King of the White Strand. He was seven days on the water; and when he came in on the strand, the king saw him, and thought that he must be a brave man to come alone on a ship to that kingdom.

“That must be a great hero,” said he to his men. “Let some of the best of you go down and knock a trial out of him before he comes to the castle.”

The king was so in dread of the stranger that out of all the men he selected Mor’s two elder sons. They were the best and strongest men he had, and he sent them to know what activity was in the new-comer. They took two hurleys for themselves and one for the stranger, and a ball.

The second brother challenged the stranger to play. When the day was closing, the stranger was getting the upper hand. They invited him to the king’s castle for the night, and the elder brother challenged him to play a game on the following day.

“How did the trial turn out?” asked the king of the elder brother.

“I sent my brother to try him, and it was the strange champion that got the upper hand.”

Mor’s son remained at the castle that night, and found good welcome and cheer. He ate breakfast next morning, and a good breakfast it was. They took three hurleys then and a ball, and went to the strand. Said the eldest brother to the second, “Stop here and look at us, and see what the trial will be between us.”

They gave the stranger a choice of the hurleys, and the game began. It couldn’t be told who was the better of the two brothers. The king was in dread that the stranger would injure himself and his men. In the middle of the day, when it could not be determined who was the better man, the elder brother said, “We will try wrestling now, to know which of us can win that way.”

“I’m well satisfied,” said Mor’s son.

They began to wrestle. The elder brother gave Mor’s son several knocks, and he made several turns on the elder.

“Well, if I live,” said the elder, “you are my brother; for when we used to wrestle at home, I had the knocks, and you had the turns. You are my younger brother, for no man was able to wrestle with me when I was at Tivorye but you.”

They knew each other then, and embraced. Each told his story.

“Come home with me now,” said the youngest brother, “and see our mother. I am as rich as any king, and can give you good entertainment.”

The three went to the King of the White Strand, and told him everything. The eldest and second brother asked leave of him to go home to see their father and mother. The king gave them leave, and filled their vessel with every kind of good food, and the two promised to come back.

The three brothers set sail then, and after seven days came in on the strand near Tivorye. The two found their brother richer than any king in any country. They were enjoying themselves at home for a long time, having everything that their hearts could wish, when one day above another they saw a vessel passing Dun Quin, and it drew up at the quay in Daingean harbor. Next day people went to the ship; but if they did, not a man went on board, for no man was allowed to go.

There was a green cat on deck. The cat was master of the vessel, and would not let a soul come near it. A report went out through the town that the green cat would allow no one to go near the ship, and for three weeks this report was spreading. No one was seen on the vessel but the cat, and he the size of a big man.

Mor’s sons heard of the ship and the green cat at Daingean, and they said, “Let us have a day’s pleasure, and go to the ship and see the cat.”

Mor bade them stay at home. “Don’t mind the ship or the cat,” said she, “and follow my advice.” But the sons would not follow her advice, nor be said by her, and away they went, in spite of all she could do.

When the cat saw them coming, he knew very well who were in it. He jumped out on the shore, stood on two legs, and shook hands with the three brothers. He was as tall himself as the largest man, and as friendly as he could be. The three brothers were glad to receive an honor which no one else could get.

“Come down now to the cabin and have a trial of my cooking,” said the cat.

He brought them to the cabin, and the finest dinner was on the table before them,—meat and drink as good as ever they tasted either in Tivorye or the kingdom of the White Strand.

When the cat had them below in the cabin, and they eating and drinking with great pleasure and delight, he went on deck, screwed down the hatches, raised the sails, and away went the vessel sailing out of the harbor; and before the three brothers knew where they were, the ship was miles out on the ocean, and they thought they were eating dinner at the side of the quay in Daingean.

“We’ll go up now,” said they when their dinner was eaten, “thank the cat, and go on shore for ourselves.”

When on deck, they saw water on all sides, and did not know in the world where they were. The cat never stopped till he sailed to his own kingdom, which was the kingdom of the White Strand, for who should the cat be but the King of the White Strand. He had come for the two brothers himself, for he knew that they would never come of their own will, and he could not trust another to go for them. The king needed them, for they were the best men he had. In getting back the two, he took the third, and Mor was left without any son.

Mor heard in the evening that the ship was gone, and her own three sons inside in it.

“This is my misfortune,” cried she. “After rearing my three sons, they are gone from me in this way.” She began to cry and lament then, and to screech wonderfully.

Mor never knew who the cat was, or what became of her sons. The wife of Mor’s youngest son went away to her father in Mayo, and everything she had went with her. Mor’s husband, Lear, had died long before, and was buried at Dunmore Head. His grave is there to this day. Mor became half demented, and died soon after.

If women are scolding at the present time, it happens often that one says to another, “May your children go from you as Mor’s sons went with the enchanted cat!”

SAUDAN OG AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF SPAIN; YOUNG CONAL AND THE YELLOW KING’S DAUGHTER.

Ri Na Durkach (the King of the Turks) lived many years in Erin, where he had one son, Saudan Og. When this son grew up to be twenty years old, he was a prince whose equal was hard to be found.

The old king was anxious to find a king’s daughter as wife for his son, and began to inquire of all wayfarers, rich and poor, high and low, where was there a king’s daughter fit for his son, but no one could tell him.

At last the king called his old druid. “Do you know,” asked he, “where to find a king’s daughter for Saudan Og?”

“I do not,” said the druid; “but do you order your guards to stop all people passing your castle, and inquire of them where such a woman may be.”

As the druid advised, the king commanded; but no man made him a bit the wiser.

A year later, an old ship captain walked the way, and the guards brought him to the king.

“Do you know where a fitting wife for my son might be found?” asked the king.

“I do,” said the captain; “but my advice to you, and it may be a good one, is to seek a wife for your son in the land where he was born, and not go abroad for her. You can find plenty of good women in Erin.”

“Well,” said the king, “tell me first who is the woman you have in mind.”

“If you must know,” said the old captain, “the daughter of the King of Spain is the woman.”

Straightway the king had a notice put up on the high-road to bring no more tidings to the castle, as he had no need of them.

When Saudan Og saw this notice, he knew that his father had the tidings, but would not give them. Next morning he went to the father and begged him to tell. “I know,” said he, “that the old captain told you.”

The king would say nothing for he feared that his son might fall into trouble.

“I will start to-morrow,” said Saudan Og at last, “in search of the woman; and if I do not find her, I will never come back to you, so it is better to tell me at once.”

“The daughter of the King of Spain is the woman,” said the father; “but if you take my advice, you’ll stay at home.”

On the following day, Saudan Og dressed himself splendidly, mounted a white steed, and rode away, overtaking the wind before him; but the wind behind could not overtake him. He travelled all that was dry of Erin, and came to the seashore; so he had nowhere else to travel on land, unless he went back to his father. He turned toward a wood then, and saw a great ash-tree: he grasped the tree, and tore it out with its roots; and, stripping the earth from the roots, he threw the great ash into the sea. Leaving the steed behind him, he sat on the tree, and never stopped nor stayed till he came to Spain. When he landed, he sent word to the king that Saudan Og wished to see him.

The answer that Saudan got was not to come till the king had his castle prepared to receive such a great champion.

When the castle was ready, the King of Spain sent a bellman to give notice that every man, woman, or child found asleep within seven days and nights would lose their heads, for all must sing, dance, and enjoy themselves in honor of the high guest.

The king feasted Saudan Og for seven days and nights, and never asked him where was he going or what was his business. On the evening of the seventh day, Saudan said to the king, “You do not ask me what brought me this way, or what is my business.”

“Were you to stay twenty years I would not ask. I’m not surprised that a prince of your blood and in full youthful beauty should travel the world to see what is in it.”

“It was not to see the world that I came,” said Saudan Og, “but hearing that you have a beautiful daughter, I wished her for wife; and if I do not get her with your consent, I will take her in spite of you.”

“You would get my daughter with a hundred thousand welcomes,” said the king; “but as you have boasted, you must show action.”

The king then sent a messenger to three kings—to Ri Fohin, Ri Laian, and Conal Gulban—to help him. “If you will not come,” said he, “I am destroyed, for Saudan Og will take my daughter in spite of me.”

The kings made ready to sail for Spain. When Conal Gulban was going, he called up his three sons and said, “Stay here and care for the kingdom while I am gone.”

“I will not stay,” said the eldest son. “You are old and feeble: I am young and strong; let me go in place of you.”

The second son gave a like answer. The youngest had his father’s name, Conal, and the king said to him, “Stay here at home and care for the kingdom while I am gone, since your brothers will not obey me.”

“I will do what you bid me,” said Conal.

“Now I am going,” said the old king; “and if I and your brothers never return, be not bribed by the rich to injure the poor. Do justice to all, so that rich and poor may love you as they loved your father before you.”

He left young Conal twelve advisers, and said, “If we do not return in a day and a year, be sure that we are killed; you may then do as you like in the kingdom. If your twelve advisers tell you to marry a king’s daughter of wealth and high rank, it will be of help to you in defending the kingdom. You will be two powers instead of one.”

The day and the year passed, and no tidings came of Conal’s two brothers and father. At the end of the day and the year, the twelve told him they had chosen a king’s daughter for him, a very beautiful maiden. When the twelve spoke of marriage, Conal let three screeches out of him, that drove stones from the walls of old buildings for miles around the castle.

Now an old druid that his father had twenty years before heard the three screeches, and said, “Young Conal is in great trouble. I will go to him to know can I help him.”

The druid cleared a mountain at a leap, a valley at a hop, twelve miles at a running leap, so that he passed hills, dales, and valleys; and in the evening of the same day, he struck his back against the kitchen door of Conal’s castle just as the sun was setting.

