THE SONS O' CORMAC
 
 THE 
 
 SONS 0' GORMAG 
 
 AN' TALES OF OTHER MEN'S SONS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALDIS DUNBAR 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BT 
 3. P. DUTTON & CO. 
 
 All Right* Retried 
 
 Print** l the U**td Stain if
 
 TO 
 
 THE LADS 0' ME HEART 
 
 2061033
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTZB 
 
 I. THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN ... 1 
 
 II. THE HARVESTIN' o' DERMOND ... 21 
 
 III. EIVEEN COLD-HEART 41 
 
 IV. THE QUESTIN' o' CLEENA .... 55 
 V. ETHLENN o' THE MIST 68 
 
 VI. WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN . . 80 
 
 VII. KING DIARMID AN' P6L 94 
 
 VIII. FAIR AILINN 106 
 
 IX. THE SERVIN' o' CULAIN 120 
 
 X. How CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM . . 134 
 
 XI. WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN FLAME . 151 
 
 XII. GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 165 
 
 XIII. LIGHT o' ME EYES 181 
 
 XIV. CONN THE BOASTER 200 
 
 XV. THE KING o' THE THREE WINDS . 212 
 
 vii
 
 THE SONS O' CORMAC
 
 Sure, day in an' day out, 'tis beatin' me poor 
 weary brains I am; for no sooner am I afther 
 hearin' the pattherin' o' feet comin' toward me 
 than 'tis up an' hide, or tell a tale o' heroes in 
 times past. When an' ever the day 'II come for 
 them to tire is more nor mortal man, let alone 
 one workin' in this garden, can be afther gues- 
 sin'. 'Twill be a restful day, that, when the 
 masther packs the whole armful o' them off to 
 school. 
 
 Whist, now! What's thatf Ah-h, now, the 
 swate voices o' them laughin' among the bushes. 
 Sure, 'tis meself is caught entirely.
 
 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 THE CONSTANT GBEEN JEEKIN 
 
 ["A story is it? An' the grass a-perishin' for 
 the want o' watherin' this very evenin'I 
 Well, have yer will, an' tell the masther 
 yerselves what was afther hindherin' me 
 from me work."] 
 
 'TWAS back o' the years, in the days when the 
 Little People were a power in the land, an' there 
 was fightin' a plenty with the Danes an' their 
 like that Cormac without a Kingdom lived by 
 the Lough o' the Eagle with his three sons. 
 
 Now these were Dermond o' the Bow, an' 
 Eiveen the Swift an' the youngest of all, that 
 was Conan o' the Long Arms; an' some called 
 this last Conan the Singer, for he had skill in
 
 a THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 singin' more than any man on the shores o* 
 Moyle, an* the birds came an' sat on the trees 
 to listen when he played the harp. 
 
 I tell ye, Dennond o' the Bow was great at 
 the hunting an' eould send his long arrows 
 across the Lough o' the Eagle, an' strike the 
 wild ducks that swam in the reeds ; but Connao 
 his father, that had lost his kingdom by raison 
 o' the Danes, could sit at the door o* his cabin 
 on' bring down the sparrow-hawk that flew 
 across the fir trees. An' the fir trees grew where 
 the reeds ended. 
 
 An' Eiveen the Swift could run beyant the 
 deer in the forest, an' turn them toward his 
 brother, in the chase; but King Cormac, for 
 all his white hair, was swifter still, an' could 
 keep abreast o* the wind as it blew over the 
 green grass, an' sent the little waves to break 
 on the shores o' the Lough. 
 
 An' Conan stayed by the cabin, an' brought 
 in wood for the fire, an' roasted the meat when 
 his brothers came home weary from the hills. 
 But when they were off in the early mornin', 
 an' King Cormac sleepin' before the fire on his 
 bed o' rushes, Conan would sit by the door with
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 3 
 
 his harp, an' sing till the fishes poked their 
 heads out o' the Lough to hear an' even the 
 old king himself could do nothin' greater nor 
 that. 
 
 So time went past, an* King Cormao gave UR 
 livin' because o 9 being so oldj an' there was 
 nothing for him to leave to his three sons be- 
 yant his blessin' an* the shabby old green jerkin 
 that he wore* 
 
 11 'Tis the chief est treasure I have," says he, 
 "an' I give it yees with me blessin'. Let none 
 scorn it, or 'twill shame him in the end." An' 
 with that he died, an' they buried him on the 
 shore o' the Lough, with a great pile o' stonea 
 to mark the spot. 
 
 So when the night came, Dermond an' JSiveea 
 lay by the fire ; but Conan the Singer sat in the 
 moonlight, playin' an' singin' to break the very 
 hearts o' those that heard; an' even his two 
 brothers were a-sorrowin', for all they were 
 stout an' fierce. 
 
 An' says Dermond o' the Bow; "Give me the 
 green jerkin j for 'tis I am the oldest, an* should 
 wear it for a sign o 7 mournin' for King Jorma 
 our father."
 
 4 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 An* Eiveen the Swift brought it from the 
 corner where it was hangin', an' slipped it on 
 his brother's arms. But Conan kept on playin' 
 in the moonlight, an' lookin' down the path o' 
 the stars in the wathers o ' the Lough. 
 
 An' as he sat there, there came a great noise 
 o' folk ridin' down the mountain side, rattlin' 
 the stones under the feet o' the horses an* 
 jinglin' their spurs, an' callin' one to the other. 
 An' at the head o' the line rode two together. 
 
 One was a little, shrivelled old man, with eyes 
 that burned like coals o' fire in his face; an' 
 his hair was thin an' grey; an' while he was 
 no giant like King Cormac, yet he wore rich 
 armour, an' a crown on his head. An' beside 
 him, on a white horse, came the fairest girl 
 that had been seen in that place for many a 
 day. Her dress was o' the green silk, with a 
 mantle o' scarlet hangin' from her shoulders; 
 an' her hair was shinin' yellow, so that one 
 could scarce see the band o' wrought gold in it, 
 tellin' her for a real king's daughter. An' be- 
 hind came servants on horse an' afoot, dressed 
 in bright cloth. 
 
 The moon was shinin' till 'twas light as day,
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 5 
 
 an* they rode up to where Conan was singing 
 an' sat on their horses lookin' at him. Then 
 his brothers, hearin' the noise, came to the door 
 an' stared out; but Conan sang on, never carin' 
 for naught but the pile o' stones by the shore. 
 
 Then the old man, that was a king, spoke to 
 Dermond o' the Bow. 
 
 " Is it here that is the dwellin' o' Connao 
 without a Kingdom?" 
 
 "Ay," says Dermond. "Yestermorn it was 
 that same; but this night he lies beneath the 
 cairn o' stones that is on the edge o' the Lough." 
 
 "Then is a sthrong man passed," answered 
 the old man. "An' we may turn back as we 
 came." 
 
 "An' who may ye be?" asked Eiveen the 
 Swift, pushin' forward. 
 
 "King Murdough am I, an' this is me 
 daughter Maurya, whom I would give to the 
 champion who shall help me against the Danes. 
 An' Cormac was the sthrongest man of his 
 hands in all the land, though his hair was white. 
 For that would I have given him me daughter, 
 an' he should have ruled me kingdom for me.
 
 e THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 / 
 
 Then would naught have hindhered me from 
 spendin' me days in search o' deep leafflinV 
 
 An' the princess nodded as he spoke, but her 
 eyes were on Conan. 
 
 "Try me," says Dermond, throwin' back his 
 black hair, to look more closely at the princess. 
 
 Says King Murdough: "But 'tis not alone 
 a sthrong man I must have. 'Tis the sthrongest 
 an' one with wisdom in his heart to rule 
 men." 
 
 "Try me," says Dermond again, "for I am 
 the first-born son o' King Cormac, an* none 
 can stand up against me an' live to tell of it." 
 
 When King Murdough looked at him, an' saw 
 what a fine sthrong fellow he was, afther a bit 
 it seemed to him that this might prove a cham- 
 pion to his mind ; so he called a servant to bring 
 forward a horse. 
 
 "Come to me court for three days," says he. 
 "An' if ye stand trial o' strength with the best 
 o' me men, an' do as ye boast then shall ye 
 be me son, an' rule for me." 
 
 Then Dermond mounted the horse an' rode 
 off up the mountain with King Murdough an' 
 the princess beside him, with the golden hair
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 7 
 
 that made light shine in the air as she turned 
 to look back at Conan, where he sat playin ' his 
 sorrowin' for his father. 
 
 Now afther Dermond o' the Bow rode across 
 the mountains to where King Murdough held 
 court, he had a fine room given him, an' all the 
 walls were covered with silver cloth; an 7 two 
 servin' men went afther him wherever he 
 walked, to carry his bow an' arrows. An' the 
 princess sent him a sword an' shield, 
 
 So the first thing in the mornin', King Mur- 
 dough called him out in the courtyard, an' bid 
 him show how far he could shoot. An' Der- 
 mond shot across the castle, an' killed a pigeon 
 that perched on the wall beyant. An' 'twas 
 himself was more surprised than any, for never 
 before had he done that well. 
 
 "You have shot eastward; now try to the 
 west," says the princess. 
 
 So lie looked where the forest was, to the 
 west an' never had he seen so clear an' there 
 was somethin' stirrin' among the bushes, Der- 
 mond bent his bow an' took aim, an' the arrow 
 flew over wall an' stream an' a deer leaped 
 up in the air, an' fell dead in the open,
 
 8 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 King Murdough nodded his head when he 
 saw that, for he was thinkin' that this was sure 
 the man he needed; an' he led him in, an' made 
 a great feast for him. But the servants o' the 
 princess stood aside, an' laughed at his old 
 ragged shoes, an' at the faded green jerkin that 
 was nigh on too small for his shoulders. 
 
 " 'Tis a scarecrow, an' no prince at all," 
 says one. 
 
 "Put him up on the castle wall, an' he'll 
 fright the Danes as he is," says another. 
 
 Now Dennond was a proud man o' his birth, 
 an* he pretended not to hear them, thinkin' o' 
 the fine things he would have when he wed the 
 princess. So the first day went over without 
 more trouble. 
 
 Then on the second day came the best fighters 
 o' King Murdough's men, an' Dennond had 
 never been so sthrong in fightin' as he was then. 
 Down went every man he put hand on, an' none 
 could stand up afther. 
 
 That night there was another feast; an' more 
 nor before the maids that served Princess 
 Maurya passed behind his chair an' laughed to 
 each other at his poor dress. An' sleepin' that
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 9 
 
 night, an' wakin' in the mornin', he was hot 
 with anger at them. He took the sword that 
 the princess had given him, an* cut a great 
 piece o' the silver cloth from the wall o' the 
 room an* made himself a cloak of it. 
 
 "There's none '11 dare to spake of it 
 to-morrow, when I've married the king's 
 daughter," says he, an' he threw the old green 
 jerkin back o' the door. 
 
 When he came to the field where he was to 
 show his strength, there was no man willin' 
 to match with him. Then King Murdough gave 
 word to blow the horn on the castle wall, tellin' 
 all who heard that here was a great champion, 
 an' that who wanted could try fightin' with him. 
 
 At last Eocha, a great, stout man, that was 
 chief cook for the king's table, put his head out 
 o' the door. 
 
 " Fight will I," says he. " Greasy apron 
 against silver doublet, an' see which wins." 
 
 Dermond looked at him scornful like, for he 
 was sure o' whippin' him, an' he stepped up 
 bravely. An' there before he knew it, sure 
 'twas Dermond o' the Bow was lyin' on the
 
 10 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 stones o' the courtyard, beaten fair an* square, 
 under the very eyes o' the princess. 
 
 An* then others took heart an' came up to 
 fight, while poor Dermond had no heart to battle 
 with more o' them, an' no understandin' how 
 all this had come about. 
 
 "Fine feathers make the peacock," laughed 
 the girls. ' ' Where now is yer green jerkin, Der- 
 mond the Champion?" 
 
 So, all sudden like, it came to him what his 
 father had said, an* he rushed off to the room 
 where he'd slept, lookin' for the jerkin; but 
 no sign of it was to be seen near nor far. An* 
 in the doorway stood the princess, smilin' at 
 him. 
 
 "What has gone wrong?" she asked. 
 
 "Lady Maurya," says Dermond, "me jerkin 
 is gone, an' me power with it. Let me go from 
 here, for I'm disgraced." 
 
 "An' have ye no strength o' yer own, lackin' 
 it?" asked she. 
 
 "Ay," he answered, "but not more nor other 
 men." 
 
 "Then here is a purse o' gold, Dermond o' 
 the Bow, that ye may go off to some far king-
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 11 
 
 dom, where ye can win another for yer wife. 
 But I am not for ye." 
 
 An' he crept out by the low door at the back 
 o' the castle, an' went off over the hills to seek 
 his fortune, an' came back no more. 
 
 Now while these things were doin' in Bang 
 Murdough's castle, Eiveen the Swift an' Conan 
 his brother were livin' quietly by the Lough 
 o' the Eagle. Each mornin' Conan took his 
 harp to the edge o' the wather an' played a 
 lament for Cormac. An' when the third mornin' 
 came, there on the cairn was somethin' strange. 
 Conan went to see, an' 'twas none other than 
 the green jerkin. 
 
 He called out aloud to Eiveen, who came run- 
 nin'. "What is it!" says he. 
 
 "The green jerkin has come back without 
 Dermond in it," says Conan. 
 
 "More like that he has been here an' left it 
 for us while we were sleepin'," says Eiveen. 
 
 "Then 'twill bring him no luck," says Conan. 
 "Did not Cormac our father say that whoever 
 scorned it would be shamed by it in the end I ' ' 
 
 "I will wear it for thought o' him," answered
 
 12 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 Eiveen. * 'An' 'tis in me mind to go to the court 
 an' visit Dermond an' his princess." 
 
 With no more words, off went Eiveen, like 
 the wind. Never had he run so swiftly, an* 
 without wearyin', though the way was up hill 
 an* over rocks. An' when he came to the castle 
 he gave a great rap at the gate. 
 
 "Who stands knockin' ? ' ' called out the guard. 
 
 "Eiveen the Swift, brother to Dermond o' 
 the Bow. Let me come in." 
 
 Well, the guard ran to Princess Maurya, with 
 word that the brother o' Dermond was at the 
 gate, clad in the same old green jerkin. 
 
 "Send him to me," says the princess; an' 
 she watched the door close as she heard his feet 
 comin' near. But when she saw him, she leaned 
 back in her chair to hear what he should say. 
 An' Eiveen the Swift looked at her with cold 
 eyes, an' thought how well he would like to be 
 in his brother's shoes. 
 
 "Where is Dermond o' the Bow?" he asked. 
 
 "Gone to seek his fortune in other lands," 
 says Princess Maurya. 
 
 "An' have ye a champion betther nor him?" 
 says Eiveen.
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 13 
 
 "Nay," says she. "He was thrown to the 
 ground by Eocha, who is the cook. I will have 
 no cook for a champion, but a right king's son, 
 even though he be poor." 
 
 "Then will I try me fortune," says Eiveen. 
 
 An* with him it went as it had with Dermond. 
 The first day he threw down each man that came 
 against him; an' first of all was fat Eocha the 
 cook sent sprawlin' among the stones. 
 
 But when the maids saw Eiveen they laughed 
 again. 
 
 "A pretty set o' champions come for our 
 princess, with their old green coats; when she 
 wears nothin' poorer nor silk an' stuff o' gold." 
 
 Eiveen says never a word, thinkin' how he 
 would turn them all away into the cold when 
 he was married to Princess Maurya. 
 
 An* the second day he shot an arrow across 
 the castle wall, an' killed a hawk that was 
 carryin' off a chicken from beyant the river. 
 An* again he cut a lock o' hair from the head 
 o' Cleena, daughter o' Feargus the Black, as 
 she bent to draw wather at the ford. 
 
 But naught held back the girls from castin' 
 looks at his old coat, in the hall, an' saying to
 
 14 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 each other pretendin' to be whisperin' to see 
 how well King Cormac had done for his sons. 
 
 Then Eiveen grew hot with rage, an* went 
 off to his bed. An' all night he tossed about, 
 thinkin' o' the gay silken an' velvet clothes that 
 the other men wore as though they were naught 
 worth speakin' of. An' when it began to grow 
 light he rose from his bed an ' tore down a piece 
 o' gold cloth that hung in the doorway, an' made 
 a doublet to wear. 
 
 "Sure," thought he, "it'll all be mine by to- 
 morrow. 'Tis but borrowin' me own." An' 
 the jerkin he left lyin' by the window. 
 
 Then afther a bit he came runnin' back for 
 it for the fine gold doublet was all split up 
 from his bein' thrown by King Murdough's 
 groom. But the jerkin was not where he had 
 left it 
 
 "An' are ye beaten, too?" asked Princess 
 Maurya. < 
 
 "That am I an' a worse fate befall Kevin 
 the groom for trippin' me on the pavement," 
 answered Eiveen. So she turned away, an' sent 
 him a purse o' money by the hands o' Maive 
 the Fair one o' the maids that had laughed
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 15 
 
 at him in the hall. But in Maive's heart rose 
 sorrowin' for Eiveen's ill fortune, an' when she 
 opened the gate to let him pass out, she gave him 
 her hand an' followed him, an* together they 
 went out into the world to win fortune. 
 
 Then it so happened that a second time Conan 
 the Singer rose in early mornin' an* found the 
 old jerkin lyin' on the grave o' Cormac. 
 
 ' * Scorn has come again, ' ' thought he. f ' Now 
 'tis me turn to wear it for love o' him who lies 
 by the shore. An' it shall go hard with one 
 who takes it from me." 
 
 Then he took his harp on his arm, an' went 
 away up the mountain pass, where the eagle was 
 callin' to its young. 
 
 At last he came to the castle, an' sat down 
 by the gate, an' struck his harp, till all the men 
 an' maids ran to see who was there. An' even 
 the Princess Maurya stepped down from her 
 great chair, an' went to the courtyard. 
 
 When she saw Conan, her eyes laughed with 
 joy, an' she bade him enter, an' herself led him 
 to King-Murdough. 
 
 ''Here is a champion again," says she.
 
 16 THE SONS CTCORMAC 
 
 "Nay," says Conan, "I came to search for me 
 brothers." 
 
 "They have gone to far countries," answered 
 the princess, "to find fortune. Will ye try yer 
 own ? Have ye a mind for fightin ', an ' for bein ' 
 me father's champion?" 
 
 "That have I, though it has never come to 
 me to fight with men," says Conan; an' he bent 
 down low an' kissed her hand. 
 
 Then King Murdough gave him lodgin' for 
 the night; an' by order o' the princess 'twas 
 a small bare room. An' in the mornin' Conan 
 came into the courtyard, an' looked at all the 
 men who were there waitin' to fight with him. 
 
 "An' did Dermond meet these?" he asked o' 
 the king. 
 
 "That he did," answered King Murdough, 
 "an* gained the masthery for a day." 
 
 "Then will I do as well as he," says Conan. 
 
 So Princess Maurya brought out a sword an' 
 a shield, an' stood on the broad top o' the castle 
 wall to see the fightin'; an' Conan beat all the 
 warriors back, like a brave lad. 
 
 Then, when King Murdough made the feast, 
 Conan sat beside the princess in his old jerkin,
 
 THE CONSTANT 'GREEN JERKIN 17 
 
 that had taken many a cut that day; an* afther 
 a while he chanced to look up an' see that the 
 maids were makin' jest o' him. 
 
 "Why are ye laughin', me girls I" he asked; 
 an' the princess waited to see what would come 
 of it this time. 
 
 "Because o' the ragged coat ye wear/' says 
 Cleena. "Have the sons o' Cormac but one 
 jerkin between them?" 
 
 "Let none scorn it," says Conan, "or 'twill 
 shame him in the end. For a token o' mournin' 
 an' for love o' Cormac do I wear it; an' I fear 
 to meet no man because of it, though he be 
 dressed in silks an' satin." An' he turned to 
 Princess Maurya, an' thought no more o' their 
 foolish words. An' all night he dreamed o' 
 her golden hair, until the room shone with the 
 rememberin' of it. 
 
 In the mornin' he was ready for another trial ; 
 an' when they brought him the bow, he bent it 
 bravely, an' sent his first arrow whirrin' 
 through the open window of a cabin that stood 
 beyant the ford, an' clipped out a candle that 
 burned on the shelf within. An' for his second 
 shot, he slew two great hawks that flew above
 
 18 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 the castle wall, an' together they fell into the 
 river. 
 
 So that trial was passed, an' Conan went into 
 the great hall, an' sat at the feet o' the princess, 
 an' played an' sang until all the noise o' the 
 court ceased for love o' his song. 
 
 Yet in the evenin', at the feastin', the king's 
 men spoke scornin' words o' his torn jerkin. 
 
 "Will ye go against the Danes in it?" asked 
 Feargus the Black. "Then may they see that 
 ye are but a poor man's son, an' no prince." 
 
 "To-morrow shall ye take that word back," 
 says Conan o' the Long Arms, "for no man 
 shall make a jest o' Cormac the King while me 
 arms have strength." 
 
 An' all through the night Conan dreamed o' 
 the blue eyes o' Princess Maurya. 
 
 When the mornin' came, Feargus stood 
 waitin' in the yard for Conan to come to him; 
 and Princess Maurya watched to see what 
 should befall. Then Conan came from his bed, 
 an' on his back was the green jerkin, an' in his 
 hand the sword o' the princess. 
 
 An' there was no chance at all for Feargus 
 the Black, though he was the best man in the
 
 THE CONSTANT GREEN JERKIN 19 
 
 court o' the king. Sure, his sword went flyin' 
 through the air, an' fell outside the wall. 
 
 When they saw that, there was no one left to 
 risk fightin' with Conan, an' the king led him 
 into the great wall with his own hands. 
 
 1 'Now will ye have Oona o' the White Hands 
 to be yer wife ; an' room to live here in me castle, 
 with ten pieces o' gold for every day, an' silk 
 to wear; or will ye live in a cabin outside the 
 wall, an' wear yer old jerkin, like a poor 
 kerne?" 
 
 "Outside the wall is for me, if Princess 
 Maurya will be there too," answered Conan. 
 4 'But me jerkin will I wear, an' none but her 
 will I wed." 
 
 "Nay, if ye take her, together may yees 
 wander into the world, for I give no gold with 
 her." 
 
 "Then out into the world we go," says Conan 
 blithely, holdin' out his hand to her, an' she 
 put hers into it with gladness. 
 
 "An' call ye that wisdom?" says King Mur- 
 dough. "Would ye rule men afther that 
 fashion?" 
 
 "Who should rule men but him that rules his
 
 20 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 own?" says Conan. An' the princess says 
 "Ay." 
 
 "Then have ye won yer rulin' fairly," says 
 King Murdough, "an' shall have her an' the 
 kingdom. An' as for the jerkin, 'tis yer robe 
 of honour at this court; an' who says aught 
 ill of it, to him shame shall come." 
 
 So King Murdough made great rejoicin's, an* 
 gave his daughter to Conan, callin' him Conan 
 o' the Kingdom, for a sign that he was the 
 greatest man in it. 
 
 An' so far went the fear o' his name that 
 neither Dane nor any other enemy dared set 
 foot in the land for many a day, lest they might 
 catch sight o' the green jerkin which gave power 
 to the long arms o' Conan. 
 
 ["But why did the princess put Conan in the 
 little bare room?" "Ah, when we guess 
 why she did that, we '11 know all o ' the tale 
 that's untold. An' now be off with yees, 
 till I wather me green grass."]
 
 THE HABVESTIN* 0' DEBMOITD 
 
 ["No, IVe naught to tell yees the day, BO out 
 o* the barn with yees. Here's all the har- 
 ness to be rubbed bright before the masther 
 goes out dhrivin'. What? "Tis rainin'? 
 An* yees can't be afther takin' yer walk? 
 Ay! ay I Well, sit ye all down beyant in 
 the corner there, an' I'll be thinkin' about 
 it."] 
 
 YB'LL be mindin' how Dermond him that 
 they called Dermond o' the Bow afther Prin- 
 cess Maurya gave him the purse o' gold, slipped 
 out o' the little low door at the back o' King 
 Murdough's castle, an' was off without no more 
 words to no one? Sure, he was mighty shamed 
 to have been tumbled over by a fat cook, like 
 a bag o' fresh ground meal on the floor o' the 
 mill. So he turned toward the hills, an' walked 
 
 21
 
 22 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 on for many a mile, not lookin' to right nor to 
 left, nor even mindin' that he was still wearin* 
 the cloak o' silver cloth that had brought him 
 disasther. 
 
 'Twas early mornin 7 when he left the little 
 small door behind him ; but 'twas nigh on night, 
 an 7 the shadows runnin' long down the hillside, 
 when he first thought on where his feet might 
 be afther takin' him. He'd little heart what- 
 ever to be goin' back to the Lough o' the Eagle, 
 where his two brothers were livin', to be lettin' 
 on to them that he was beaten. 
 
 "Nay," says he, " 'tis far betther to be 
 heedin' Lady Maurya's words. There's many 
 kingdoms in the land where a stout-hearted 
 warrior '11 find fightin' to his hand, an' that's 
 where I'll win me a princess fairly for me wife." 
 
 An' that was brave talkin', for Dermond had 
 neither sword nor shield to his side, but just 
 his long bow an' a little sharp knife for cuttin' 
 up meat. 
 
 Now the wind was beginnin' to rise at his 
 back, an' it came sweepin' up the mountain side, 
 an' he had to stand an' meet it a bit, to keep 
 on his feet at all. An' all in a breath his gay
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 23 
 
 silver cloak was caught by the gale an' torn 
 away from him, an' it went whirlin' in the wind 
 down the way he'd been comin', where 'twas 
 darkenin' with heavy clouds. 
 
 Then he looked ahead, up the Path o' the 
 Eocks that he was climbin', an' at the top of 
 it, where the way turned down to the valley 
 beyant, he saw the red light o ' the setting sun. 
 
 " Better to push on than to turn back without 
 reachin' the top, an* all for the sake o' that 
 cloak o ' bad fortune, ' ' thought Dermond. ' * Sil- 
 ver for sorrow, an' I've learned that lesson to 
 me cost." 
 
 So up he went, an' the light kep' growin' 
 brighter, until when he stood at the top o' the 
 hill, he could scarce see the valley before him 
 for the shinin' o' the sky. 
 
 'Twas a broad valley, that, for all the way 
 into it was so narrow; an' 'twas sthrange to 
 him, bein' no place that he had ever crossed 
 in his huntin'. All around it were steep hills, 
 with sides that no man could climb, barrin' he 
 had the wings o' the grey hawk an' the bold 
 heart of it. An' beyant the plain, stretchin' to
 
 24 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the west, was a deep forest. But nowhere was 
 sign o' livin' men. 
 
 For just a moment he looked back over the 
 road he'd come by: an' as he did that same 
 he heard a small chucklin' laugh round behind 
 him. Sure, he turned again in a jiffy, but all 
 that met his eye was a glint o' somethin' red, 
 down among the rocks. beside the path. 
 
 Well, he was afther it with all his speed, but 
 never a bit did it come in his road, though he 
 looked every way at once. An' at last, when 
 he found himself by the foot o' the path, down 
 on the broad plain, for all the world he could 
 not tell by what way he had come down the 
 rocks. 
 
 But for all the sunset was fadin' fast," there 
 was no fear o ' the night in the heart o' Dermond. 
 He looked over the valley, an' saw far off where 
 four oak trees grew close by each other, like 
 they were the corners of a cabin: an' when he 
 reached them he thought in his mind that there 
 he would sleep till the morn's mornin', supper 
 or none. 
 