When the druid came to the castle, young Conal was out in the garden thinking to himself, “My father and brothers are in Spain; perhaps they are killed.” The dew was beginning to fall, so he turned to go, and saw the old man at the door. The druid was the first to speak; but not knowing Conal, he said,—

“Who are you coming here to trouble the child? It would be fitter for you to stay in your own place than to be trying to wake young Conal with your screeches.”

“Are you,” asked Conal, “the druid that my father had here years ago?”

“I am that old druid; but are you little Conal?”

“I am,” said Conal, and he gave the druid a hundred thousand welcomes.

“I was in the north of Erin,” said the druid, “when I heard the three screeches, and I knew that some one was troubling you, and your father in a foreign land. My heart was grieved, and I came hither in haste. I hear that your twelve advisers have chosen a princess, and that you are to marry to-morrow. Put out of your head the thought of that princess; she is not your equal in rank or power. Be advised by me, as your father was. The right wife for you is the daughter of the Yellow King, Haughty and Strong. If the king will not give her, take her by force, as your fathers before you took their queens.”

Conal was roused on the following morning by his advisers, who said, “Make ready and go with us to the king’s daughter we have chosen.”

He mounted his steed, and rode away with the twelve till they came to a cross-road. The twelve wished to turn to one side; and when Conal saw this, he put spurs to his horse, took the straight road, and never stopped till he put seven miles between himself and the twelve. Then he turned, hurried back to the cross-road, came up to the adviser whom he liked best, and, giving him the keys of the castle, said,—

“Go back and rule till I or my father or brothers return. I give you the advice that I myself got: Never let the poor blame you for taking bribes from the rich; live justly, and do good to the poor, that the rich and the poor may like you. If you twelve had not advised me to marry, I might be going around with a ball and a hurley, as befits my age; but now I will go out in the world and seek my own fortune.”

He took farewell of them then, and set his face toward the Yellow King’s castle. A long time before it was prophesied that young Conal, son of Gulban, would cut the head off the Yellow King, so seven great walls had been built around the castle, and a gate to each wall. At the first gate, there were seven hundred blind men to obstruct the entrance; at the second, seven hundred deaf men; at the third, seven hundred cripples; at the fourth, seven hundred sensible women; at the fifth, seven hundred idiots; at the sixth, seven hundred people of small account; at the seventh, the seven hundred best champions that the Yellow King had in his service.

All these walls and defenders were there to prevent any man from taking the Yellow King’s daughter; for it had been predicted that the man who would marry the daughter would take the king’s head, and that this man would be Conal, son of Conal Gulban.

The only sleep that the guards at the seven gates had was half an hour before sunrise and half an hour after sunset. During these two half hours, a plover stood on the top of each gate; and if any one came, the bird would scream, and wake all the people in one instant.

The Yellow King’s daughter was in the highest story of the castle, and twelve waiting-maids serving her. She was so closely confined that she looked on herself as a prisoner; so one morning early she said to the twelve maids, “I am confined here as a criminal,—I am never free even to walk in the garden; and I wish in my heart that some powerful young king’s son would come the way to me. I would fly off with him, and no blood would be shed for me.”

It was about this time that young Conal came, and, seeing all asleep, put spurs to his steed, and cleared the walls at a bound. If the birds called out, he had the gates cleared and was in before the champions were roused; and when he was inside, they did not attack him.

He let his horse out to graze near the castle, where he saw three poles, and on each one of two of them a skull.

“These are the heads of two king’s sons who came to win the Yellow King’s daughter,” thought Conal, “and I suppose mine will be the third head; but if I die, I shall have company.”

At this time the twelve waiting-maids cast lots to know who was to walk in the yard, and see if a champion had come who was worthy of the princess. The maid on whom the lot fell came back in a hurry, saying, “I have seen the finest man that I ever laid eyes on. He is beautiful, but slender and young yet. If there is a man born for you, it is that one.”

“Go again,” said the Yellow King’s daughter, “and face him. Do not speak to him for your life till he speaks to you; say then that I sent you, and that he is to come under my window.”

The maid went and crossed Conal’s path three times, but he spoke not; she crossed a fourth time, and he said, “I suppose it is not for good that you cross my path so early?”

(It is thought unlucky to meet a woman first in the morning.)

“My mistress wishes you to go under her window.”

Conal went under the window; and the king’s daughter, looking down, fell deeply in love with him. “I am too high, and you are too low,” said the Yellow King’s daughter. “If we speak, people will hear us all over the castle; but I’ll take some golden cord, and try can I draw you up to me, that we may speak a few words to each other.”

“It would be a poor case for me,” said young Conal, “to wait till you could tie strings together to raise me.” He stuck his sword in the earth then, and, making one bound, went in at the window. The princess embraced him and kissed him; she knew not what to give him to eat or to drink, or what would please him most.

“Have you seen the people at the seven gates?” asked the Yellow King’s daughter.

“I have,” answered Conal.

“They are all awake now, and I will go down and walk through the gates with you; seeing me, the guards will not stop us.”

“I will not do that. It will never be said of young Conal of Erin that he stole his wife from her father. I will win you with strength, or not have you.”

“I’m afraid there is too much against you,” said the Yellow King’s daughter.

These words enraged Conal, and, making one bound through the window, he went to the pole of combat, and struck a blow that roused the old hag in the eastern world, and shook the castle with all the land around it. The Yellow King was sleeping at the time; the shake that he got threw him out of his bed. He fell to the floor with such force that a great lump came out on his forehead; he was so frightened that he said to the old druid who ran in to help him, “Many a year have I lived without hearing the like of that blow. There must be a great champion outside the castle.”

The guard was sent to see if any one was left alive near the castle. “For,” said the king, “such a champion must have killed all the people at the gates.” The guard went, saw no one dead, but every one living, and a champion walking around, sword in hand.

The guard hurried back, and said to the king, “There is a champion in front of the castle, handsome, but slender and young.”

“Go to him,” said the king, “and ask how many men does he want for the combat.” The guard went out and asked.

“I want seven hundred at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven hundred behind me, and as many as all these out in front of me. Let them come four deep through the gates: do you take no part in this battle; if I am victorious, I will see you rewarded.”

The guard told the king how many men the champion demanded. Before the king opened the gates for his men, he said to the chief of them, “This youth must be mad, or a very great champion. Before I let my men out, I must see him.”

The king walked out to young Conal, and saluted him. Conal returned the salute. “Are you the champion who ordered out all these men of mine?” asked the king.

“I am,” said young Conal.

“There is not one among them who would not kill a dozen like you,” said the king. “Your bones are soft and young. It is better for you to go out as you came in.”

“You need not mind what will happen me,” answered Conal. “Let out the men; the more the men, the quicker the work. If one man would kill me in a short time, many will do it in less time.”

The men were let out, and Conal went through them as a hawk goes through a flock of birds; and when one man fell before him, he knocked the next man, and had his head off. At sunset every head was cut from its body. Next he made a heap of the bodies, a heap of the heads, and a heap of the weapons. Young Conal then stretched himself on the grass, cut and bruised, his clothes in small pieces from the blows that had struck him.

“It is a hard thing,” said Conal, “for me to have fought such a battle, and to lie here dying without one glimpse of the woman I love; could I see her even once, I would be satisfied.”

Crawling on his hands and knees, he dragged himself to the window to tell her it was for her he was dying. The princess saw him, and told him to lie there till she could draw him up to her and care for him.

“It is a hard thing if I have to wait here till strings and cords are fastened together to raise me,” said he, and, making one bound from where he was lying on the flat of his back, he went up to her window; she snatched at him, and pulled him into the chamber.

There was a magic well in the castle; the Yellow King’s daughter bathed him in the water of it, and he was made whole and sound as before he went to battle. “Now,” said she, “you must fly with me from this castle.”

“I will not go while there is anything that may be cast on my honor in time to come,” answered Conal.

Next day he struck the pole of combat with double the force of the first time, so that the king got a staggering fit from the shock that it gave him.

The Yellow King had no forces now but the deaf, the blind, the cripples, the sensible women, the idiots, and the people of small account. So out went the king in his own person. He and young Conal made the hills, dales, and valleys tremble, and clear spring wells to rise out of hard, gravelly places. Thus they fought for three days and two nights. On the evening of the third day, the king asked Conal for a time to rest and take food and drink.

“I have never begun any work,” said Conal, “without finishing it. Fight to the end, then you can rest as long as you like.”

So they went at it again, and fought seven days and seven nights without food, drink, or rest, and each trying to get the advantage of the other. On the seventh evening, Conal swept the head off the king with one blow.

“’Tis your own skull that will be on the pole in place of mine, and I’ll have the daughter,” said Conal.

The Yellow King’s daughter came down and asked, “Will you go with me now, or will you take the kingdom?”

“I will go,” answered Conal.

“You did not go to the battle?” asked Conal of the guard.

“I did not.”

“Well for you that you did not. Now,” said Conal to the princess, “whomever of the maids you like best, the guard may marry, and they will care for this kingdom till we return.”

The guard and maid were married, and put in charge of the kingdom. The following morning young Conal got his steed ready and set out for home with the princess. As they were riding along near the foot of a mountain, Conal grew very sleepy, and said to the princess, “I’ll go down now and take a sleep.”

The place was lonely,—hardly two houses in twenty miles. The Yellow King’s daughter advised Conal: “Take me to some habitation and sleep there; this place is too wild.”

“I cannot wait,—I’m too drowsy and weary after the long battle; but if I might sleep a little, I could fight for seven days and seven nights again.” He dismounted, and she sat on a green mossy bank. Putting his head on her lap, he fell asleep, and his steed went away on the mountain side grazing.

Conal had slept for three days and two nights with his head in the lap of the Yellow King’s daughter, when on the evening of the third day the princess saw the largest man she had ever set eyes on, walking toward her through the sea and a basket on his back. The sea did not reach to his knees; a shield could not pass between his head and the sky. This was the High King of the World. This big man faced up to where Conal and his bride were; and, taking the tips of her fingers, he kissed her three times. “Bad luck to me,” said the King of the World, “if the young woman I am going for were beyond the ditch there I would not go to her. You are fairer and better than she.”

“Where were you going?” asked the princess. “Don’t mind me, but go on.”

“I was going for the Yellow King’s daughter, but will not go a step further now that I see you.”

“Go your way to her, for she is the finest princess on earth; I am a simple woman, and another man’s wife.”

“Well, pain and torments to me if I go beyond this without taking you with me!”

“If this man here were awake,” said the Yellow King’s daughter, “he would put a stop to you.” She was trying all this time to rouse Conal.

“It is better for him to be as he is,” said the High King; “if he were awake, it’s harm he’d get from me, and that would vex you.”

When she saw that he would take her surely, she bound him not to make her his wife for a day and a year.

“This is the worst promise that ever I have made,” said the High King, “but I will keep it.”

“If this man here were awake, he would stop you,” said the princess.

The High King of the World thrust the tip of his forefinger under the sword-belt of Conal, and hurled him up five miles in the air. When Conal came down, he let out three waves of blood from his mouth.

“Do you think that is enough?” asked the king of the princess.

“Throw him a second time,” said the Yellow King’s daughter.

He threw him still higher, and Conal put out three greater waves. “Is that enough?”

“Try him a third time.” He threw him still higher this time. Conal put out three greater waves, but waked not.

While the High King was throwing up Conal, the princess was writing a letter telling all,—that she knew not whither she was going, that she had bound the High King of the World not to make her his wife for a day and a year, “and,” said she, “I’m sure that you will find me in that time.”

The king took her in his arms, and away he went walking in the sea, throwing fish into his basket as he travelled through the water.

Conal slept a hero’s sleep of seven days and nights, and woke four days after his bride had been stolen. He rubbed his eyes, and, glancing toward the mountain side, saw neither steed nor wife, and said, “No wonder that I cannot see wife nor horse when I’m so sleepy; what am I to do?”

Not far away were some small boys, and they herding cows. The boys began to make sport of Conal for sleeping seven days and nights. “I do not blame you for laughing,” said Conal (ever since, when there is a great sleeper, people say that he sleeps like Conal on the side of Beann Edain), “but have you tidings of my wife and my steed; where are they, or has any man taken them?”

A boy older and wiser than the others said, “Your horse is on the mountain side feeding; and every day he came hither and sniffed you, and you sleeping, and then went away grazing for himself. Four days ago the greatest giant ever seen by the eye of man walked in through the ocean; he tossed you three times in the air. Every time we thought you’d be broken to dust; and the lady you had, wrote something and put it under your belt.”

Conal read the letter, and knew that, in spite of her, the Yellow King’s daughter had been carried away. He then preferred battle to peace, and asked the boys was there a ship that could take him to sea.

“There is no right ship in the place, but there is an old vessel wrecked in a cove there beyond,” said the oldest boy.

The boys went with Conal, and showed him the vessel.

“Put your backs to her now, and help me,” said Conal.

The boys laughed, thinking that two hundred men could not move such a vessel. Conal scowled, and then they were in dread of him, and with one shove they and Conal put the ship in the sea; but the water was going in and out through her. Conal knew not at first what to do, as there was no timber near by, but he killed seven cows, fastened the hides on the ship, and made it proof against water. When the boys saw the cows slaughtered, they began to cry, saying, “How can we go home now, and our cows killed?”

“There is not a cow killed,” said Conal, “but you will get two cows in place of her.” He gave two prices for each cow of the seven, and said to the boys, “Go home now, and tell what has happened.”

Conal sailed away for himself; and when his ship was in the ocean, he let her go with the wind. On the third afternoon, he saw three islands, and on the middle island a fine open strand, with a great crowd of people. He threw out three anchors, two at the ocean side and one at the shore side, so that the ship would not stir, no matter what wind blew, and, planting his sword in the deck, he gave one bound and went out on the strand seven miles distant. He saluted a good-looking man, and asked, “Why are so many people here? What is their business?”

“Where do you live? Of what nation are you that you ask such a question?”

“I am a stranger,” said Conal, “just come to this island.”

The islander showed Conal a man sitting on the beach as large as twelve of the big men of the island. “Do you see him?”

“I do,” said Conal.

“There are three brothers of us on these three islands; that man is our youngest brother, and he has grown so strong and terrible that we are in dread he will drive us from our share of the islands, and that is why we are here to-day. My eldest brother and I have come with what men we have to this middle island, which belongs to our youngest brother. We are to play ball against all his forces; if we beat them, we shall think ourselves safe. Now, which side will you take, young champion?”

“If I go on your side, some may say that I fear your men; and if I go with your younger brother, you and your elder brother may say that I fear your strong brother’s forces. Bring all the men of the three islands. I will play against them.”

“Well,” asked the stranger, “what wager will you lay?”

“I’ll wager,” said Conal, “those two islands out there on the ocean side.”

“They are ours already,” said the man.

“Bad luck to you! Why claim everything?” said Conal. “Well, I’ll lay another wager. If I lose, I’ll stand in the middle of the strand, and every man of the three islands may give me a blow of the hurley; and if I win, I am to have a blow on every man who played against me. But first, I must have my choice of the hurleys; all must be thrown in a heap. I will take the one I like best.”

This was done, and Conal took the largest and strongest hurley he could find. The ball was struck about the middle of the strand; and there was a goal at each end of it, and these goals were fourteen miles apart. Conal took the ball with hurley, hand and foot, and never let it touch ground till he put it through the goal. “Is that a fair inning?” asked he of the other side.

Some said it was foul, for he kept the ball in the air all the time.

“Well, I’ll make a second trial; I will put it through the opposite goal.” He struck the ball in the middle of the strand, and sent it toward the other goal with such force that whoever tipped it never drew breath again, and every man whom it passed was driven sixty feet to one side or the other. Conal was always within a few yards of the ball, and he put it through the goal seven miles distant from the middle of the strand with two blows.

“Is that a fair inning?” asked Conal.

“It would be hard to say that it is not,” said one man, and no man gainsaid him.

“Let all stand now in ranks two deep, till I get my blow on each man of you.”

All the men were arranged two deep; and when Conal came up, the foremost man sprang behind the one in the rear of him, and that one behind the man at his side, and so on throughout. None would stand to receive Conal’s blow.

Away rushed every man, woman, and child, and never stopped till they were inside in their houses. First of all, ran the brothers of the islands.

When they reached the castle, they began to lament because they had insulted the champion, and knew not who he was or whence he had come.

The three brothers had one sister; and when she saw them lamenting and grieving, she asked: “What trouble is on you?”

“We fled from the champion, and the people followed us.”

“None of you invited the champion to the castle,” said the sister; “now he will fall into such a rage on the strand that in one hour he will not leave a person alive on the islands. If I had some one to go with me, I would invite him, and the people would be spared.”

“I will go with you,” said her chief maid.

Away they went, walking toward the strand; and when they had come near, they threw themselves on their knees before Conal. He asked who they were and what brought them.

“My brothers sent me to beg pardon for them, and invite you to the castle.”

“I will go,” said Conal; “and if you had not come, I would not have left a man alive on the three islands.” Conal went with the princess, and saw at the castle a very old and large man; and the old man rose up before him and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, young Conal from Erin.”

“Who are you who know me, and I never before on this island?” asked Conal.

“My name is Donach the Druid, from Erin. I was often in your father’s house, and it was a good place for rich or poor to visit, for they were alike there; and now I hope you will take me home to be buried among my own people. It was God who drove you hither to this island to take me home.”

“And I will do that,” said Conal, “if I go there myself. Tell me now how you came to this place.”

“I was taken,” said Donach, “out on the wild arm of the wind, and was thrown in on this island. I am here ever since. I am old now, and I wish to be home in my own place in Erin.”

Now young Conal, the sister, and three brothers sat down to dinner. When dinner was over, and they had eaten and drunk, they were as happy as if they had lived a thousand years together. The three brothers asked Conal where was he going, and what was his business. Conal did not say that he was in search of his wife, but he said that he was going to his own castle and kingdom. The old druid, two of the brothers, and the sister said, “We will go with you, and serve you till you come to your kingdom.”

They got a boat and took him to the ship. He weighed anchor, and sailed away. For two or three days they saw nothing wonderful. The fourth day they came to a great island; and as they neared it, they saw three champions inside, and the three fighting with swords and spears. Young Conal was surprised to see three fighting at the same time.

“Well,” said he, “it is nothing to see two champions in combat, but ’tis strange to see three. I will go in and see why they are fighting.” He threw out his chains, and made his ship fast; then he made a rush from the stern of the vessel to the bow, and as he ran, he caught Donach the Druid and carried him, and with one leap was in on the strand, seven miles from the ship.

Young Conal faced the champions, and, saluting the one he thought best, asked the cause of their battle. The champion sat down, and began. “I will tell you the reason,” said he. “Seven miles from this place there stands a castle; in that castle is the most beautiful woman that the eye of man has ever seen, and the three of us are in love with her. She says she will take only the best man; and we are striving to know who is best, but no man of us three can get the upper hand of another. We can kill every man who comes to the island, but no man of us can kill another of the three.”