 'Twas dark then, an' he lay down on the long 
 grass, an' soon fell to sleepin', an' never woke
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 25 
 
 nor stirred till 'twas far past moonrise, when 
 he leaped up all sudden like, thinkin' he heard 
 his name. But none answered his callin'. 
 
 An' as he stepped close to one o' the oaks 
 that which stood to the south (an' 'twas that 
 way he would have taken to return to the cabin 
 o' Cormac, his father) he heard the far-off 
 playin' of a harp; an' it cjame to him that 'twas 
 Conan, his youngest brother, was touchin' it. 
 So he listened, quiet like, an' sure enough 'twas 
 a lament for Cormac without a Kingdom waa 
 ringin' in his ears. 
 
 Then right close, almost at his feet, was a 
 sound like a little small voice laughin', as he 
 had heard it on the Path o' the Eocks. He 
 quick reached out his hand to catch whoever it 
 was, an' went creepin' toward it, till he touched 
 the next tree, that was toward the east. An' 
 as he stood gropin' round, he heard other 
 laughin' like that o' the maids o' Princess 
 Maurya, who had jeered at him in the hall for 
 wearin' the old jerkin o' King Cormac, for 
 which he had torn the silver cloth from the wall 
 an' made himself a cloak, an' lost his power by 
 that same.
 
 26 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 An* a girl's voice was sayin': "A pretty set 
 o* champions come for our princess, with their 
 old green coats; when she wears nothin' poorer 
 nor silk an' stuff o' gold." An' more he 
 listened, an' heard the voice o' Eiveen, his 
 brother that was next him in years, an' that 
 o' Princess Maurya answerin'. An' the small 
 voice down by his feet chuckled again. 
 
 By now Dermond guessed well that some spell 
 lay on the trees, makin' his ears hear what was 
 far away; so he went on to the third, which 
 was to the north o' the rest, an' hearkened; 
 but there he heard naught but the sighin' o' 
 wind, an' the beatin' o' waves on the shore. 
 An' he knew that the sea was many a mile 
 beyant. 
 
 He thought o' the Little People that had 
 favoured Cormac, his father; an' as the moon 
 rose higher, he looked to see them under the 
 branches o ' the oaks ; but they must have crept 
 under the fallen acorn cups, for not a red cap 
 could he spy. 
 
 At last he put his hand on the trunk o' the 
 fourth tree, an' that was west, an' farther up 
 the valley than he had gone. An' seemin' as if
 
 THE HARVESTIN' O' DERMOND 27 
 
 'twas comin' out o' the wide spreadin' branches 
 or the flutterin' o' the leaves, he heard the 
 speakin' of a sthrange voice in his ears; an' 
 'twas an old man's, sayin': 
 
 1 ' 'Tis time for the plantin ' o ' me field. Heart 
 o' me life, is the seed ready?" 
 
 An' the one answerin' had the softest voice 
 that had ever been heard o' Dermond. Sure, 
 the tremblin' o' Conan's harp was harsh be- 
 side it. 
 
 "Ay, father," 'twas sayin', "an' who comes 
 to sow it? An' when will be the harvestin'l" 
 
 "That shall be known when one comes for 
 hirin'. None may sow that seed but a man 
 without fear o' fortune; an' none may harvest 
 it with doubt in his heart." 
 
 Dermond was listenin' hard; but just then a 
 cloud passed across the moon, an' the words 
 ended. Long time he waited to hear if that soft 
 voice wasn't speakin', but 'twas no use at all; 
 an' at last he wandhered out away from the 
 trees an' into the plain, an' lay down on the 
 open ground an' fell to sleepin' again, for he 
 was weary with all his climbin'. 
 
 This time when he woke, 'twas with more
 
 28 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 laughin' in his ears, an' the sun shinin' bright 
 as ever. He gripped his bow tight, an' sprang 
 to his feet in a great haste; an* there, standin' 
 a little ways off, was a girl, all in pale green 
 like the young birches in the heart o' spring, 
 and the laughter was runnin' over her face like 
 ripplin' wather. 
 
 Dermond stood dumbfounded, for he had nigh 
 forgot where he was, an' he looked round won- 
 dherin' like. 
 
 Then says the girl, that had never moved 
 away at all from where she was standin': 
 
 " 'Tis lost ye are." 
 
 An' Dermond remembered the night, and 
 knew it to be the soft voice o' her that had 
 asked o' the harvestin'. 
 
 "Nay," says he. "0' me own will came I 
 here, seekin' fortune." 
 
 "An' what like is the fortune that ye seek?" 
 says she. 
 
 "To find a kingdom where is good fightin* 
 for one with a stout heart an' a sthrong arm; 
 an' to get me a princess for me wife," says 
 Dermond.
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 29 
 
 Then the girl laughed again, an' the sound 
 o* that was like wind in the willow trees. 
 
 " 'Tis a man's thought, truly; an' I doubt not 
 ye '11 find kings' daughters a plenty, foldin' their 
 hands an' waitin' to have ye come an' do some 
 fine fightin' to win them. As if that was the 
 bravest work for a man! Did ye expect to be 
 afther findin' yer princess growin' on a bush 
 in this rich kingdom?" an' she waved her hand 
 toward the valley. 
 
 " Where she is, there I'll find her; ay, an* 
 win her," answered Dermond. 
 
 1 'Have ye no fear, that ye speak so bold?" 
 asked the girl. 
 
 "I fear naught between the flyin' clouds 
 above the hills an' the runnin' wather near our 
 feet," says Dermond. 
 
 "An' what man are ye!" says she. 
 
 "Dermond o' the Bow, eldest son o' him who 
 was Cormac without a Kingdom." 
 
 " An ' for me name, ' ' says the soft voice, * * 'tis 
 Etain, daughter o' Dughall the Wise, who dwells 
 beyant the forest to the west." 
 
 "An' is there none dwells with him but yer- 
 self ?" asked Dermond.
 
 30 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "Why ask ye that?" says Etain. 
 
 " 'Tis time for plantin' his field," went on 
 Dermond, hardly knowin' why he said it. An 7 
 Etain looked at him mazed like. 
 
 "How knew ye that, seein' that no man can 
 tell when the hour comes but Dughall himself?" 
 
 " 'Twas at moonrise I heard himself say it," 
 answered Dermond. "Yonder among the 
 trees." 
 
 1 1 Then must ye have the favour o ' the Little 
 People, for 'tis risk an* peril for mortal man 
 to pass near the Four Oaks o' the Valley when 
 the sun is high far more at moonrise. Will ye 
 come with me to Dughall?" 
 
 "Ay, if me fortune lies that road," says he. 
 
 "That is as ye make it for yerself," says 
 Etain; an' for just a moment she stood lookin' 
 at him, an* seein' what a splendid fine sthrong 
 man he was, with his shinin' eyes an' the black 
 hair wavin' far down over his shouldhers. An' 
 he looked at her blue eyes an' rose-red lips that 
 laughed whenever she began to think of any- 
 thin'; an' there was no more rememberin' o' 
 Princess Maurya no, nor o' the maids that 
 served her, for him.
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 31 
 
 Then Etain nodded her head, an' turned an* 
 went over the grass toward the forest so swift 
 that Dermond had all his feet could do to keep 
 pace with her. There was no more speakin', 
 but just following as she led the way over grass 
 hillocks an* into the dark wood. 
 
 'Twas more nor one time the roots came nigh 
 to thrippin' him off his feet; an' once he saw 
 a little red cap under a fern, an' heard the quare 
 laughin', but on he went, not heedin'. 
 
 Af ther a time it was in his mind that the trees 
 o' this forest grew in straight rows, as they 
 had been an army o' men standin'; but just 
 then Etain turned an* beckoned him to come 
 beside o' her. An' Dermond was not slow in 
 doin' that. 
 
 "Are ye wise in thought an' speech?" asked 
 she. 
 
 "No more nor other men," says Dermond. 
 
 " 'Tis well ye 're willin' to own it, then. Are 
 ye stout o' heart I" 
 
 " 'Tis not well for a man to be boastin', as 
 I found to me sorrow, but ready am I to serve 
 ye with two sthrong arms." 
 
 "Why would ye serve me?" asked Etain.
 
 32 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "For bein' the fairest maid in the land. An' 
 I would ye were a right king's daughter," says 
 Dermond. 
 
 "An' if I were?" asked she. 
 
 "Then would I win ye fairly." 
 
 "An' bein' none?" says she; an' as she spoke 
 her eyes met Dermond 's, an' a sudden fire leapt 
 up in his heart. 
 
 "Then will I make ye one, if there's kingdoms 
 to be won by the sthrong arml" 
 
 With that Etain smiled, well pleased with his 
 manner o' speech; an' she says 
 
 "If ye speak as fair as that to Dughall, then 
 will ye have small need o' me wisdom. But 
 should need come it shall all be for yer helpin', 
 Dermond, son o' Cormac. An' now, here is me 
 father's house, an' I bid ye welcome." 
 
 Sure enough, there before them was a long, 
 low buildin', woven mainly o' the rushes. But 
 round it was no sign o' servin* man or maid 
 at all. The door stood wide open, an' Etain 
 bent her sweet head an' stepped inside, an* 
 Dermond went afther. 
 
 In a great chair by the far end o' the hall 
 sat Dughall the Wise. His hair was white, an'
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 33 
 
 his long beard rested on his knees ; but his eyes 
 saw far, an' as Dermond came nigh he rose, 
 waitin' on Etain, to see what she would be afther 
 sayin'. 
 
 " 'Tis Dermond o' the Bow, son o' Cormac 
 the King," says she, "come to hire for seedin' 
 an* harvestin'." 
 
 Now Dermond would have said nay to that, 
 for he'd no mind for such labour-in'; but her 
 eyes were fair on him, an' he'd no will o' his 
 own to do other than her pleasure. 
 
 "Ay, that am I," says Dermond. 
 
 Then Dughall looked at him well, an' says 
 he 
 
 "Many a rash man has spoken as ye speak, 
 an' has tried to do what ye may fail in; an' 
 no man has yet sowed that seed or gathered in 
 that harvest, else would there be a rich kingdom 
 where is naught but wilderness." 
 
 "An' how may that be?" 
 
 "From over pride in wisdom," says Dughall, 
 most bittherly, "in the day when Oisin, son o 9 
 Lua, came to this place, an' would match his 
 craft with mine. An' not bein' content with 
 the life that was mine, I made wager that I was
 
 34 THE SONS 0' CORMAG 
 
 sthronger. An* he overthrew me, an' laid a 
 spell on all that was mine. An* naught could 
 lift it till I held in me hand a grain o' ripe corn, 
 that had been grown on the mountain-top 
 yonder. Such o' me men as were willin' to try 
 the sowin' an* harvestin' were spared me for 
 a time, but the others he turned to trees. An* 
 as each one failed in the task, he became a tree. 
 Scarce any could reach the slope, for Oisin an- 
 gered the Little People against me, an' placed 
 them as guards round the base o ' the mountain, 
 where none might pass their land in safety. 
 Bran, alone, that was chief huntsman, made his 
 way to the top, but there was no right foothold, 
 an* before the seed was planted he fell, an' was 
 never seen more. An* well may men call me 
 Dughall the Wise, for I have shown great wis- 
 dom, an' lost the lives o' sthrong men." 
 
 Well, now, Dermond thought an' thought, re- 
 memberin' the sly laughin' o' the Little People. 
 Yet it seemed to him that there should be some 
 way for him to contrive success. So says he 
 
 "An' where is this mountain!" 
 
 Dughall brought him to the door, an' pointed 
 out where it rose toward the sky; an' 'twas a
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 35 
 
 terrible steep place, all crags an' towerin' 
 precipices, an' nigh on out o' reach o' mortal 
 man, had there been no Little People guardin' 
 it at alL 
 
 Then a thought came to Dermond, an' he 
 turned to the old man. 
 
 "An' what for soldiers had ye? Were they 
 ethrong in sword fightin', or were they betther 
 at bendin' the bow?" 
 
 "Betther with the sword, Dermond son o' 
 Cormac. No bowmen had I barrin' ten; all 
 whom were feared o' the Little People an' be- 
 came trees." 
 
 " Ay, " says Dermond. ' ' Well, 'tis ill thinkin ' 
 o' grave matthers when one goes hungerin'. 
 Have ye a bite o' food handy like, seein' that 
 'tis many hours I've been fastin'?" 
 
 Etain laughed at his plight, an' brought him 
 what was to be had roast meat, an' cakes, an' 
 mead in a great horn; an* when he had eaten 
 an' drunk the last crumb an' dhrop, so that her 
 eyes were wide with wondherin* at his appetite, 
 he went out again an' looked at the top o' the 
 mountain, while Dughall the Wise went back to 
 his seat, expectin' little.
 
 36 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 But Etain stayed near Dermond, an ' together 
 they went nigh to the foot o' the mountain, but 
 not on the land o' the Little People. There 
 Dermond measured with his eye, an' saw that 
 the place closest the mountain-top was a juttin' 
 cliff on the side o' the neighbourin' peak. 
 
 "Have ye a fine cord?" he asked of Etain. 
 
 "How long!" says she. 
 
 "To reach from the cliff side to the moun- 
 tain-top.'* 
 
 "Nay," says she, "but I have that which 
 will serve to make one." An' with that she 
 let down her hair, an' it fell all round her like 
 fair golden silk, reachin' her sandals o' fine 
 deer-skin. An' she caught the little small knife 
 from the belt o' Dermond an' cut through a 
 great handful of it. Then Dermond took the 
 knife an' did the same with his own hair, cuttin' 
 it where 'twas longest. An' together they 
 twisted it into a fine, long cord o' black an' gold 
 colour. 
 
 "Now bring me the seed to be sowed," says 
 he; an' this time 'twas Etain sprang to do his 
 biddin'. So he drew a straight arrow from the 
 pheaf at his side, an' bound seven grains o' corn
 
 THE HARVESTIN' O' DERMOND 37 
 
 to it, all tied in a leaf with the end o' the cord. 
 Then he rolled up the rest of it, an' started over 
 to scale the cliff side, Etain followin' him. At 
 last he made his way up the cliff, to where was a 
 little small shelf o' rock, an' there he unrolled 
 the ball o' cord an' steadied himself to shoot. 
 
 Then, seein' what he would be tryin', Etain 
 called out to him 
 
 " First try the shot with another arrow, for 
 fear o' missin'." 
 
 "That is right wisdom," says Dermond; an* 
 he did that same, an' 'twas well he did, for the 
 wind whirled it past the mountain- top, an' it 
 broke on a rock below. But when he had shot 
 twice more, he had the way o' the wind, an' 
 could allow for it. An' the fourth arrow was 
 the one with the corn tied to it. Dermond aimed 
 it sthrong an' steady, an' sure enough it struck 
 deep into the ground on the mountain-top, 
 carryin' the cord with it; but the other end o' 
 that same was fast tied to the belt o' Dermond. 
 
 An' lookin' down he could see the face of 
 Etain, an' her eyes were bright with gladness. 
 Aah, 'twas not long before he was at her side,
 
 38 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 leavin' the cord end with a heavy stone on if 
 to hold it there. 
 
 "How will ye gather the grain f" says she; 
 yet half knowin' how 'twould be. 
 
 "By the cord that holds 'the arrow," says 
 Dermond. 
 
 "An* if the birds fly down an' tear up the 
 young plants?" 
 
 "That they shall not," says Dermond. So 
 he made many arrows o' straight branches, an* 
 some o' reeds. An' he planted seven other 
 grains in the valley below. An* when the time 
 was comin' that the sprouts would be comin' 
 out o' the earth, he took his arrows up the cliff 
 side, an' set himself to watchin'. 
 
 An* whenever a bird flew near the mountain- 
 top, Dermond 's arrow shot straight an' true, 
 an' that bird came no more away from there. 
 Ay, but 'twas weary stayin' there, for as he 
 saw the green growin' higher an' higher, he 
 dared not so much as think o' leavin' the cliff 
 side, for fear o' disasther. If ye '11 believe it, 
 'twas nigh on three months that he spent on 
 that shelf, havin' no mind to be turned into oak 
 or fir tree. But one there was who would not
 
 THE HARVESTIN' 0' DERMOND 39 
 
 leave In'm in danger o' starvin', an* Etain was 
 that same. 
 
 At last the grain ripened in the valley, an* 
 by that Dermond knew that his time o' tri- 
 umphin' was comin'. He called Dughall from 
 his hall, an' ye could have heard his voice 
 ringin' out for a mile. 
 
 An* then he lifted the cord an* began to pull. 
 Now 'twas hard gettin' the plants loose, for 
 the roots had sthruck deep into the earth; an* 
 all round him he seemed to be hearin' the Little 
 People jeerin' at him an' waitin' for the rope 
 to break. An' for a moment his strength was 
 naught. 
 
 Then he called down to the one who stood 
 nearest 
 
 " Mouth o' roses, are ye there t" 
 
 "Ay," says Etain. 
 
 "Then laugh! Laugh yer sweetest, or I'll 
 fail an' come to ill yet." 
 
 An' up rose her laughter like bells o' gold, 
 an' the music o' that put the strength o' seven 
 into the arms o' Dermond for no more could 
 lie hear the tauntin' o' the Little People. 
 
 He gave one more steady pull, an' down flew
 
 40 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the stalks o' ripe corn, roots an' leaves an' all, 
 at the feet o' Dughall the Wise, an' he caught 
 them up an' held the grain safe in his hand! 
 
 ["And what happened then?" 
 
 "Why, sure, all the trees turned back 
 into the armed men o' Dughall, an' his low 
 house into a fine royal palace for them all, 
 an' an' " 
 
 "And they lived happy ever after?" 
 
 "Ever afther. An' all because Etain 
 laughed sweeter nor the Little People. 
 There's a mighty power in a laugh." 
 
 "And if she hadn't, wouldn't there have 
 been any story?" 
 
 "No, naught but one more tall tree in 
 the forest o' Dughall. An' now away with 
 yees, before ye have me laughin' in spite 
 o' meself."]
 
 m 
 
 EIVBEN COLD-HBAET 
 
 why an* ever should I be wastin' me 
 good time chatterin' to yees? Sure, 'tis 
 coaxin' the very pipe out o' me mouth ye '11 
 be, next, with the soft talk o ' yees. Listen 
 now."] 
 
 YE mind what I told yees about the sons o' Cor- 
 mac? How they all tried their fortune, wantin' 
 to marry King Murdough's daughter an' take 
 the labour o' rulin' his kingdom off his 
 shouldhers? An' how Dermond, that was old- 
 est, was beaten by fat Eocha the cook; an* 
 Eiveen, that came next, was tripped up by 
 Kevin the groom an' all because they were 
 shamed o' wearin' Cormac's old jerkin? An' 
 ye '11 mind how Dermond went off an' found 
 fortune beyant the Path o' the Rocks? Well, 
 
 41
 
 42 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 then, 'tis Eiveen the Swift as I'll be afther 
 tellin' about. 
 
 When the gate o' the castle shut behind him 
 an' Maive the Fair, that had brought him the 
 purse o' money from Princess Maurya, an' had 
 followed him out o' the door, all the wits o' 
 him couldn't tell him what way 'twas best to 
 turn. He looked at Maive, thinkin' to open the 
 door for her again, but she shook her head, 
 holdin' fast to his hand all the while. 
 
 1 ' Come, then, ' ' says Eiveen. ' ' Tis scant use 
 our standin' here an' waitin' for the sun to 
 start our shadows on the road. " So he dropped 
 the purse inside his huntin' bag, an' led the way 
 down the path that went by the river bank; 
 an' by him, in her cloak o' white wool that was 
 fastened with a gold clasp, went Maive the 
 Fair. 
 
 Now all that mornin' they met no one on the 
 road, nor passed any house at all; an' never a 
 word more did Eiveen say to Maive, for there 
 were sore thoughts within him, o' Kevin the 
 groom, an' o' the laughter in King Murdough's 
 castle. At last it came to be the middle o' the 
 day, an' he saw that Maive was walkin' slow
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 43 
 
 behind him, bein' weary; so he sat down under 
 a tree by the roadside, an' took out some cakes 
 from his huntin' bag. 
 
 An' as they were eatin', Eiveen looked at 
 Maive. An ' she was but a slip of a girleen, with 
 brown eyes that saw straight into the heart o' 
 
 "Why did ye come with me?" asked Eiveen. 
 " 'Tis a hard road I must thravel, with the spite 
 o' the Little People on me for me folly." 
 
 "For to take half o' the burden o' that from 
 ye," says Maive. "Maybe they'll not be angry 
 that long, if ye do naught else to turn them 
 against ye." 
 
 "That may be a thrue word," says Eiveen, 
 "but 'tis yer own choice to come, an' not mine 
 to bring ye. Fortune an' power is what I'm 
 searchin' for, an' naught else." 
 
 "Then 'twas not lovin' Princess Maurya ye 
 were?" asked Maive. 
 
 "Not I," says Eiveen. " 'Twas to rule the 
 kingdom I came." 
 
 Now quare it was that afther hearin* him say 
 those words, Maive was no longer weary. She 
 ran to the river side an* brought him cool
 
 44 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 wather for dhrinkin' in her little golden cup; 
 an' gave him the small sharp knife from her 
 girdle, because that he had none o' his own; 
 an* last of all she took the huntin' bag off the 
 grass, where 'twas lyin', an' hung it round her 
 neck. Then she nodded to him that 'twas time 
 to be goin' on their road. 
 
 11 An' 'tis careful we'll be not to vex the Little 
 People," says she. 
 
 Now they hadn't gone but a bit o' the road 
 when they met along with a quare, crooked little 
 man, that was dhrivin' a crooked, quare small 
 cow. 
 
 "Stand out, an' let me have the road for me 
 cow," says he, in a thin, shakin' voice. 
 
 "Ye've yer share," answered Eiveen. 
 "What's yer cow to me?" But Maive dhrew 
 him by to the grass, an' waved her hand to the 
 quare man to be afther passin' on. 
 
 "Far betther for ye to turn back with me, 
 Maive the Fair," says the little man. " 'Tis 
 long wantin' in happiness ye '11 be with Eiveen 
 Cold-Heart." 
 
 "Ay," laughed Maive, "but 'tis not me own 
 happiness that I'm hopin' to find."
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 45 
 
 "An' why are ye callin' me Eiveen Cold- 
 Heart, when 'tis Eiveen the Swift is me name!" 
 asked Eiveen, angered. 
 
 "Look in that same heart, an* find yer an- 
 swer/' says the man ; an' before they knew what 
 had happened, sure, he was gone like the whiff 
 o' smoke from a pipe. 
 
 " 'Twas one o' the Little People," says 
 Maive. 1 ' 'Tis well to speak them fair, if more 
 should be on the road." 
 
 "Ay, there's truth in that," says Eiveen. 
 An' so they went on their way, Maive singin' 
 to him to cheer the goin'. 
 
 Now 'twas drawin' toward night when they 
 came in sight of a small child sittin ' in the road, 
 where 'twas narrow, between two high banks. 
 
 "Make room for us to pass," says Eiveen, 
 for he was wantin' to reach some restin' place 
 for the night. 
 
 "First help me out o' this," says the child, 
 wailin'. " 'Tis me foot is caught in the crack 
 o' the stones." 
 
 "Get it out yer self, an' out o' me way," says 
 Eiveen. But Maive knelt down an' pulled the
 
 46 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 rough stones away with her soft white hands, 
 an' the child stood up. 
 
 "Far wiser were ye to turn yer steps an* 
 follow me, Maive the Fair," says he. " "Tis 
 but little love ye '11 win from Eiveen Cold- 
 Heart." 
 
 Maive looked back along the road, but she 
 shook her head bravely, not sayin' a word. 
 'Twas Eiveen was fierce at that. 
 
 "Why are ye callin' me out o' me name I" 
 says he. " 'Tis Eiveen the Swift ye '11 be findin' 
 mel" An' he started to catch the child. But 
 there, before he'd stepped fair out o' his tracks, 
 he could see no child nowhere. 
 
 " 'Tis the Little People are vexed when ye 
 speak sharp," says Maive. 
 
 "I'd forgot that," says Eiveen. "Next time 
 I'll have care o' me words." 
 
 Now it grew fast darker as they walked on 
 in the narrow path, an' the night birds were 
 callin' in the trees. By-an'-by they came to a 
 wider place, near the river, where willows grew ; 
 an' under the boughs was a light shinin', faint 
 an' waverin'.
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 47 
 
 * * 'Tis a cabin there, ' ' says Maive. ' ' We may 
 get fire to warm us." 
 
 "Ay, an' food to eat, for I've no more o' 
 that but one crust," says Eiveen. An' as they 
 came nearer they saw an old, withered-lookin' 
 crone crouchin' by the door-stone. Eiveen 
 spoke up to her 
 
 "Is it fire on the hearth ye have? The night 
 grows chill." 
 
 "Ay," says she, "there's fire for warmin' 
 Maive the Fair, but the flame would die if ye 
 entered me cabin, Eiveen Cold-Heart." 
 
 At this he turned on his heel, angry; but 
 Maive dhrew him to sit on the grass, an' heaped 
 up dhry sticks, an' slipped by the old woman 
 into the door, an' brought out a lighted turf 
 to make a bit o' fire on the ground. Then 
 Eiveen took out the crust, an' gave part to 
 Maive. 
 
 " 'Tis starved I am," says the old crone. 
 "Have ye no bite to spare for me?" 
 
 "Nay," says Eiveen, glad to spite her for 
 misnamin' o' him; but Maive broke her bit in 
 two, an' gave half to the woman. Then she 
 brought wather from the river in her cup. An*
 
 48 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 as she was eomin' back over the grass, the crone 
 said 
 
 "Far safer were ye to stay in me cabin with 
 me, Maive the Fair, than to be wearin' the 
 sandals from yer little white feet followin' 
 Eiveen Cold-Heart. " 
 
 "Nay," laughed Maive. " 'Tis naught but 
 his own word shall part me from him while 
 there's service I can do to help him to his heart's 
 wish." 
 
 "If it's that ye 're waitin' for," says Eiveen, 
 "go yer way where ye will. I'll reach fortune 
 sooner without ye. ' ' 
 
 As he spoke those hard words, the old crone 
 stood up an' pointed her staff at Maive, but her 
 eyes were on Eiveen. 
 
 "Go, then," says she. "Find yer fortune 
 as ye will, an' see naught o' Maive but the want 
 o' her an' the shadow o' her, till ye've warmed 
 that cold heart ye carry." 
 
 An' as Eiveen sprang up from the log where 
 he'd been sittin', sure, in place o' Maive in her 
 white cloak was nothin' but a slendher, young, 
 white birch tree; an' nowhere was cabin, nor 
 crone, nor so much as a spark o' fire burnin*
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 49 
 
 at all. 'Twas all alone he was under the wil- 
 lows, an' no sound but the splashin' o' the run- 
 nin' river over the stones in the darkness o' the 
 night. 
 
 Well, he pushed his way here an* there 
 through the trees, lookin' for Maive, but no- 
 where could he spy a glint o' the white cloak; 
 an' at last, bein' too weary to go farther, he 
 lay down on the turf and slept. All through 
 the night he dreamed o' tryin' to reach a white 
 birch tree. 'Twas always growin' far ahead, 
 up a steep hillside, an' he could never come 
 nigh it. 
 