When Conal heard this he sprang up, and told the champions to face him and he would see what they could do. The three faced him, and went at him. Soon he swept the heads off two of them, but the third man was pressing hard on Conal. His name was the Short Dun Champion; but in the end Conal knocked him with a blow, and no sooner had he him knocked than Donach the Druid had him tied with strong cords and strings of enchantment. Then young Conal spoke to Donach the Druid and said, “Come to this champion’s breastbone and split it, take out his heart and his liver, and give them to my young hound to eat;” and turning to the Short Dun Champion, he asked, “Have you ever been so near a fearful death as you are at this moment?”

“’Tis hard for me to answer you,” said he, “for ’tis firmly I am bound by your Druid, bad luck to him.”

“Unbind the champion,” said Conal, “till he tells us at his ease was he ever nearer a fearful death than he is at this moment.”

“I was,” said the champion to Conal. “Sit down there on that stool. I will sit here and tell you. I did not think much of your torture, for I knew that when my heart and liver were taken, I should be gone in that moment. Once I had a longer torture to suffer. Not many months ago, I was sailing on my ship in mid-ocean when I saw the biggest man ever seen on earth, and he with a beautiful woman in his hand. The moment I saw that woman I was in love with her, and I sailed toward the High King of the World, for it was he that was in it; but if I did, he let my ship go out in full sail between his two legs, and travelled on in another direction. I turned the ship again, and went after him. I climbed to the topmast, and stood there. I came up to the King of the World, for wind and wave were with me, and, being almost as high as the woman in his hand, I made a grasp at her; he let my ship out between his legs, but if he did, I took the woman with me and kissed her three times. This enraged the High King. He came to my ship, bound and tied me with strong hempen cords, then, putting a finger under me, he tossed me out on the sea and let my ship drift with the wind. I had some enchantment of my own, and the sea did not drown me. When little fish came my way, I swallowed them, and thus I got food. I was in this state for many days, and the hempen cords began to rot and weaken. Through good luck or ill, I was thrown in on this island. I pulled the cords, and struggled with them till one hand was free; then I unbound myself. I came to shore where the island is wildest. A bird called Nails of Daring had a nest in a high, rugged cliff. This bird came down, and, seizing me, rose in the air. Then she dropped me. I fell like a ball, and struck the sea close to land. I feigned death well, and was up and down with the waves that she might not seize me a second time, but soon she swooped down and placed her ear near me to know was I living. I held my breath, and she, thinking me dead, flew away. I rose up, and ran with all speed to the first house I found. Now, was I not nearer a worse death than the one to which you condemned me? Nails of Daring would have given me a frightful and slow death, and you wished to give me a quick one.”

“Short Dun Champion,” said Conal, “the woman you saw with the High King was my wife. It was luck that brought me in your way, and it was luck that Donach the Druid tied you in such a fashion. Now you must guide me to the castle of the High King.”

“Come, now, druid, bind my hands and feet, take my heart and liver and give them to young Conal’s hound whelp, rather than take me to that king. I got dread enough before from him.”

“Believe me, all I want of you now is to guide my ship; you will come back in safety and health,” said young Conal.

“I will go with you and guide you, if you put me beneath your ship’s ballast when you see him nearing us, for fear he will get a glimpse of me.”

“I will do that,” said Conal.

Now they went out to the ship, and steered away, with the Short Dun Champion as pilot. They were the fifth day at sea when he steered the ship toward the castle of the High King. “That,” said the Short Dun Champion, pointing to a great building on an island, “is the castle of the High King of the World; but as good a champion as you are, you cannot free your wife from it. That castle revolves; and as it goes around it throws out poison, and if one drop of that poison were to fall on you the flesh would melt from your bones. But the King of the World is not at home now, for to-morrow the day and the year will be up since he stole the wife from you. I have some power of enchantment and I will bring the woman to you in the ship.”

The Short Dun Champion went with one leap from the deck of the ship to the strand, and, caring for no man, walked straight to the castle where the Yellow King’s daughter was held. The castle had an opening underneath, and the Short Dun Champion, keeping the poison away by his power, passed in, found the princess, and wrapping her in the skirt of an enchanted cloak that he had, took her out, and running to the strand was in on the deck of the ship with one bound.

The moment the princess set eyes on Conal, she gave such a scream that the High King heard her, and he off in the Western World inviting all the great people to his wedding. He started that minute for the castle, and did not wait to throw fish in his basket as he went through the sea. When he came home, the princess was not there before him. “Where has my bride gone, or has some one stolen her?” asked he.

“A man who has a ship in the harbor came and stole the lady.”

“A thousand deaths! What shall I do, and all the high people on the way to the wedding?”

He seized a great club and killed half his servants, then rushed to the strand, and seeing the ship still at anchor, shouted for battle.

When the Short Dun Champion heard the king’s voice, he screamed to be put under the ballast. He was put there and hidden from sight. “If I whistle with my fingers,” asked young Conal, “will you come to me?”

“I will, if I were to die the next moment,” said the Short Dun Champion.

Conal told Donach the Druid to stand at the bows of the ship, then, walking to the stern, he was so glad at having his wife on the vessel, and he going to fight with the High King, that he made a run, seized the druid, and carried him with one leap to the strand, eleven miles distant.

The High King demanded his wife.

“She is not your wife, but mine,” said young Conal. “I won her with my sword, and you stole her away like a thief, and I sleeping. Though she is mine, I did not flee when I took her away from you.”

“It is time for battle,” said the king, and the two closed in combat. The king, being so tall, had the advantage. “I might as well make him shorter,” thought Conal, and with one blow he cut the two legs off the king at the knee joints. The king fell. No sooner was he down than the druid had him tied with hard cords of enchantment. Conal whistled through his finger. The Short Dun Champion, hearing the whistle, screamed to be freed from the ballast. The men took him out. He went in on the strand with one bound, and when he came up to where the High King was lying, Conal said, “Cut this man at the breastbone, take out his heart with his liver, and give them as food to my hound whelp.”

“He is well bound by your druid; but firmly as he is bound, I am in dread to go near him to do this.”

Conal then drew his own sword, and with a blow swept the head off the High King. Then Conal, Donach the Druid, and the Short Dun Champion went to the ship and sailed homeward. On their way, where should they sail but along the coast of Spain? While they were sailing, Conal espied three great castles, and not far from them a herd of cattle grazing.

“Will one of you go and inquire why these three castles are built near together?” asked Conal of the two island brothers.

“I will go,” said the elder.

He went on shore to the herdsman and asked, “Why are those three castles so near one another?”

“I will tell you,” said the herdsman; “but you must come first and touch my finger-tips.”

No sooner had the champion done this, than the man drew a rod of enchantment, struck him a blow, and turned him to stone.

Conal saw this from the ship, and asked, “Who will go in now?”

“I will go,” said the second brother. “I have the best right.” He went and met the same fate as his brother.

“I will go this time,” said Conal.

The Yellow King’s daughter, Donach the Druid, and the Short Dun Champion seized Conal to keep him from going.

“If I do not live but a moment, I must go and knock satisfaction out of the herdsman for what he has done to my men,” cried out Conal. So he went, and walking up to the herdsman, asked the same questions as the two brothers.

“Come here and touch my finger tips.”

Conal walked up to the herdsman, caught his fingers, then ran under the rod and seized the herdsman; but if he did, the herdsman had him that moment on the flat of his back. But Conal was up, and had the herdsman down, and, drawing his sword, said, “I’ll have your head now unless you tell me why these three castles are here close together.”

“I will tell you, but do you remember, young Conal, when in our father’s castle how I used to get the first blow on you?”

“Are you my brother?” asked Conal.

“I am,” said the herdsman.

“Why did you kill my men?”

“If I killed them, I can raise them;” and going to the two brothers, he struck each a blow, and they rose up as well and strong as ever.

“Well,” said the brother to Conal, “Saudan Og arrived in Spain the day before we did, and he had one-third of the kingdom taken before us. We went against him the following day, and kept him inside that third, and we have neither gained nor lost since. The King of Spain had a castle here; my father and the King of Leinster built a second castle near that; Saudan Og built the third near the two, for himself and his men, and that is why the three castles are here. We are ever since in battle; Saudan has the one-third, and we the rest of Spain.”

Conal arrayed himself as a champion next morning, and went to Saudan’s castle. He struck a blow on the pole of combat that shook the whole kingdom, and that day he killed Saudan and every man of his forces.

Conal’s eldest brother married the daughter of the King of Spain. He took the second brother with him, married him to the sister of the two island brothers, and gave him the three islands. He went home then, gave the kingdom of the Yellow King to the Short Dun Champion, and had the two island brothers well married to king’s daughters in Erin. All lived happily and well; if they did not, may we!

THE BLACK THIEF AND KING CONAL’S THREE HORSES.

There was a king once in Erin who had a beautiful queen, and the queen’s heart was as good as her looks. Every one loved her, but, above all, the poor people. There wasn’t a needy man or woman within a day’s journey of the castle who was not blessing the beautiful queen. On a time this queen fell ill suddenly, and said to the king, “If I die and you marry a second wife, leave not my three sons to a strange woman’s rule. Send them away to be reared till they come to age and maturity.”

The queen died soon after. The king mourned for her one year and a second; then his chief men and counsellors urged him to seek out a new queen.

The king built a castle in a distant part of his kingdom, and put his three sons there with teachers and servants to care for them. He married a second wife then; and the two lived on happily till the new wife had a son. The young queen never knew that the king had other children than her son, or that there was a queen in the kingdom before her.

On a day when the king was out hunting in the mountains, the queen went to walk near the castle, and as she was passing the cottage of a greedy old henwife, she stumbled and fell.

“May the like of that meet you always!” said the henwife.

“Why do you say that?” asked the queen, who overheard her.

“It is all one to you what I say. It is little you care for me or the like of me. It wasn’t the same with the queen that was here before you. There wasn’t a week that she did not give support to poor people, and she showed kindness to every one always.”

“Had the king a wife before me?” asked the queen.

“He had, indeed; and I could tell enough to keep you thinking for a day and a year, if you would pay me.”

“I will pay you well if you tell all about the queen that was in it before me.”

“If you give me one hundred speckled goats, one hundred sheep, and one hundred cows I will tell you.”

“I will give you all those,” said the queen, “if you tell everything.”

“The queen that was here at first had three sons; and before the king married you, he prepared a great castle, and the sons are in that castle now with teachers and men taking care of them. When the three are of age, your son will be without a place for his head.”

“What am I to do to keep my son in the kingdom?” asked the queen.

“Persuade the king to bring his three sons to the castle, then play chess with them. I will give you a board with which you can win. When you have won of the three young men, put them under bonds to go for the three steeds of King Conal for you to ride three times around all the boundaries of the kingdom. Many and many is the champion and hero who went for King Conal’s horses; but not a man of them was seen again, and so it will be with these three. Your son will be safe at home, and will be king himself when his time comes.”

The queen went home to the castle, and if ever she had a head full of plans it was that time. She began the same night with the king.

“Isn’t it a shame for you to keep your children away from me, and I waiting this long time for you to bring them home to us?”

“How am I keeping my children from you?” asked the king. “Haven’t you your own son and mine with you always?”

“You have three sons of your own. You were married before you saw me. Bring your children home. I will be as fond of them as you are.”

No matter what the king said, the queen kept up her complaining with sweet words and promises, and never stopped till the king brought his sons to the castle.

The king gave a great feast in honor of the young men. After the feast the queen played chess for a sentence with the eldest. She played twice; won a game and lost one. Next day she played one game with the second son. On the third day, she played with the youngest; won one game and lost one.

On the fourth day, the three were in the queen’s company.

“What sentence do you put on me and my brothers?” asked the eldest.

“I put you and your brothers under sentence not to sleep two nights in the same house, nor to eat twice off the same table, till you bring me the three steeds of King Conal, so that I may ride three times around the kingdom.”

“Will you tell me,” asked the eldest son, “where to find King Conal?”

“There are four quarters in the world; I am sure it is in one of these that he lives,” said the queen.

“I might as well give you sentence now,” said the eldest brother. “I put you under bonds of enchantment to stand on the top of the castle and stay there without coming down, and watch for us till we come back with the horses.”

“Remove from me your sentence; I will remove mine,” said the queen.

“If a young man is relieved of the first sentence put on him, he will never do anything good,” said the king’s son. “We will go for the horses.”

Next day the three brothers set out for the castle of King Conal. They travelled one day after another, stopping one night in one place and the next in another, and they were that way walking till one evening, when whom should they meet but a limping man in a black cap. The man saluted them, and they returned the salute.

“What brought you this road, and where are you going?” asked the stranger.

“We are going to the castle of King Conal to know can we bring his three horses home with us.”

“Well,” said the man, “my house is nearby, and the dark night is coming; stay with me till morning, and perhaps I can help you.”

The young men went with the stranger, and soon came to his house. After supper the man said, “It is the most difficult feat in the world to steal King Conal’s three horses. Many a good man went for them, and never came back. Why do you go for those horses?”

“Our father is a king in Erin, and he married a second time. Our stepmother bound us to bring the three horses, so she may ride three times around our father’s kingdom.”

“I will go with you,” said the man. “Without me, you would lose your lives; together, we may bring the horses.”

Next morning the four set out, and went their way, walking one day after another, till at long last they reached the castle of King Conal at nightfall.

On that night, whatever the reason was, the guards fell asleep at the stables. The stranger and the three young men made their way to the horses; but if they did, the moment they touched them the horses let three screeches out of them that shook the whole castle and woke every man in the country around it.

The guards seized the young men with the stranger, and took the four to King Conal.

The king was in a great room on the ground-floor of his castle. In front of him was an awfully big pot full of oil, and it boiling.

“Well,” said the king when he saw the stranger before him, “only that the Black Thief is dead, I’d say you were that man.”

“I am the Black Thief,” said the stranger.

“We will know that in time,” said the king; “and who are these three young men?”

“Three sons of a king in Erin.”

“We’ll begin with the youngest. But stir up the fire there, one of you,” said King Conal to the attendants; “the oil is not hot enough.” And turning to the Black Thief, he asked, “Isn’t that young man very near his death at this moment?”

“I was nearer death than he is, and I escaped,” said the Black Thief.

“Tell me the story,” said the king. “If you were nearer death than he is, I will give his life to that young man.”

“When I was young,” said the Black Thief, “I lived on my land with ease and plenty, till three witches came the way, and destroyed all my property. I took to the roads and deep forests then, and became the most famous thief that ever lived in Erin. This is the story of the witches who robbed and tried to kill me:—

“There was a king not long ago in Erin, and he had three beautiful daughters. When they grew up to be old enough for marriage, they were enchanted in the way that the three became brazen-faced, old-looking, venomous hags every night, and were three beautiful, harmless young women every day, as before.

“I was living for myself on my land, and had laid in turf enough for seven years, and I thought it the size of a mountain. I went out at midnight, and what did I see but the hags at my reek; and they never stopped till they put every sod of the turf into three creels on their backs, and made off with it.

“The following season I brought turf for another seven years, and the next midnight the witches stole it all from me; but this time I followed them. They went about five miles, and disappeared in a broad hole twenty fathoms deep. I waited, then looked down, and saw a great fire under a pot with a whole bullock in it. There was a round stone at the mouth of the hole. I used all my strength, rolled it down, broke the pot, and spoiled the broth on the witches.

“Away I ran then, but was not long on the road when I saw the three racing after me. I climbed a tree to escape from them. The witches came in a rage, stopped under the tree, and looked up at me. The eldest rested awhile, then made a sharp axe of the second, and a venomous hound of the third, to destroy me. She took the axe herself then, gave one blow of it, and cut one-third of the tree; she gave a second blow, and cut another third; she had the axe raised a third time when a cock crowed, and there before my eyes the axe turned into a beautiful woman, the hag who had raised it into a second, and the venomous hound into a third. The three walked away then, harmless and innocent as any young women in Erin. Wasn’t I nearer death that time than this young man?”

“Oh, you were,” said the king; “I give him his life, and it’s his brother that’s near death now. He has but ten minutes to live.”

“Well, I was nearer death than that young man,” said the Black Thief.

“Tell how it was. If you convince me, I’ll give him his life, too.”

“After I broke their pot, the witches destroyed my property night after night, and I had to leave that place and find my support on the roads and in forests. I was faring well enough till a year of hunger and want came. I went out once into a great wood, walked up and down to know could I find any food to take home to my wife and my children.

“I found an old white horse and a cow without horns. I tied the tails of the two to each other, and was driving them home for myself with great labor; for when the white horse pulled backward, the cow would pull forward, and when the horse tried to go on, the cow wouldn’t go with him. They were that way in disagreement till they drew the night on themselves and on me. I had a bit of flint in my pocket, and put down a fire. I could not make my way out of the wood in the night-time, and sat down by the fire. I was not long sitting when thirteen cats, wild and enormous, stood out before me. Of these, twelve were each the bulk of a man; the thirteenth, a red one, the master of the twelve, was much larger. They began to purr on the opposite side of the fire, and make a noise like the rumbling of thunder. At last the big red cat lifted his head, opened his wide eyes, and said to me, ‘I’ll be this way no longer; give me something to eat.’”

“I have nothing to give you,” said I, “unless you take that white horse below there and kill him.”

“He went down then, and made two halves of the horse, left half to the twelve, and ate the other half himself. They picked every bone, and were not long at it.

“The thirteen came up again, sat opposite me at the fire, and were purring. The big red cat soon spoke a second time, ‘I’ll not be long this way. Give me more food to satisfy my hunger.’

“‘I have nothing to give unless you take the cow without horns,’ replied I.

“He made two halves of the cow, ate one-half himself, and left the other to the twelve. While they were eating the cow, I took off my coat, for I knew what was coming, wrapped it around a block which I made like myself, and then climbed a tree quickly. The red cat came up to the fire a third time, opened his great eyes, looked toward my coat, and said, ‘I’ll not be long this way; give me more food.’

“My coat gave no answer. The big cat sprang at it, struck the block with his tail, and found it was wood.

“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘you are gone; but whether above ground or under ground, we will find you.’

“He put six cats above and six under ground to find me. The twelve cats were gone in a breath. The big red cat sat there waiting; and when the other twelve had run through all Erin, above ground and under ground, and come back to the fire, he looked up, saw me, and cried, ‘Ah, there you are, you deceiver. You thought to escape, but you will not. Come, now,’ said he to the cats, ‘and gnaw down this tree.’

“The twelve sprang at the tree under me, and they were not long cutting it through. Before it fell, I escaped to another tree near by, and they attacked that, gnawing it down. I sprang to a third. We were that way, I escaping and they cutting, till near daybreak, when I was on the last tree next the open country. When the tree was half cut, what should come the way but thirteen terrible wolves,—twelve, and a thirteenth above them, their master. They fell upon the cats, and fought desperately a good while. At length the twelve on each side were stretched, but the two chiefs were fighting each other yet. At last the wolf nearly took the head off the cat with one snap; the cat whirled in falling, struck the wolf with the sharp hook in his tail, made two halves of his skull, and the two fell dead, side by side.