 When first he woke in the mornin', he felt a 
 sharp wind blowin' from the north across him, 
 an' yet he wasn't cold, for over him seemed to 
 be lyin' Maive 's cloak o' soft wool. But when 
 he rose, it was nowhere around. 
 
 " Small use in stayin' here," thought Eiveen; 
 so afther givin' one more look among the trees 
 in search o' Maive, he turned to the path by the 
 river, an' went his way. 
 
 'Twas lonesome walkin', that. All the time 
 he felt somethin' lackin', an' not knowin' what 
 it was. By an' beyant, as noon was near, he
 
 50 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 came to an inn by the road, an' asked in it for 
 food. 
 
 "Have ye money to pay for it?" asked the 
 man. 
 
 Then of a sudden Eiveen minded that his 
 purse o' money was in the huntin' bag over 
 Maive 's shouldhers. He set off, runnin' back 
 by the way he'd come, an' when 'twas nigh dusk 
 he came to the willows. An' there was the dark 
 cabin, an' the crone crouchin' on the door-stone, 
 an' by her a slim, white girleen. 
 
 "Maive!" he called, forgettin' the ill words 
 he 'd given her. ' ' Are ye not comin ' with me ? ' ' 
 But she stepped back from him, an' the crone 
 laughed. 
 
 * ' 'Tis for the bag ye came, an ' not for Maive 
 the Fair. Ask her for it, an' begone!" 
 
 Eiveen hastened towards Maive, an' right 
 then a mist blew over his eyes, an' there was 
 naught but the birch tree an' the huntin' bag 
 on the grass by it. He slung it over his arm, 
 an' went off again. Too late it was for him 
 to be afther reachin' the inn, so he had to sleep 
 on the road. An' again he thought the cloak
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 51 
 
 covered him from the night dews an* the cold. 
 But wakin', it was gone. 
 
 At the inn he bought bread and meat, an' 
 as he sat eatin' he couldn't put by the thought 
 o' Maive sharin' her dhry crust with the crone. 
 An' he was full o' wrath at the Little People 
 for takin' her from him. Presently by came 
 ridin' a troop o' men in armour, all shinin'; 
 an 7 their leader stopped an' spoke to Eiveen. 
 
 "What man's man are ye?" 
 
 "No man's man," says Eiveen, "but a king's 
 son." 
 
 "What king is that?" 
 
 "Cormac without a Kingdom. His second 
 son am I, named Eiveen the Swift." 
 
 "Then mount an' ride with me, an' it may 
 be we'll find fightin' a plenty, an' win great 
 honour. Cathal o' the Mountain am I, an' a 
 good comrade is me heart's desire." 
 
 So Eiveen rode off to the north with Cathal, 
 on a horse that was given him. But all through 
 the day he was hearkenin' for the music o' 
 Maive 's singin', an' the road was long an' weary 
 wantin' it. At last, far in the afthernoon, 
 Eiveen turned to Cathal.
 
 52 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 " 'Tis somethin' I've left behind that I miss 
 sorely," says he. "I must ride back an* 
 claim it." 
 
 "Go, then," says Cathal, "an' join us where 
 we halt for the night, a bow-shot farther up 
 this road, by the runnin' brook." 
 
 Eiveen rode off swiftly across the wild coun- 
 thry toward the river, an' again at dusk he 
 came on the cabin. An' Maive, standin' among 
 the shadows, faded as he neared her. 
 
 "Give me Maive, or 'twill go ill with ye!" 
 he cried in anger to the old crone. 
 
 "Nay, Eiveen Cold-Heart, not yet warmed. 
 'Tis but wrath at losin' what ye thought was 
 yer own that brought ye back. Go, seek yer 
 road to fortune!" 
 
 An' then the mist clouded all from his eyes, 
 an' naught remained for him but just to ride 
 back to Cathal. 
 
 Next mornin' they all rode on to the north. 
 An' all day Eiveen kept seein' the brown eyes 
 o' Maive in every shadow. When they passed 
 the apple-trees the flowers were like her white 
 hands, an' the whish o' the wind was like her 
 steps in the grass.
 
 EIVEEN COLD-HEART 53 
 
 Late in the day he turned to Cathal, an* says 
 he 
 
 "I must go back for somethin'. 'Tis ill for- 
 tune that I left it." 
 
 "Nay," says Cathal, likin' it little. "If ye 
 go from us again, ye need not come back. ' ' 
 
 "Then will I seek honour elsewhere," says 
 Eiveen. He sprang from the horse, an' tossed 
 the bridle to Cathal. 
 
 ' * Take back yer gift, ' ' says he. ' ' 'Tis af ther 
 seekin' me treasure I'll be, an' not givin' over 
 till I find it." 
 
 So off he went, across hill an' vafley, toward 
 the far river. An' though 'twas Eiveen the 
 Swift he was, the night was gone an' early dawn 
 breakin' before he reached the willows again. 
 Through the trees he saw the cabin, an' the old 
 woman, but Maive was not there. 
 
 "Maivel" he called. An' "Maive!" 
 
 * ' Why have ye come ? ' ' asked the crone. ' ' Are 
 ye seekin' a servant for carryin' yer bag?" 
 
 "Nay," says Eiveen. " 'Tis I would serve 
 her." 
 
 "Then bring wather from the river to the
 
 54 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 birch tree, for 'tis droopin' for wantin' that 
 same." 
 
 Then Eiveen took his huntin' bag an' filled 
 it with wather, an' poured it on the roots. An' 
 for three days he went back an' forth, thinkin' 
 o' naught but how to keep the slendher white 
 birch tree from fadin' away. 
 
 An* on the third day, as he saw how it was 
 witherin', he knelt down at his roots, sor- 
 rowin'. 
 
 "What would ye if ye had but one wish to 
 be granted?" asked the old crone, pityin' him. 
 
 "Maive," says Eiveen. 
 
 "An' not fortune an' power?" 
 
 "Nay, 'twas happier I was in Cormac's cabin 
 with neither," says Eiveen. An' as he spoke, 
 'twas two hot tears dropped on the roots o' 
 the little tree. 
 
 Then 'twas as if mist rolled away, an' the 
 sun shone down on him in gladness, for there by 
 him stood Maive, with her brown eyes lookin' 
 laughin' into his warm heart. 
 
 An' together they went back across the hills 
 to the Lough o' the Eagle, knowin' that the 
 Little People were no more vexed.
 
 IV 
 
 THE QTJESTIN' o' CLEENA 
 
 ["A truce to fightin ', now. Not one word comes 
 out o' me mouth till ye 're as whist as lambs 
 hearkenin' for the grass to grow. Ay, see 
 now, how aisy it comes !"] 
 
 MEN were sthrong men in those days, but never 
 one at the court o' King Murdough had come 
 nigh matchin' Feargus the Black, till the sons o' 
 Cormac set foot there. Many a time he thought 
 how 'twas the green jerkin an' the power o' the 
 Little People backin' that same that had lost 
 him the fight; though he'd wit enough to hold 
 his tongue, an' not risk the angerin' o' King 
 Murdough. But 'twas ever in his mind that 
 some day he'd prove himself as good a man as 
 Conan o ' the Long Arms. 
 
 Now there came a day when King Murdough 
 had a message in hand for Torcall the Dane, 
 55
 
 56 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 that dwelt nigh the shores o' Moyle. An* 'twas 
 a sharp word was to be sent, an' full o' peril to 
 him that carried it. 
 
 The King sat on his high seat, when all was 
 ready, an' looked round the hall, where stood 
 many to do his biddin'. An' in a far corner, by 
 the wide fireplace, Feargus the Black was 
 talkin' with Cleena, his daughter. 
 
 Then says King Murdough, in a quiet small 
 voice, as he'd been talking to himself 
 
 "Is there a man can carry me word to Torcall 
 the Dane, an' bring me his thrue answer without 
 failin'?" 
 
 Half o' those in the hall paid no heed at all, 
 but Cleena caught the hand o ' Feargus. 
 
 tt 'Tis yer chance, " she whispered. "Go for- 
 ward an' claim the right." 
 
 So like a flash Feargus pushed through the 
 crowd an' knelt to King Murdough; though 
 many were drawin' back, seein' that Torcall was 
 no child to be reckoned with. 
 
 "What would ye have?" asked the King. 
 
 "Leave to carry the word to the shores o' 
 Moyle," answered Feargus. 
 
 Murdough shook his head, for 'twas not in
 
 THE QUESTIN' 0' CLEENA 67 
 
 his heart to lose a good warrior like Feargus to 
 the Danes, when a lesser would do as well. 
 
 "Such work is not for ye," he says. "Wait, 
 for the hour o' battle will come afther." 
 
 "Give me leave to go, King Murdough," says 
 Feargus again. 
 
 "Nay," says King Murdough, "for there's 
 many a chance that who goes will not return." 
 
 Then Conan spoke, that had been sittin' by 
 the King 
 
 " 'Tis right he has. Give him leave for seven 
 days an' seven, to go to the shores o' Moyle an' 
 to return; an' if he conies again in safety, at me 
 side shall he fight the men o' Torcall." 
 
 Feargus looked at Conan, that was wed to 
 Princess Maurya, an' for the first time a flash 
 o' friendship was in the meetin' o' their eyes. 
 
 "Come back will I, Conan o' the Kingdom. In 
 seven days an' seven more I'll claim that word 
 from ye." 
 
 With that Conan loosed the huntin' horn from 
 his belt, an' gave it to Feargus. 
 
 " 'Tis a token o' the word I've given ye," 
 says he. ' ' Eeturn it in the time set, an ' lead the 
 battle with me. An' carryin' it ye '11 be safe
 
 68 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 from the Little People, but use it only in yer 
 sorest need." 
 
 So before night fell, Feargus the Black was 
 ridin' away to the sea, an' none with him but 
 Kevin the groom. An' Cleena stood on the 
 castle wall, with her black hair hangin' round 
 her, an* watched him go. 
 
 Each day, when it neared sunset, she went up 
 in the tower, lookin' for him; an' it came to be 
 seven days an' three more, then seven days an' 
 four more, an' no word o' Feargus. 
 
 Now the next day to that was a great huntin', 
 an' Conan an' Princess Maurya rode out at the 
 head o' the court, all dressed in gay colours. 
 But Cleena watched from the tower, an' King 
 Murdough slept. 
 
 When the sun was turnin' to the west, an' all 
 noise o' the huntin was far an' away, she saw a 
 man runnin' along the path by the river. An* 
 as he neared the ford, she saw 'twas Kevin the 
 groom. Like a hawk from the clouds she was at 
 the gate before any other could reach it. 
 
 " Where left ye Feargus?" she cried; an* 
 Kevin the groom crouched down on the stones, 
 fearin' the great dark eyes o' her that were
 
 THE QUESTIN' 0' CLEENA 59 
 
 lookin' through an' through him, an' callin him 
 coward for leavin' his masther. 
 
 11 'Tis not for me to say," he whispered, nigh 
 on spent with the runnin'. ''When we were 
 passin' the head o' the valley o' the Dark 
 Lough, he dropped the horn o' Conan; an' when 
 he turned back to search for it, for 'twas his 
 token from the prince, I lost sight o' him, an' 
 could find naught o' him, though I called many 
 times over." 
 
 "An' yer horses?" asked Cleena. 
 
 "When I came back to where I had tied them, 
 they were gone, an' no trace to be seen. 'Tis 
 the Little People have stolen them all away. 
 Ay, that it is." 
 
 Then Cleena turned to those in the courtyard, 
 an' there were not many, for all the fightin' 
 men were off at the huntin', an' says she 
 
 "Who dares go back to the Valley o' the Dark 
 Lough to find Feargus ?" 
 
 But none answered. An' as for Kevin the 
 groom, he slipped away, for fear o' bein' made 
 to show the way. 
 
 "Is there not one man among ye to be friend 
 to. Feargus?" asked Cleena, lookin' from one to
 
 60 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the other, an' waitin' for who should step for- 
 ward. But a hard man an* a proud was Fear- 
 gus, an' now, in his need, none dared brave the 
 Little People to aid him. 
 
 Then came scorn to the eyes o ' Cleena, an ' she 
 turned an' passed them, holdin' her cloak to her 
 that it might not touch them. 
 
 "All this shall King Murdough hear when he 
 wakes; an' Princess Maurya, when she comes 
 from the huntin'; and Conan o' the Kingdom 
 shall reckon with ye. But for me, I go alone to 
 seek Feargus the Black, where ye dare not fol- 
 low." 
 
 With that she went into the stable, an' there 
 lay Cian, the waitin' boy, sound sleepin'. As she 
 brushed by him, he woke an' sprang up. 
 
 "What would Lady Cleena f" he asked. 
 
 "A horse, that I may ride to seek for Fear- 
 gus, who is lost by the Dark Lough." 
 
 "Is there no man to go?" asked Cian. 
 
 "Nay," says she, "none but children trem- 
 blin' for fear o' the Little People." 
 
 "Then will I ride with ye," cried Cian. 
 "Though I have but a boy's strength in fightin',
 
 THE QUESTIN' O' CLEENA 61 
 
 yet was me mother a wise woman, an* taught 
 me many a cunnin' charm." 
 
 So Cian brought out two horses, an' together 
 they rode out o' the gate an' across the ford, 
 Cleena never lookin' back to the castle. All 
 through the night they rode, pressin' on with 
 naught but the noise o' the ripplin' water for 
 guidin'; an' in the mornin' there still lay many 
 a mile before them. Yet they never dhrew rein, 
 for 'twas the sixth day afther the seventh, an' 
 there was mountains to pass. 
 
 As the sun went down the west, they saw a 
 deep valley before them, an' in it a lough, with 
 a bit of an island in it; an' the wather was as 
 smooth an' dark as black marble. 
 
 Cleena slipped from her horse, an' Cian the 
 same, an' together they tied the horses to a tree, 
 Cian twistin' the bridles in a strange knot, that 
 the Little People should have no power for un- 
 tyin' them. 
 