“I slipped down then, but the tree shook in the way that I was in dread it would tumble beneath me, but it didn’t. Now, wasn’t I nearer death that time than this young man?”

“Oh, you were,” said King Conal. “He’s not near death at all, for I give his life to him; but if the two have escaped, we’ll put the third man in the pot; and have you ever seen any one nearer death than he is?”

“I was nearer myself,” said the Black Thief.

“If you were, I will give his life to this young man as well as his brothers.”

“I had apprentices in my time,” said the Black Thief. “Among them was one, a young man of great wit, and he pleased me. I gave no real learning to any but this one; and in the heel of the story he was a greater man than myself,—in his own mind. There was a giant in the other end of the kingdom; he lived in a mountain den, and had great wealth gathered in there. I made up my mind to go with the apprentice, and take that giant’s treasures. We travelled many days till we reached the mountain den. We hid, and watched the ways of the giant. He went out every day, brought back many things, but often men’s bodies. At last we went to the place in his absence. There was only one entrance, from the top. I was lowering the young man with a rope, but when half-way to the bottom he called out as if in pain. I drew him up. ‘I am in dread,’ said he, ‘to go down in that place. Go yourself. I will do the work here for you.’

“I went down, found gold and precious things in plenty, and sent up what one man could carry. ‘I will go out of this now,’ thought I, ‘before the giant comes on me.’ I called to the apprentice; no answer. I called again; not a word from him. At last he looked down and said,—

“‘You gave me good learning, and I am grateful; I will gain my own living from this out. I hope you’ll spend a pleasant night with the giant.’

“With that, he made off with himself, and carried the treasure. Oh, but I was in trouble then! How was I to bring my life home with me? How was I to escape from the giant? I looked, but found no way of escape. In one corner of the giant’s kitchen were bodies brought in from time to time. I lay down with these, and seemed dead. I was watching. After a while I heard a great noise at the entrance, and soon the giant came in carrying three bodies; these he threw aside with the others. He put down a great fire then, and placed a pot on it: he brought a basket to the bodies, and began to fill it; me he threw in first, and put six bodies on the top of me. He turned the basket bottom upward over the pot, and six bodies fell in. I held firmly to my place. The giant put the basket aside in a corner bottom upward,—I was saved that time. When the supper was ready, the giant ate the six bodies, and then lay down and slept soundly. I crept from under the basket, went to the entrance; a tree trunk, standing upright in the wall at one end of it, was turned around. There were steps in its side from bottom to top; this was the giant’s ladder. Whenever the giant wished to go up, he turned the tree till the steps came outside; and when on top, he turned it till the smooth side was out in the way no one could go down in his absence. When he wished to go down, he turned the steps out; and when at the bottom, he turned them in again in the way no one could follow him. This time he forgot to turn the tree, and that gave me the ladder. I went up without trouble; and, by my hand, I was glad, for I was much nearer death at the giant’s pot than this man at yours.”

“You were, indeed, very near death,” said King Conal, “and I give his life to the third man. The turn is on you now; the three young men are safe, and it’s you that will go into the pot.”

“Must I die?” asked the Black Thief.

“You must, indeed,” said King Conal, “and you are very near death.”

“Near as I am,” said the Black Thief, “I was nearer.”

“Tell me the story; and if you were ever nearer death than you are at this minute, I will give your life to you.”

“I set out another day,” said the Black Thief, “and travelled far. I came at last to a house, and went into it. Inside was a woman with a child on her knee, a knife in her hand, and she crying. Twice she made an offer of the knife at the child to kill it. The beautiful child laughed, and held out its hands to her.

“‘Why do you raise the knife on the child,’ asked I, ‘and why are you crying?’

“‘I was at a fair,’ said the woman, ‘last year with my father and mother; and while the people were busy each with his own work, three giants came in on a sudden. The man who had a bite of bread in his hand did not put the bread to his mouth, and the man who had a bite in his mouth did not swallow it. The giants robbed this one and that, took me from my father and mother, and brought me to this place. I bound them, and they promised that none of the three would marry me before I was eighteen years of age. I’ll be that in a few days, and there is no escape for me now unless I raise hands on myself.

“‘Yesterday the giants brought this child; they said it was the son of some king, and told me to have it cooked and prepared in a pie for their supper this evening.’

“‘Spare the child,’ said I. ‘I have a young pig that I brought to roast for myself on the road; take that, and prepare it instead of the child.’

“‘The giants would know the pig, and kill me,’ said the woman.

“‘They would not,’ said I; ‘there is only a small difference between the flesh of a young pig and a child. We will cut off the first joint of the left little finger. If they make a remark, show them that.’

“She cooked the pie, and I watched outside for the giants. At last I saw the three coming. She hid the child in a safe place aside; and I went to the cellar, where I found many dead bodies. I lay down among them, and waited. When the giants came home, the eldest ate the pie, and called to the woman, ‘That would be very good if we had enough of it.’ Then he turned to his second brother, and sent him down to the cellar to bring a slice from one of the bodies. The brother came down, took hold of one body, then another, and, catching me, cut a slice from the end of my back, and went up with it. He was not long gone when he came down again, raised me on his back, and turned to take me with him. He had not gone many steps when I sent my knife to his heart, and there he fell on his face under me. I went back, and lay in my old place.

“The chief giant, who had tasted my flesh and was anxious for more of it, now sent the youngest brother. He came, saw the middle brother lying there, and cried out,—

“‘Oh, but you are the lazy messenger, to be sleeping when sent on an errand!’

“With that, he raised me on his back, and was going, when I stabbed him and stretched him on the ground not far from his brother.

“The big giant waited and waited, grew angry, took his great iron club with nine lumps and nine hooks on it. He hurried down to the cellar, saw his two brothers, shook them, found them dead. I had no chance of life but to fight for it; I rose and stood a fair distance in front of the giant. He ran toward me, raised the club, and brought it down with what strength there was in him. I stepped aside quickly; the club sank in the earth to the depth of a common man’s knee. While the giant was drawing the club with both hands, I stabbed him three times in the stomach, and sprang away to some distance. He ran forward a second time, and came very near hitting me; again the club sank in the ground, and I stabbed him four times, for he was weaker from blood loss, and was a longer time freeing the club. The third time the club grazed me, and tore my whole side with a sharp iron hook. The giant fell to his knees, but could neither rise nor make a cast of the club at me; soon he was on his elbow, gnashing his teeth and raging. I was growing weaker, and knew that I was lost unless some one assisted me. The young woman had come down, and was present at the struggle. ‘Run now,’ said I to her, ‘for the giant’s sword, and take the head off him.’ She ran quickly, brought the sword, and as brave as a man took the head off the giant.

“‘Death is not far from me now,’ said I.

“‘I will carry you quickly to the giant’s caldron of cure, and give you life,’ said the woman.

“With that, she raised me on her back, and hurried out of the cellar. When she had me on the edge of the caldron, the death faint was on me, I was dying; but I was not long in the pot when I revived, and soon was as well as ever.

“We searched the whole house of the giants, found all their treasures. I gave some to the woman, kept some myself, and hid the remainder. I took the woman home to her father and mother. She kept the child, which was well but for the tip of its little finger. Now wasn’t I nearer death that time than I was when I began this story?”

“You were, indeed,” said King Conal; “and even if you were not, I would not put you in the pot, for if you had not been in the house of the three giants that day there would be no sign of me now in this castle. I was that child. Look here at my left little finger. My father searched for you, and so did I when I grew up, but we could not find you. We made out only one thing, that it was the Black Thief who saved me. Men told me that the Black Thief was dead, and I never hoped to see you. A hundred thousand welcomes! Now we’ll have a feast. The three young men will get the three horses for your sake, and take them home after we have feasted together. You will stay with me now for the rest of your life.”

“I must go with the young men as far as my own house,” said the Black Thief; “then I’ll come back to you.”

King Conal made a feast the like of which had never been in his kingdom. When the feast was over, he gave the three horses to the young men, and said at parting, “When you have done the work with the horses, let them go, and they will run home to me; no man could stop them.”

“We will do that,” said the brothers.

They set out then with them, stopped one night with the Black Thief at his house, and after that travelled home to their father, and stood in front of the castle. The stepmother was above, watching for them. She was glad when she saw them, and said, “Ye brought the horses, and I am to have them.”

“If we were bound to bring the horses,” said the elder brother, “we were not bound to give them to you.”

With that, he turned the horses’ heads from the castle, and let them go. They ran home to King Conal.

“I will go down now,” said the queen, “and it is time for me.”

“You will not go yet,” said the youngest; “I have a sentence which I had no time to give when we were going. I put you under sentence to stay where you are till you find three sons of a king to go again to King Conal for the horses.”

When she heard that sentence, she dropped dead from the castle.

THE KING’S SON FROM ERIN, THE SPRISAWN, AND THE DARK KING.

There was a king in Erin long ago who was called King of Lochlinn, and his wife died. He had two sons. The elder of the two was Miach Lay; the second was Manus. Miach Lay was a fine champion, and trained in every art that befitted a king’s son.

One day the father called Miach Lay to his presence, and said, “It is time for you to marry, and I have chosen for you a maiden of great beauty and high birth.”

“I am willing to marry,” said Miach Lay.

The king and his son then left the castle, and went to the house of the young woman’s father, and there they spent seven days and seven nights. On their way home, the king said to his son, “How do you like the young lady?”

“I like her well, but I’ll not marry her.”

“Oh, my shame!” said the father. “How can I ever face those people a second time?”

“I cannot help that,” said Miach Lay.

The king was greatly confused. After another while he said to his son, “I have another maiden chosen for you, and it is well for us to go to her father’s, and settle the match.”

“I am willing,” said Miach Lay.

They went away together, and never stopped nor stayed till they reached the house of the young lady’s father. They were welcomed there warmly, and spent seven days and seven nights, and were better attended each day than the day before.

“Well, my son,” asked the father, “how do you like this match?”

“Well, and very well,” said Miach Lay; “but I will not marry this lady either. She is ten times better than the first; and if I had married the first, I could not marry this one, and so I will not marry the second any more than the first lady.”

“Oh, my shame!” said the father. “I can never show my face to these people again.”

After another while the king told Miach Lay that he had a better lady than ever selected, and asked him to go with him to arrange the marriage.

“I am willing,” answered the son.

The two went to the father of the maiden; they spent seven days and seven nights at his house, and were fully satisfied with everything. They were on the way home a third time. “Well,” said the king, “you have no reason to refuse this time.”

“Well, and very well, do I like the match,” said Miach Lay; “but I will not marry this lady. If I had married the first lady, I should have had no chance of getting the second, and the second is ten times better than the first; if I had married the second lady, I should have had no chance of this one, and she is twenty times better than the second.”

“I have lost all patience with you,” said the king, “and I turn the back of my hand to you from this out.”

“I’m fully satisfied,” said Miach Lay, so they came home, and passed that night without conversation. The following morning, when Miach Lay rose, he said to his father, “I am for leaving the house now; will you prepare for me the best ship that you have, and put in it a good store of provisions for a long voyage?”

The vessel was prepared, and fully provisioned for a day and a year. The king’s son went on board, sailed out of the harbor, and off to sea. He never stopped sailing till he entered a harbor in the kingdom of Greece. There was a guard there on watch at the harbor with a keen eye on all ships that were passing or coming. The King of Greece was at war in that time with the King of Spain, and knew not what moment his kingdom would be invaded.

The guard saw the vessel coming when she was so small to the eye that he could not tell was it a bird or a vessel that he was looking at. He took quick tidings to the castle; and the king ordered him to go a second time and bring tidings. When he reached the sea, the ship was inside, in the harbor.

“Oh,” said the king, when the guard ran to him a second time, “that is a wonderful vessel that was so far away a few minutes ago as not to be told from a bird, and is now sailing into harbor.”

“There is but one man to be seen on board,” said the guard.

In front of the king’s castle was the landing-place, the only one of the harbor; and even there no one went beyond the shore without passing through a gate where every man had to give an account of himself. There was a chosen champion guarding the gate, who spoke to Miach Lay, and asked, “Who are you, and from what country?”

“It is not the custom for a man of my people to answer a question like that till he is told first what country he is in, and who asks the question.”

“It was I asked the question,” said the champion; “and you must tell me who you are, first of all.”

“I will not tell you,” said Miach Lay. With that, he drew his ship nearer land till it grounded; then, taking an oar, he put the blade end in the sand, and sprang to shore. He asked then the champion at the gate to let him pass, but the champion refused. Miach Lay raised his hand, gave him a blow on the ear, and sent him backward spinning like a top, till he struck the pillar of the gate and broke his skull. As Miach Lay had no thought to kill the man, he was grieved, and, delaying a short time, went to the castle of the king, not knowing what country he was in or what city.

When he came to the castle, he knelt down in front of it. The people in the castle saw a young champion with bared head outside; the king came out, and asked what trouble was on him. Miach Lay told of all that had happened at the harbor, and how he had killed the champion at the gate without wishing it.

“Never mind that,” said the king.

“I did not intend to kill or harm him at all,” said Miach Lay; “he wanted to know who I was, and from what country. By the custom of my land, I cannot tell that till I know where I am, and who are the people among whom I am travelling.”

“Do you know now where you are?”

“I do not,” answered Miach Lay.

“You are in front of the castle of the King of Greece, and I am that king.”

“I am the son of the King of Lochlinn from Erin,” said Miach Lay, “and have come this way to seek my fortune.”

The King of Greece welcomed him then, took the young champion by the hand, and did not stop till he brought him to where all the princes and nobles were assembled; he was rejoiced at his coming, for, being at war, he expected aid from this champion.

“Will you remain with me for a day and a year,” asked the king, “and perform what service I ask of you?”

“I will,” said Miach Lay.

Manus, the second son of the King of Lochlinn, stopped going to school when Miach Lay, his elder brother, left home, and, after a time, the father wished him to marry. As the elder son had acted, so did the second; he refused to marry each of the three maidens whom the king had chosen, and left his father at last.

Manus was watching when his brother sailed away, and noticed the course of the vessel, so now he sailed the same way.

Miach Lay was gaining favor continually; and just as the day and the year of his service were out to a month, the king’s guard saw a vessel sailing in swiftly. He ran with tidings to the king, and added, “There is only one man on board.”

The king and the nobles said it was best not to let him land till he gave an account of himself. Miach Lay was sent to the landing-place to get account of him.

He was not long at the landing-place when the vessel came within hailing, and Miach Lay asked the one man on board who was he and from what land he came. The man would not tell, as it was not the custom in his country. “But,” said he, “I want something to eat.”

“There is plenty here,” said Miach Lay; “but if there is, you will get none of it,—you would better be sailing away.”

“I have enough of the sea; I’ll come in.”

He put down the blade of his oar, and sprang ashore. No sooner had he touched land than he was grappled by Miach Lay. As neither man knew the other, they were in hand grips all day. They were nearly equal in strength, but at last Miach Lay was getting the worst of it. He asked Manus for a truce.

“I will grant you that,” said Manus; “but you do not deserve it, for you began the battle.”

They sat apart then, and Miach Lay asked, “How long can you hold out?”

“It is getting stronger and braver I am,” replied Manus.

“Not so with me. I could not hold out five minutes longer,” said Miach Lay. “My bones were all falling asunder, and I thought the earth was trembling beneath me. Till this day I thought to myself, ‘There is no champion I cannot conquer.’ Now tell me your name and your country.”

“I am from Erin and a son of the King of Lochlinn,” said Manus.

“Oh,” said Miach Lay, “you are my brother.”

“Are you Miach Lay?” inquired Manus.

“I am.”

They embraced each other, and sat down then to eat. Miach Lay was so tired that he could taste nothing, but Manus ate his fill. Then they went arm in arm to the castle. The king and all the nobles of Greece had seen the combat from the castle, and were surprised to see the men coming toward them in such friendliness, and all went out to know the reason. The king asked Miach Lay, “How is all this?”

“This man is my brother,” said Miach Lay. “I left him at home in Erin, and did not know him at the harbor till after the combat.”

The king was well pleased that he had another champion. The following day Manus saw the king’s daughter, and fell in love with her and she with him. Then the daughter told the king if she did not get Manus as husband, the life would leave her.

The king called Miach Lay to his presence, and asked, “Will you let your brother marry my daughter?”

“If Manus wishes to marry her, I am willing and satisfied,” answered Miach Lay. He asked his brother, and Manus said he would marry the king’s daughter.

The marriage was celebrated without delay, and there was a wedding feast for three days and three nights; and the third night, when they were going to their own chamber, the king said, “This is the third husband married to my daughter, and after the first night no tidings could be had of the other two, and from that time to this no one knows where they are.”

Miach Lay was greatly enraged that the king had permitted the marriage without mentioning this matter first.

“I will do to-night,” said the king, “what has never been done hitherto; I will place sentries all around the grounds, and my daughter and Manus will not lodge in the castle at all, but in one of the houses apart from it.”

“I’ll watch myself,” said Miach Lay; “and if it is the devil that is taking the husbands, I’ll not let him take my brother.”

Sentries were stationed in all parts; a house was prepared in the courtyard. Miach Lay stood on guard at the entrance all the time. Soon after midnight a gust of wind blew through the yard; it blew Miach Lay to the ground, and he fainted. When he recovered, he rushed to search for his brother, but he was not in his chamber. He then roused the king’s daughter, and asked, “Where is my brother?”

“I cannot tell where he is,” said she: “it is you who were on guard; it is you who should know where to find him.”

“I will have your head, wicked woman, unless you give tidings of my brother.”

“Do not take my head; it would not serve you. I have no account of what happened to your brother.”

Miach Lay then refrained from touching her, and waited till morning. The king came in the morning to see was Manus well; and when Miach Lay saw him, he ran at him to destroy him, but the king fled away. After a while, when the household was roused, the king’s daughter was brought in and asked where was her husband, or could she give any account of him.

“I cannot tell,” replied she; “but one day before I was married the first time, something came to my chamber window in the form of a black bee, and asked would I let it in. I said that I would not. The bee remained outside all the day, watching to see could it enter my chamber. I did not let it come in; before going away in the evening, the black bee said, ‘Well, I will worry the heart in you yet.’”

The king’s old druid, who was present, slapped his knee with his hand, and said,“I know the story now; that was Ri Doracha (the Dark King). He is a mighty magician, and it is he who has taken the husbands.”

“I will travel the world till I find my lost brother,” said Miach Lay.

“I will go with you, and take all my forces,” said Red Bow, the son of the King of Greece.

“I need no assistance,” said Miach Lay. “If I myself cannot find him, I think that no man can; but if you wish to come, you are welcome.”

Miach Lay went to his vessel; and Red Bow chose the best ship from all that his father had, and went on board of it. The two ships sailed away together. In time they neared land; and on reaching the mouth of the harbor, they saw a third ship sailing toward them as swiftly as the wind blew, and it was not long till it came alongside. There was only one man on board; he hailed Miach Lay, and asked, “Where are you going?”