 "Where now, Lady Cleena?" say Cian. 
 
 "Down yon glen, to seek Feargus," says she. 
 
 "An' I with ye," says Cian. 
 
 "Nay," answered Cleena. "I bid ye wait
 
 62 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 here, that there shall be one to tell all to Prin- 
 cess Maurya if I come not back by mornin'." 
 
 "Then hearken to me," says Cian. ''Trust 
 naught in man's shape till he pass through fire 
 an' wather; an' touch the hand o' none ye meet, 
 be it Feargus himself." 
 
 So Cleena caught her cloak o' gold an' scarlet 
 over her arm, an' went from him, in the light o' 
 sunset. An' soon she came to a place where the 
 trees grew closer, an' there was scant room for 
 her to pass under their boughs. But as she bent, 
 she saw a glint o' gold in a heap o' dead leaves, 
 an' there lay the huntin' horn o' Conan. 
 
 'Twas quick up in her hand, with its cord 
 passed round her white neck; an' the courage o' 
 ten came into her heart. Down the valley she 
 passed, lookin' every way for a sight o' Fear- 
 gus, an' callin' his name now an' again; but 
 none answered. 
 
 'Twas mortal dark down at the wather 's edge, 
 an' what way to turn was more nor she knew. 
 
 " 'Tis sore needin' help I am," says she; an' 
 with that she blew a soft note on the horn. It 
 echoed all down the lough, like the tremblin' of 
 a bell, an' before it had fair died away, she saw
 
 THE QUESTIN' 0' CLEENA 63 
 
 on the sand a little boat o ' skins, like the fishers 
 use, with a paddle swingin' in the wather. 
 Cleena waited for no thinkin' but stepped in an' 
 paddled toward the island. 
 
 There was no sign o ' life on it, but she tied the 
 boat to a bush that hung over low, with that 
 same knot o' Cian's. Then from the fold o' her 
 girdle she took flint an' steel that he'd given her, 
 an' made a bit o' fire to light a dhry branch that 
 lay handy. With thai torch she went on, an' 
 soon found the island cut in two by a narrow 
 ditch o ' wather. Howsomever, she leaped over 
 it, an' again called Feargus. 
 
 There was a rustlin' in the leaves, an' a voice 
 answerin' 
 
 "Cleena! Daughter!" 
 
 "Father! Come!" she cried again; an' the 
 light from the torch fell on the very face o' 
 Feargus. She was just goin' to run to him, 
 when sudden she thought what Cian had said, 
 an' she slipped back past the ditch, holdin' the 
 torch to light him. He came to the edge, reachin' 
 out his hand. 
 
 ' * Help me to cross. 'Tis mortal weary I am, ' ' 
 says he.
 
 64 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "Nay," says Cleena, "come ye over." But 
 with that word he was naught but dhriven mist. 
 
 " 'Twas his shadow," thought Cleena; an* 
 turnin', she went the other way, still callin' on 
 Feargus. By an' beyant she heard a branch 
 breaking an' again a dark figure answered her 
 callin'; an' again 'twas the likeness o' Feargus. 
 
 Now here was no wather to cross ; so quick, to 
 try was it a thrue man, she held down her torch 
 an' set fire to some withered leaves. 
 
 "Come to me by that," says she. 
 
 "Give me yer hand first," says the other, 
 movin' near. 
 
 "Nay," says Cleena; an' 'twas as if smoke 
 blew away an' left no man behind. Just then 
 she heard a sound at her feet; an' there, lyin' in 
 the grass, was Feargus, again, bound hand an' 
 foot. 
 
 "Loose me, if it be Cleena, an' not the ban- 
 shee," he groaned. 
 
 "Wait," says Cleena, runnin' back to the 
 lough's edge, an' dippin' the scarf from her 
 neck in the wather. 'Twas with fire an' wather 
 she returned to Feargus, an' with the burnin' 
 end o' her brand she parted the cords that
 
 THE QUESTIN' O' CLEENA 65 
 
 bound him. Seein' that he never flinched at the 
 fire, she quenched the sparks on his coat with the 
 wet scarf. Still Feargus was before her, an* she 
 began to believe it himself. 
 
 "Bise an' follow, " says she; an' he obeyed, 
 seemin' half sleepin'. She led the way to the 
 boat, not lookin' back till she wars in it ; an' then, 
 when she turned, in the gloom stood three Fear- 
 guses, each bendin' forward to enter the boat, 
 an* naught to show which was her father. A 
 sore tremblin' came over her; an' then she 
 raised the horn an' blew a brave blast. 
 
 Smoke cleared away overhead, an' mist 
 drifted across the wather, but the thrue Feargus 
 stepped into the end o' the boat, an' sat quiet 
 while she paddled back to the shore. Sort o' 
 dazed he was still, as he followed her up the 
 glen to where Cian was waitin' with their 
 horses, but not until he was fair in the moon- 
 light outside did he come to his right senses. 
 
 11 'Tis yerself, Cleena!" says he. 
 
 * ' Ay, ' ' says she. * ' A f ar road have I come to 
 find ye, father." 
 
 "An' 'tis love I'll be owin' ye all me days for
 
 66 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 that same/' says he. " Where is Kevin the 
 groom, an' me horses?" 
 
 " 'Tis Kevin is not worth the words ye 're 
 wastin' on him," says she. "An' as for the 
 horses, 'tis himself says that the Little People 
 had taken them while he was seekin' ye. Take 
 ye mine, an' save yer honour with Prince Conan, 
 an' I'll ride slow with Cian." 
 
 ' ' Nay, ' ' says the lad. ' ' Try first the power o ' 
 the huntin' horn." 
 
 Cleena took it from her neck an' held it out to 
 Feargus. An' at the blast he blew, out o' the 
 forest came the horses that had been lost by 
 Kevin. 
 
 "Lose no time," called Cian. " 'Tis nigh on 
 mornin', an' this seven days afther the sev- 
 enth." 
 
 "Then haste's our word," says Feargus. 
 
 An' quick into the saddles they sprung; an' 
 swift they rode across the hills to the road up 
 the river. 'Twas a long weary ride was before 
 them, but on they pushed, waitin' for neither 
 rest nor food; an' as the sun neared the trees to 
 the west, they rode to the ford. 
 
 An' there stood Conan o' flie Kingdom, with
 
 THE QUESTIN' 0' CLEENA 67 
 
 Princess Maurya by him. Sure, Feargus sprang 
 down an' held out the horn. An' says he 
 
 "Torcall refuses tribute, Prince Conan; but 
 'tis as yer friend I'll fight at yer side in the 
 battle where we overcome him. For if the Little 
 People helped ye at yer need, sure, 'tis meself 
 would never be here but for the aidin' of a slip 
 of a girl an' a bit of a lad." 
 
 So they clasped hands like sthrong men; an* 
 from the warriors o' King Murdough came a 
 great shout; an' into the castle they went with 
 high honour. 
 
 ["But Kevin the groom?" 
 
 "Sure, he slipped out o' the tale entirely, 
 for very shame; an' that's why I never 
 knew the bad end he came to."]
 
 ETHLENN o' THE MIST 
 
 ["Give me half a quartEer of a minute for 
 'thinkin', now; an' hear the rale old tale I'll 
 be afther tellin' yees, o' years long gone an' 
 far away. ' '] 
 
 IN the days when King Murdough held power 
 far an' wide, the River o' White Rapids flowed 
 from the far hills an' plunged down the cliffs 
 into the Sea o ' Moyle. 'Twas naught but a dot- 
 teen of a sthream where it started, as it might 
 ha' dhropped out o' the rain clouds; but afther 
 it reached the deep glen in the forest, it ran dark 
 an' swift, an' was ill to pass over, barrin' 'twas 
 at Ath nan Ciar. 
 
 The meanin ' o ' that same was the Ford o ' the 
 Shadow; an* 'twas a braver hunter nor most 
 that would near it afther sundown, for dread o'
 
 ETHLENN 0' THE MIST 69 
 
 meetin' Ethlenn o' tlie Mist. So it happened 
 that few had seen the grey roof o' her dwellin', 
 bein' content with the tales told of it. Yet was 
 there that in the tales which made many a man 
 dhream o* passin' the ford an* winnin' her. 
 
 Now 'twas late in the year, an' beginnin' to be 
 cool at dusk, when a man on a black horse came 
 ridin' up the long hill slopes an' through the low 
 bushes toward Ath nan Ciar ; an' no fearin' was 
 in his heart. 'Twas a windless night, an' sound 
 o ' his comin' carried far ; even to where Ethlenn 
 sat in her hall with her three maids, before a 
 pile o' burnin' logs. 
 
 One was spinnin' threads o' silver like moon- 
 light on wather; an' one was standin' weavin' 
 in a loom ; an' the third, that was kneelin' in the 
 firelight, was playin' on a golden harp the song 
 o' the sea waves breakin' on the shelvin' sand. 
 But Ethlenn sat lookin' into the leapin' flames. 
 
 An' says the one that was spinnin' 
 
 "A sthrong lad was he that came in the dawn, 
 but where is he now?" 
 
 Then the girl that wove in the loom an- 
 swered 
 
 "He sits by the ford, with a cold wound in his
 
 70 THE SONS J CORMAC 
 
 arm. An' 'twill be a lesson to Mm to hold his 
 hands from Ethlenn o' the Mist." 
 
 But Ethlenn said naught. 
 
 Then spoke again the maid who was spin- 
 nin' 
 
 "An' sure, 'twas a stout soldier that waded 
 the ford at the noon, but where is he now?" 
 
 The girl that knelt playin' sad on the harp 
 answered her 
 
 "He lies by the Eiver o' White Eapids, with 
 the cold above his heart; an' never again will he 
 think to grasp Ethlenn o' the Mist an' force her 
 to follow him. Like clear glass in runnin' 
 wather she was gone from his sight; an' the 
 chill touch is with him in rememberin'." 
 
 An' Ethlenn laid her little white hand like a 
 blossom it was on a knife that hung nTEer 
 girdle, gleamin' like clear crystal. At last she 
 spoke lookin' in the deep o' the fire. 
 
 " 'Tis the sound o' horse's feet beyant the 
 ford I'm hearin'." 
 
 The spinner rested her distaff an' hearkened. 
 
 "Nay," says she; " 'tis but the beatin' o' the 
 surf at the foot o' the cliff."
 
 ETHLENN 0' THE MIST 71 
 
 "An* I hear the voice of a man urgin' his 
 horse to the ford." 
 
 The weaver leaned her head back an* was still, 
 while the fire-sparks flew up. 
 
 " 'Tis naught but the moanin' o' the night 
 owls, Lady Ethlenn," says she, an* turned to 
 her loom. 
 
 "An* sure, 'tis the clankin' of armour is in me 
 ears, an' one stands by the door waitin' to 
 knock ! ' ' called out Ethlenn. 
 
 "Who dares?" cried the harp player, 
 sthrikin' a wild note ; an* all sprang to their feet 
 as they heard a sudden rappin' without. 
 
 None moved, but in another breath the door 
 was flung wide, an' on the threshold stood a tall, 
 sthrong soldier. The light from within shone on 
 his armour, all made o' linked silver rings; an* 
 his face was that o' one well used to com- 
 mandin'. He looked for a time at Ethlenn, won- 
 dherin' no more at the tales told o' her beauty. 
 
 She glanced at him, careless like, an' turned 
 back to her seat by the hearth her pale brown 
 hair fallin' wavin' round her from the circlet o' 
 gold on her head like the cloud above a wather- 
 fall; an' the long lashes drooped over her dark
 
 72 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 eyes as she had no thought o' the sthranger in 
 her haU. 
 
 An' the spinner sent her distaff twirlin' on; 
 an' on flew the shinin' shuttle through the web in 
 the loom; but the third an' Deoin was her 
 name let her harp fall clangin' to the floor as 
 she faced him. 
 
 "Yer will?" says she, comin' forward. 
 
 " 'Tis by no will o' mine I come, but for car- 
 ryin' a word from King Murdough, over-lord on 
 the shores o ' Moyle, ' ' answered the warrior. 
 
 "Is he over-lord o' the mist an' the shadow!" 
 asked the one weavin', standin' slendher an* 
 proud at the loom. 
 
 "Nay; an' for that am I come to Lady Eth- 
 lenn to ask o' her what none other can grant." 
 
 At that Ethlenn turned her head an' signed 
 him to a bench before her. 
 
 "Yer name?" she asked. 
 
 * ' Cathal o ' the Mountain, ' ' answered the man, 
 seatin ' himself. An ' a chill f eelin ' went through 
 the sthrong heart o' him, when he reached out 
 his hands to warm them, an' found no more heat 
 in the flames than if they'd been rays o' moon- 
 light. But Ethlenn laughed.
 
 ETHLENN 0' THE MIST 73 
 
 "An' what will King Murdough of Ethlenn?" 
 " 'Tis yer power for aidin' Conan o' the 
 Kingdom lie asks," says Cathal, settin' his mind 
 not to fear her. "Many days ago he sent to 
 Torcall the Dane, demandin' the tribute due. 
 An' Torcall, seein' in his harbour the long ships 
 o' Sitric Silverbeard, his brother, laughed in 
 scornin' o' Murdough; an' Feargus the Black, 
 who rode with the message, could ill win back to 
 the King. So there was much talkin' o' war 
 through the land, an' many men o' stout heart 
 gathered round the castle o' Murdough. 'Twas 
 thirty an' more that rode with me; an' many 
 more with other chiefs. An' with Conan to lead, 
 we took the road o ' the river to the sea. 
 