“It would not be the custom of my country for me to tell you what you ask till you tell me who you are yourself, and where your own journey lies.”

“I know myself,” said the warrior, “where you are going; you are in search of the Dark King, and I myself would like to see him.”

With that, he took a bundle of branches he had on deck, and blew them overboard. Then every rod and twig of the bundle became an enormous log of wood, so that the harbor was covered with one raft of timber, and then he sailed away without waiting.

After much struggling with the logs, shoving them hither and over, Miach Lay was able by pushing with oars to make room for his vessel, and at last came to land. Red Bow and his men were cast into deep sleep by the man on the vessel that had sailed away.

After Miach Lay landed, he passed through a great stretch of wild country, and, drawing near a large forest, saw rising up a small, slender smoke far in among trees. He made for the place where the smoke was, and there he discovered a large, splendid castle in the depth of the forest, but could find no sign of an entrance.

When Miach Lay had stood outside some time, a young woman looked through the window, hailed him, and said, “You are a stranger, and will find no lodgings in these parts; but if I could at all, I would let you come in here.”

“Open the window if you are able,” said Miach Lay.

The window had hinges, and she opened it in the middle; he stepped backward nine yards, and went in at one bound to the chamber.

“You are welcome,” said she, and soon she had dinner prepared for him. When he had eaten, she inquired who was he, from what place had he come, and what brought him that way.

He told her all that had happened to him from the first; and when he had finished, he said, “I know not where to find my brother.”

“You are not far from him now,” said she; “’tis in this country he is living, and the land he is in bounds our land.”

When they had talked long, she said, “You are tired and need rest, so sleep in this chamber.” She went then to her own place. The following morning his breakfast was ready before him; and after he had eaten, the young woman said, “I suppose you will be thankful if I tell you where to find the castle of the Dark King.”

“I shall, indeed,” said he. Then she gave him full directions how to go. He took his sword then, and sprang out as he had sprung in, in the evening, and went in the direction which she told him to take. About midday he met a man, who hailed him, and asked, “Who are you, and from what country?”

“’Tis not the custom for a man of my country to answer that question till told where he is, and to whom he is speaking.”

“I know who you are and whither you are going. You are going to the castle of the Dark King, and here he is before you; now show your daring.”

They made at each other; and if they did, they made soft ground hard and hard ground soft, they made high places low and low places high, they brought cold spring water through dry, gravelly places, and if any one were to come from the Eastern to the Western World, it is to look at these two he should come.

They were this way till evening, and neither had the better of the other. Miach Lay was equal to the Dark King; but the Dark King, having magic, blew a gust of wind at Miach Lay which knocked him flat on the earth, and left him half dead. Then the Dark King took Miach Lay’s sword, and went away. When he recovered, Miach Lay regretted his sword more than all else, and went back to the castle where he had spent the night before. He was barely able to go in at the window.

“How have you fared this day?” asked the young woman.

He told her of all that had happened.

“Be not grieved; you will meet him another time,” said the young woman.

“What is the use? I have no sword now.”

“If ’tis a sword you need, I will bring you a blade far better than the one which the Dark King took from you.”

After breakfast next morning she brought him her father’s sword, which he grasped in his hand, and shook. Miach Lay bade farewell to the young woman, and sprang out through the window. Knowing the way better this time, he hastened forward, and met the Dark King just where he met him before.

“Did not yesterday tire you?” asked the king.

“No,” said Miach Lay.

“Your journey is useless,” said the king.

“We shall see,” answered Miach Lay, and they made at each other; and terrible as the battle was on the first day, it was more terrible on the second; but when the Dark King thought it time to go home, he blew a gust of wind which threw Miach Lay to the earth, and left him senseless. The Dark King did not take the sword this time.

After the Dark King had gone, another man came the way, who was called Sprisawn Wooden Leg.[2]

“Well, my good man, you are nearly dead,” said the Sprisawn.

“I am,” said Miach Lay, rousing up.

“You are his equal but for the magic. I watched the combat these two days, and you would have overcome him but for his magic; he will finish you to-night if he finds you. He has three magic tricksters who are leaving his house at this moment. They have a spear which the rear man of the three hurls forward, the trickster in front catches the spear in the heel of his foot, and in turn hurls it with all his force forward; those behind rush ahead of the front man, and in turn catch the spear in their heels. No matter how far nor how often the spear is thrown forward, there is always a man there before it to catch it. They are rushing hither a long distance apart.”

The Sprisawn saw the tricksters approach, and told Miach Lay that they were coming. When they came within a spear-cast, one of them hurled the spear at Miach Lay; it went through his heart, passed out through his body, and killed him.

When the Sprisawn saw Miach Lay lying dead, he fell to weeping and wailing; and so loud was his wail that every one heard it throughout the whole kingdom. Red Bow was sleeping yet in the harbor; but so loud was the wail of the mourning Sprisawn that it roused him from the slumber which the Dark King had put on him. He landed at once with his forces, and made on toward the wailing. When they came to the place, and saw Miach Lay lying dead, they themselves began to wail; they asked the Sprisawn then, “Are there any means by which we might raise him to life?”

“There are,” replied the Sprisawn. “The Dark King is rejoicing now in his castle with the King of Mangling, and the Gruagach of Shields. They are drinking each other’s health from a horn, and the Dark King is telling the other two that Miach Lay was the best man that ever stood in front of him; and if he could drink from that horn, he would rise up as well as he ever was.”

“I with my men will go for that horn,” said Red Bow.

“Not you nor all the men like you living on earth could bring that horn from the castle of the Dark King,” replied the Sprisawn. “That castle is surrounded by three walls. Each wall is four feet in thickness and twenty feet high. Each wall has a gate as high and as thick as the wall is itself. How could you pass through those walls? Remain here and watch over this body; I will bring the horn hither myself.”

Off went the Sprisawn, and he had more control over magic than even the Dark King. When he arrived at the castle, he struck the gate with the heel of his wooden foot and it opened before him; the second and third gate opened too, in like manner, when he struck them. In he went to the room where the king and his two friends were drinking. There he found them raising toasts to each other. He was himself invisible. As soon as they rested the horn on the table, he snatched it and made off for the place where Miach Lay was lying dead. Then Red Bow and his men raised up the dead man, and poured down his throat some of the wine or whatever liquor was held in the horn.

After a time Miach Lay opened his eyes, and yawned. They were all so delighted that they raised three shouts of joy.

“Come on with me now,” said the Sprisawn, “to the castle of the Dark King. We will have a trial of strength with him. I will take the Dark King in hand myself. Do you, Miach Lay, take the King of Mangling, and you, Red Bow, take the Gruagach of Shields.”

“This will be very good for us to keep,” said Red Bow, when he saw the virtue of the horn.

“No,” said the Sprisawn; “it is good for the man who owns it, and I will return it.”

The Sprisawn, who could travel as swiftly as his own thought, vanished with the horn, placed it on the table from which he had snatched it, and came back to the others. No one had missed the horn; when they turned to use it, it was there on the table before them, in the chamber of the Dark King. Miach Lay and his friends went on together, and never stopped till they stood in the chamber where the Dark King was sitting with his friends. The gates had remained open since the Sprisawn opened them. When the Dark King saw the dead man alive, standing in his chamber before him, he said, “Never a welcome to you, you miserable creature with the wooden foot. What brought you hither, or how did you come?”

“I have come to you with combat,” said the Sprisawn; “and now do you choose the manner of fighting.”

In the castle were three chambers, in each chamber a cross-beam as high from the floor as a man’s throat; in the middle of each cross-beam was a hole, through this hole passed a chain, at each end of the chain was an iron loop; above the hole and lengthwise with the beam was a sword with a keen edge on it. Each pair of champions was to take one room of the three, and each man of them was to place a loop on his own neck; each then was to pull the other to the hole if he could, and then pull till the sword cut his head off.

The Sprisawn and the Dark King took one room, Miach Lay and the King of Mangling another, Red Bow and the Gruagach of Shields took the third.

The first pair were not long at each other, as the Sprisawn was greatly anxious for the other two, and with the second pull that he gave he had the head off the Dark King. He ran then to see how it fared with Miach Lay. Miach Lay was tired and nearly beaten.

“Come out of that for me,” said the Sprisawn. “What playing is it you have with him?”

“Fully satisfied am I to give this place to you,” said Miach Lay, raising the loop; and the Sprisawn put it quickly on his own neck.

With the first pull the Sprisawn gave he had the head off the King of Mangling. They ran then to Red Bow, whose head was within two feet of the sword.

“Go on out of this,” said the Sprisawn, putting the loop on his own neck. The Gruagach, by reason of having Red Bow so near the beam, was himself at a distance, but at the first pull which the Sprisawn gave he drew the Gruagach within a foot of the beam. Fearing that if he killed the third man there would be no one to give an account of those carried off by the Dark King, the Sprisawn offered the Gruagach his life if he told him where Manus and the other two husbands of the king’s daughter were.

“If I tell you that,” said the Gruagach, “the Dark King will knock the head off me.”

“If you saw the head of the Dark King would you tell me?”

“I would.”

The Sprisawn sent Miach Lay for the head of the Dark King; he brought it.

“Is that his head?” asked the Sprisawn.

“It is,” said the Gruagach.

“Well, tell me now.”

“Were I to tell you,” said the Gruagach, “the King of Mangling would knock the head off me.”

“If you saw his head would you tell me?”

“I would.”

The head of the King of Mangling was brought.