 "Now Feargus, that before had been enemy 
 to Prince Conan, fought beside him as by a 
 brother; an' each made a vow to stand by the 
 other in war an' in time o' peace, swearin' be- 
 fore the crossed staff an' serpent. Then Kevin 
 the groom, that Feargus had beaten for mis- 
 treatin' his horse, slipped off an' told all to Tor- 
 call, within the town. HI be to him for that 
 same, for by night came the Danes, an' took 
 Feargus sleepin', an' carried him on a boat, an'
 
 74 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 so to the Long Wave, where Sitric has him in 
 keepin', threatenin' to put knife to his heart if 
 Conan tries rescue, or does harm to the town o' 
 Torcall." 
 
 "But why come to me?" asked Ethlenn. 
 
 "For this. All men know the power of Eth- 
 lenn over mist an* shadow; an' would ye come 
 with me to the shore, an' dhraw down clouds to 
 hide the sea, we might reach the ships an' bring 
 Feargus safe out o' their hands. 'Tis no aid in 
 fightin' we're askin', but the chance for fair 
 battlin' with the Danes." 
 
 Ethlenn rose to her feet, an' in her eyes was 
 the comin' storm. Her dress, that had been 
 white as foam undher the moon, now showed 
 grey as wreaths o' fog creepin' up on the sand, 
 an' her dagger seemed a sharp icicle. 
 
 "Met ye any on yer way?" she asked. 
 
 "Ay," answered Cathal. "Two from the 
 court o' Murdough, that started on this same 
 errand to ye, but fell by the way. Wherefore 
 had I more need to press on." 
 
 "An' was it for that sake I was to be dragged 
 from shelter an' carried prisoner to Prince 
 Conan?" cried Ethlenn, the wind risin' sudden
 
 ETHLENN 0' THE MIST 75 
 
 an' shriekin' round the outer walls as she spoke. 
 An' the three that served her left their places 
 an' came nigher. But Cathal stood firm. 
 
 "May sore hurt come to them that would have 
 done it," says he. "Lyin' knaves are any who 
 put ill deeds at the door o' Conan. 'Tis o' yer 
 free will ye shall come or stay. As for those 
 who came before me, me hand shall pay them." 
 
 Then Ethlenn was silent, an* all that looked 
 to her. Even the risin' wind waited on her 
 words. At last she spoke 
 
 "That payin' is done, Cathal o' the Moun- 
 tain. 'Tis for many a day they will be mindin ' 
 the reckonin' of Ethlenn. An' here is me word 
 for yer fair speakin'. Here stand I, Ethlenn o' 
 the Mist; an' a sthrong warrior are ye, Cathal. 
 If ye can set me on yer horse fairly, I will ride 
 with ye to the camp o' Conan, an' raise mist to 
 cover the waves. If ye fail, ye shall go from 
 here without hurt; an' if ye win, I look to ye to 
 give me free returnin' when I have aided Prince 
 Conan." 
 
 Now Cathal was watchin' close, an' before she 
 had fair ended speakin' he shouted "Me word 
 for it!" an' sprang to grasp her. The three
 
 76 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 maids laughed an' turned each to her task, not 
 fearin' for Ethlenn. 
 
 As Cathal's arms met where she had been, 
 Ethlenn was gone. He sudden remembered the 
 tales told o' her; how she could change her 
 seemin' in the eyes o' those that would hold her, 
 by the power lyin' in her shinin' knife. So for 
 all the seemin' he held fast, knowin' that she 
 was there, an' feelin' what he could not see. 
 
 When he still kept his hold, the first maid 
 laughed, an' there in his arms lay a sheaf o' 
 red roses, an' their sharp thorns pierced his 
 armour. 
 
 Still he held fast. Then the second maid 
 called out a wild word, an' the roses were gone, 
 an' through his arms fluttered many little small 
 birdeens, flyin' in his face, an' fair takin' his 
 breath. Yet quick he caught one in his hand 
 an' clasped it close, for all it pecked him like a 
 wild fierce thing. Then Deoin sthruck her harp, 
 an' the birds were away, an' rain an' chilly sleet 
 were beatin' over him, an' all the hall was dark. 
 He came nigh to lettin' go, then, but in his palm 
 he caught some dhrops o' wather, an' covered 
 it sure with the other.
 
 ETHLENN O' THE MIST 77 
 
 Then all disappeared, an' the pale fire shone 
 out again; an' while there was still no sign of 
 Ethlenn, he sudden felt somethin' catch in the 
 rings o' Eis armour. Swift he put down his 
 hand, an' 'twas the ice cold hilt o' the crystal 
 dagger. An' as he grasped it, there stood 
 Ethleen with fear in her eyes. 
 
 "Give me the dagger!" she cried, "an' I'll 
 ride with ye. 'Tis o ' no use to ye alone." 
 
 "When ye 're fair seated on me horse," 
 laughed Cathal, knowin' that he'd won. 
 
 Without a word more, she was out o' the hall 
 like a blown feather, to where the black horse 
 was waitin'. Cathal leaped to the saddle an' 
 swung her up before him; then put the knife 
 in her girdle o' threaded pearls. Off they gal- 
 loped under clear moonlight, past the Ford o' 
 the Shadow; an' swift along the river bank to 
 where Conan's men were gathered. 
 
 There was cryin' o' welcome, but Conan lost 
 no time. Quick he led her to the shore, an' 
 pointed to the warships lyin' dark under the 
 moon. 
 
 "Give us the boar din' o' them, an' choose
 
 78 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 what reward ye will from King Murdough, 
 Lady Ethlenn," says he. 
 
 Then the smile glinted in her eyes, an' she 
 ran her white hands through her silken hair; 
 an' before any knew whence it came, the sea 
 was covered with heavy fog, an' the moon 
 peered among clouds. Conan an' his men ran 
 to the waitin' boats, an' paddled from shore; 
 but Ethlenn sat on a rock, partin' her wavin' 
 hair. Once an' twice came the clashin' o' 
 swords on shields o' bronze, through the dark- 
 ness; an' at last up rose a wild shoutin' for 
 joy, an' the boats swept inshore, with Feargus 
 in the foremost. Conan o' the Kingdom sprang 
 to the beach an' spoke to her that had given 
 help 
 
 "Have yer will; for 'tis ye that gave us the 
 victory, " says he. 
 
 "Leave to return whence I was brought," 
 says she, an' would have naught else. Then 
 Cathal spoke. 
 
 "It is right o' mine to carry her home." 
 
 The two looked long in each other's eyes, an' 
 at last Ethlenn shook her head. 
 
 "Nay, Cathal. Give me the horse, but 'tis
 
 ETHLENN 0' THE MIST 79 
 
 for ye to stay here for the fightin'. When the 
 battle is won, come in friendship where ye came 
 doubtin'." Springin' to the saddle, she rode 
 away up the river bank. But in the hand o' 
 Cathal lay the dagger o' crystal, an' he was 
 content. 
 
 ["But what happened after the fighting was 
 over?" 
 
 "Ah, sure, 'tis unsafe to be guessin' 
 about Ethlenn. She might hear yees. So 
 be off, an' make yer feet yer f rinds."]
 
 VI 
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GEAIN 
 
 ["Ay, wakin', sleepin', or dhreamin', 'tis for- 
 ever an' more tales ye'd be afther heark- 
 enin' to. Wait till the day when I tell yees 
 what came once of askin' for too many o' 
 them. No, not the now. 'Tis a far other 
 sort I've in mind this morn's morninV] 
 
 'TWAS Keevan Sthrong-arm ruled the men o' 
 the north, toward the sea-loughs. High up on 
 the steep o' the cliff stood his walled tower; an' 
 from the top o' that same he could see far out 
 across the old sea, where few ships ventured, 
 barrin' the Danes o' the North Isles. 
 
 Now 'twas for no fearin' o' the Danes for 
 himself that he made thick walls an' sthrong 
 doors to his tower; but for guardin' his 
 daughter, Ardanna, that was sought by many, 
 far an' wide. A wilful maid was that, for a 
 
 80
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 81 
 
 king's daughter an' ill fared it with all who 
 came courtin' her. Many a stout young war- 
 rior she turned away sorrowin' ; yet all the days 
 she was growin' fairer an' more contrary. 
 
 At last came an hour when Keevan sat in his 
 high seat an' looked down the long room. An* 
 'twas none but greybeards he saw. 
 
 "What has come to me fightin' men?'' says 
 he to Manis, that was wisest o' those in his 
 court. 
 
 " "Us for lovin' Ardanna too well they've 
 fared off in the world to seek forgettin'," says 
 Manis, shakin' his old head. 
 
 Keevan stood up in a rage, an* turned to 
 Ardanna, where she sat braidin* a ribbon into 
 her dark hair, an' smilin' to her own thought. 
 
 " 'Tis wed to a sthrong man ye should have 
 been this many a day past!" he cried, "an' 'tis 
 long enough I've had patience with ye! Now 
 'tis a task I'll be afther settin', an' that man 
 who wins through it shall ye wed, be he young 
 or old, warrior or herd boy. Else shall ye serve 
 in field an' kitchen, bringin' wood an' carryin' 
 wather, with none to aid. ' ' 
 
 Then the laughin' left the eyes of Ardanna.
 
 82 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 Small wish had she for labouring yet anger was 
 overpowerin' all else in her heart, an' at her 
 lips were Iscornin' words as she glanced at the 
 old men sittin' half sleepin'. Half minded was 
 she to lay aside rich robes an' rare jewels, an' 
 be off to draw wather by the river's shore, 
 stayin' free from marryin'. 
 
 A sudden stirrin' came at the outer gate; an' 
 in another stroke o' time two men were standin' 
 within the door o' the great hall o' Keevan 
 Sthrong-arm. Dressed in green they were, an' 
 so like that scarce could any have told one from 
 ^the other. Each had a bright sword hangin' 
 at his side; an' over their broad shouldhers fell 
 the long, yellow hair, curlin' fine as gold. 
 
 Ardanna stood lookin' at them, half fearin' 
 what might be comin'; but Keevan strode down 
 to greet them. 
 
 " 'Tis in a good hour ye've come to me roof," 
 says he. "I've somewhat to tell in the ears 
 o' them that choose to hearken, be they friends 
 or foes. Here stands Ardanna, daughter o' 
 mine. Fair to see is she, yet through her folly 
 have many good men gone from me. Hear this 
 word not given lightly. The hand of Ardanna
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 83 
 
 shall be for him who gathers wild apples an' 
 harvests golden grain in the high valley o ' Rinn, 
 an' brings them to me." 
 
 The foremost o' the two turned eager to his 
 brother 
 
 " 'Tis a quest for us," says he. 
 
 1 'Ay," answered the other, "if it so please 
 the Lady Ardanna." 
 
 Wondherin' she was at seein' two men so near 
 like in face an' bearin'. 
 
 ''An' if ye both win through?" she asked. 
 
 "Then shall ye set us another task, an' it 
 may be one afther that. No thought had we o' 
 provin' strength against each other; but now 
 must it be seen which of us be the man worthy 
 of Ardanna the wayward." 
 
 'Twas red as sundown her cheeks grew at that 
 word, knowin' it well merited ; but Keevan shook 
 with a mighty laugh. 
 
 "As ye have said, so shall it be," says he. 
 "An' now what man's men are ye?" 
 
 "The men o' no man livm'," says the fore- 
 most, "now that Ingri, our father, lives no 
 longer, an' the home of our dwellin' lies wasted 
 with fire. Fionn am I, an' this, at me side, is
 
 84 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 Fergal. In the same hour were we born; an* 
 the quest is ours, Keevan Sthrong-arm. " 
 
 "I have said it," answered Keevan, gruff 
 like. He called servin' men, an' set the two 
 brothers" down to great platters o' roasted meat; 
 an' Ardanna brought stone flagons o' foamin' 
 mead, one to each man. So they ate an' drank 
 like stout heroes, till hunger an' thirst were 
 past. 
 
 Up beyant sat Keevan, his chin restin' in his 
 hand, an' his heavy beard coverin' both like 
 driftin' snow. 
 
 "If ye are as like in strength as in face an' 
 body, 'twill be a long day before Ardanna is 
 safe wedded," says he. 
 
 "Ay, but Fergal, me brother, has more power 
 of arm than I," says Fionn. 
 
 "An' great wisdom has Fionn, beyant aught 
 o' mine," laughed Fergal. 
 
 Then Ardanna, sittin' in shadow, saw wherein 
 they differed. For while Fergal, that was more 
 hardy, had eyes laughin' an' eager, Fionn sat 
 ever watchful an' cool, waitin' for what should 
 come. Yet through all else was a lovin' between 
 them that would not be hidin'.
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 85 
 
 Now the night came on, an' in the great hall 
 was singin' an' harpin'; an' the blaze o' logs 
 on the wide hearth lighted up all around. By 
 Ardanna sat her old nurse, Mor, that knew 
 many things hidden from wise men. An' says 
 Ardanna to her, whisperin' 
 
 ''Is there no charm to aid the man who would 
 gather wild apples in the high valley o' Einn?" 
 
 Mor bent her head, an' thought long. At last 
 she plucked three long hairs from the flowin' 
 locks o' Princess Ardanna. 
 
 "Bind them in a sheaf with these, twisted 
 thrice; an' safe will they be brought home to 
 Keevan. ' ' 
 
 Ardanna glanced round, an' passed careless 
 like across the hall to where sat Fergal. An' 
 while none were noticin', she gave him the three 
 hairs, an' told him the charm, scarce breathin'. 
 
 Fergal opened wide eyes. 
 
 "An' where is the man can bind apples in a 
 sheaf?" says he; but careful that none should 
 be afther hearin'. 
 
 "That I know not," says Ardanna. " 'Tis 
 the counsel o' Mor, who sees clear what is hid- 
 den from many with great wisdom."
 
 86 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 Then Fergal nodded, content an' smilin', an' 
 laid the three hairs, coiled in a ring, in his 
 huntin' pouch. He kissed the little soft hand 
 that had given them; an' Ardanna thought to 
 herself how a sthrong man would be a safe- 
 guard between her and all ills. 
 
 In the meantime Keevan Sthrong-arm was 
 talkin' low an' earnest with Manis, that had 
 told him the raison o' many forsakin' him. An' 
 afther much colloguin' he beckoned Fionn to 
 come near. An' says he, lowerin' his voice 
 
 " 'Twill take more wisdom nor strength to 
 be masther o ' the will o ' the wilful. Ill is golden 
 grain to harvest in the high valley o' Einn. 
 Take ye this little small net o' silk, an' in it 
 ye may bring home what would slip through 
 finer holes." 
 
 Fionn stared at him, mazed like ; but wisdom 
 was his not to speak when words served no 
 purpose, an' he gathered the little small net 
 in his hand, an' folded it beneath his belt. An' 
 afther that all went to rest. 
 
 When morn began to light the tops o' the 
 eastern hills, Fionn and Fergal stood before the 
 gate o' the tower, with Keevan an' Princess
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 87 
 
 Ardanna, an' all who served their will, waitin* 
 to see the champions ride on their questin'. 
 
 Wilful still was the face o' the girleen that 
 was cause for their goin ' ; but when at last both 
 kissed her hand, an' rode off lightly to meet 
 the risin' sun, she went to the top o' the tower, 
 an' knelt there on the cold, rough stones, 
 watchin' their goin' till naught could be seen 
 more for the turnin' o' the road. 
 
 A long ride was it to the hills, an' hot was 
 the sun as it came up overhead. When the 
 shadows began to turn before them, they saw 
 a tall cliff fornenst them, an' hills risin' ever 
 above it. 
 
 " There lies the high valley o' Einn," says 
 Fionn, musin' to himself. 
 
 "An' how may we best reach it!" asked Fer- 
 gal. " "Pis far an' away over our heads." 
 
 "There is but one road," says Fionn, "an' 
 that the cliffside. Here must we leave our 
 horses, an' climb up how we may, for the hon- 
 ourin' of Ardanna." 
 
 So both dismounted, an' tied the weary horses 
 in the shade, where was runnin' wather near by. 
 
 Fionn thought o' the little small net, an' said
 
 88 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 naught; but Fergal put his hand in his pouch, 
 an' touched the circle o' fine hair. "For hon- 
 ourin' Ardanna!" says he, an' was off swift 
 to the foot o* the cliff. Fionn was ready at his 
 heels, an' up they sprang, leapin' across hol- 
 lows, an' swingin' themselves up by holdin' to 
 the points o' rock. 
 
 Once the foot o' Fionn slipped on a loose peb- 
 ble, an' naught saved his fallin' back but the 
 swift hand an' sthrong o' Fergal, reached out 
 to save. An' again was Fergal nigh to throwin' 
 his full weight on the branch of an ill-rooted 
 bush, but was warned by the sharp cry o ' Fionn, 
 his brother. 
 
 'Twas a weary sthruggle before they reached 
 the top o' the cliff, but neither could bide seein' 
 his brother laggin' behind without aidin' him; 
 an' as the sun's fire dipped into the western sea, 
 they stood with clasped hands watchin' it sink. 
 
 A wild counthry it was above there, with 
 tangled vines for thrippin ' their feet, an' thorny 
 bushes for hindherin' goin.' 
 
 "Wiser to sleep now, an' start the task by 
 full day," counselled Fionn, an' Fergal nodded;
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 89 
 
 so they rested on the coarse grass, sleepin' 
 sound as in the tower o' Keevan Sthrong-arm. 
 
 At the first glint o' dawn they were on their 
 feet, eager an' glowin'. 
 
 "Each choose a path/' says Fergal, "an* 
 meet here when the sun is fair overhead." 
 
 1 ' Well thought, ' ' answered Fionn. ' Will ye 
 go north or south?" 
 
 " Southward is the way o' the wind," says 
 Fergal. "I face it to the north." 
 
 "I follow it toward the south," says Fionn; 
 an' they parted, each breakin' way for himself 
 through the bushes. 
 
 Now the valley o' Einn was bound about with 
 higher walls o' rock that no man livin' could 
 pass beyant, an' 'twas o' no great length nor 
 breadth. So just at noon the two brothers came 
 crashin' through the undergrowth, an' met 
 facin'. 
 
 "Here is me sheaf o' golden grain," says 
 Fergal, pantin' with the weight o' the burden. 
 An' "Here are wild apples for Keevan," 
 laughed Fionn, droppin' them on the grass from 
 a fold o' his cloak. 
 
 "Let them lie here," says Fergal. "None
 
 90 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 will lay hand on them while ye search for ripe 
 grain, where I found a plenty growin' to the 
 north; an' I'll look to the south for the wild 
 apples growin'." 
 
 " 'Tis a wise word," says Fionn; so not 
 waitin' for eatin', or for aught but a sup o' cold 
 wather from a little sthream that ran down the 
 cliff-side, they parted again, an' went their 
 ways. An* 'tis a thrue word that never in all 
 the valley o' Einn could Fergal come on a tree 
 o' wild apples; nor for all his searchin' could 
 Fionn meet with a stalk o' yellow grain to put 
 in his net. Worn an' footsore they sat at last 
 in the place where they'd slept, lookin' each at 
 what his brother had brought. 
 
 "A queer task is this," says Fergal at last. 
 "Aisy what was of it, but little for our pains. 
 An' to which will Keevan Sthrong-arm give the 
 princess ? ' ' 
 
 "Time enough for that when we've our har- 
 vestin' safe in his tower," says Fionn. 
 
 "Ay, but a light matther is the goin' back," 
 laughed Fergal. 
 
 "Wait an' see," says Fionn; an' stoopin' 
 together, each took up his burden an' started
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 91 
 
 to climb down the cliff, for no other path was 
 known. 
 
 Ill farm' was it; an' before long Fionn gave 
 a sthrange cry. Fergal, lookin' across to him, 
 saw a fearsome sight. The apples, happed up 
 in his cloak, were sendin' up tall shoots o' green, 
 an' branches growin' ever thicker; an' 'twas 
 vain for Fionn to grasp them to him. With a 
 spring, Fergal reached his side, an' catchin' the 
 three hairs from his pouch, twisted them thrice 
 an' threw them in the branches. An' on the 
 instant they were bound together in a sheaf, an' 
 the weight o' them was gone entirely, so that 
 Fionn had no more throuble in gettin' down 
 the rocks. 
 
 But now 'twas Fergal 's turn to need helpin'. 
 As he grasped the golden grain more firm like, 
 all sudden his feet were tangled with the roots 
 it sent down, an' he stumbled an' nigh went 
 crashin' down to his death. 
 
 Fionn, lookin' back, saw his plight, an* for 
 a breath he waited, rememberin' Princess 
 Ardanna. Then he dashed away the evil 
 dhreamin', an' quick as light he drew the net 
 from his belt, flinging it round the sproutin*
 
 92 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 grain. An' the roots were all caught in; an* 
 Fergal reached the ground below with ne'er a 
 slip afther. 
 
 Few words passed between them as they 
 mounted horse an' rode westward; but as they 
 came to the turn in the road, Fionn drew rein, 
 an' Fergal likewise. 
 
 "Ardanna should be for ye," says Fionn, 
 "for ye carry her the great sheaf o' golden 
 grain, an' I found ne'er a stalk." 
 
 "By yer aid I won it," says Fergal. "An' 
 ye found wild apples where I saw none afther." 
 
 "An' would have been over the cliff had ye 
 not aided in time," says Fionn. 
 
 " "Tis fair foolery for us to try rivallin'," 
 says Fergal, "yet where 's him shall settle it!" 
 
 "Wait," says Fionn. " 'Twas Keevan gave 
 me the net that lies across yer grain." 
 
 "An' 'twas Ardanna's self laid three hairs 
 in me hand for bindin* wild apples," says 
 Fergal. 
 
 "Ay, there lies the puzzle solved," cried 
 Fionn. "Moreover, 'twas in me mind to leave 
 ye without helpin' on the cliff-side, an' foul
 
 WILD APPLES AN' GOLDEN GRAIN 93 
 
 shame would it have been to me. Wherefore 
 is this word a just one. For me was the thought 
 o ' Keevan ; but for ye is the heart of Ardanna. ' ' 
 An' together they rode to the gate o' the sea- 
 ward tower, an* Fergal carried in the burdens 
 an* laid them at the feet o' Keevan ; but off into 
 the sunny world rode Fionn, singin' a gay song 
 to seek fairer fortune with a light heart 
 for knowin' that he had won naught by faith- 
 lessness.
 
 VII 
 
 KING DIAEMID AN' POL 
 
 ["Be off now, for I'll not lave me work waitin' 
 while I'm rubbin' me brain to think of old 
 wives' talk! Betther to let me go out, 
 peaceable like, as Pol said to King Diarmid, 
 in place o' holdin' yer nursery door to kape 
 me in. A ah, sure an' 'tis in for it I am, 
 af ther that careless word ; so sit down, with 
 yer red apples to roast, an' hearken while 
 I tell ye how it came about."] 
 
 'TWAS mighty fond o' money was King Diar- 
 mid. Not for spendin' it on rich clothing or 
 to have a fine place for livin' in, or to have a 
 grand big army at his beckonin'; but just for 
 sake o' savin' it an' pilin' it up in his sthrong 
 room that was the only shpot in all his castle 
 not leakin' at the roof an' four sides, an' lettin' 
 in rain that aisy. 
 
 94
 
 KING DIARMID AN' P6L 95 
 
 Sure, so little was he for gettin' the good o' 
 that pile o' gold, that he went abroad in a faded 
 old doublet that was scarce holdin' together, 
 but for bein' mended every day by Queen 
 Dorcha ; an' the storms beat in free on the floors 
 o' the old tumble-down castle, where the laste 
 bit o' wind shook the doors an' windows nigh 
 to fallin' in; an' his servin' men an' his soldiers 
 were paid so ill that 'twas scant good he got 
 o' them. 
 
 Even his sons went off to far lands to seek 
 fortune, havin' small likin' for stayin' with him 
 an' nigh on starvin' (forbye they went huntin', 
 unbeknownst like, an' roasted their game over 
 a fire o' sticks in the forest). But never a bit 
 matthered all that to King Diarmid, while his 
 pile o' sacks o' money was fillin' his sthrong 
 room half to the rafters, an' the great heavy 
 iron key (the one bit o' shaped iron in the castle 
 not red with rustin') hung safe at his belt, ready- 
 for usin' day or night. 
 
 Now fine sthrong young men were his sons, 
 an* good at leapin' an' wrestlin' an' fightin' 
 too; an' as long as they were bidin' in that 
 part o' the counthry, none dreamed o' meddlin'
 
 96 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 with King Diarmid; but when the neighbourin' 
 kings and high chieftains learned that no longer 
 would any o' them stay near his father, an' that 
 Diarmid 's fightin' men were growin' fewer each 
 day that dawned, they minded the tales told o ' 
 the raison o' that same, an' began to think how 
 pleasin' 'twould be to see his bags o' gold hop- 
 pin' into their own keepin' that would know 
 well how to make betther use o' them. 
 
 So all looked round to search out good ex- 
 cuses for invadin' his lands; an' before long 
 'twas every few days some train o' men in 
 armour came riding up to the castle o ' Diarmid, 
 wantin' him to pay for some hurt done by his 
 people. An' while Diarmid knew 'twas but 
 shammin' to wring gold from him, yet so scant 
 was his army, an' so full o' discontent, that he 
 dared not threaten resistin', for fearin' he'd 
 need to pay up his soldiers before they'd be 
 afther fightin' his battles. 
 
 He tried puttin' off their claimin' with soft 
 words an' excuses, but ever an' always they 
 came again, an' with more men at their backs, 
 demandin' gold. An' at last came a day when 
 payin' had to be done, whatever came next, for
 
 KING DIARMID AN' POL 97 
 
 men o' three kingdoms were battherin' at his 
 gates, that would stand but little o' such threat- 
 ment. Mournin' he was as he sent word for 
 openin' the doors an' lettin' them in; an' a 
 long face was his, as he stood peerin' at a little 
 hole in the wall, watchin' them ridin' away 
 afther, each by his own road, an' carrying the 
 good gold before them on their saddle-bows. 
 
 He locked up the low iron door, an' raged 
 round somethin' fearful, so that poor Queen 
 Dorcha was dreadin' lest her life might go next. 
 When he had made an end o' stravagin' an' 
 dancin' furious up stairs an' down the halls, he 
 went out an' sat at the cross roads talkin' to 
 himself. 
 
 " 'Tis a beggar I'll be before me hour!" 
 says he. "An' me ungrateful sons leavin' me 
 to be plundhered unmerciful like. An' when 
 those villains o' King Mahon an' King Duvan 
 an' his brother get home an' tell their masthers 
 that I've gold laid up, 'tis no peace o' me life 
 I'll be havin'. An' none to turn to for tellin' 
 me what to do to get the betther o' them an' 
 their plottin' to rob me." 
 
 Now while he was sittin' lamentin' he heard
 
 98 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 a quare small sound behind him, in the long 
 grass ; an' whippin' round quick an' unexpected, 
 he caught sight o' somethin' scarlet slippin' 
 past him. Sudden as a flash he reached for it ; 
 an' though he lost balance an* went heels over 
 head off the stone where he'd been perchin', 
 yet when he picked himself up an' shook the 
 dust from his old duds, he was still holdin* on 
 to the bit o' red, that was a wee small pointed 
 cap. 
 
 He looked at it, in an' outside, as if he was 
 hopin' to find gold in it; an' then an odd bit 
 of a voice piped up 
 
 " 'Tis me cap o' power ye 're squeezin' in 
 yer big awkward hands. Give it to me, or may 
 evil follow ye all the way ye go sittin' or 
 standin' or goin' an' payin' gold." 
 
 This last frighted King Diarmid, an' he 
 looked up from the wee thing, an' there in the 
 dust o ' the road stood none other than the king 
 o' the Little People, holdin' out his hand, an' 
 hoppin' from one foot to its mate for eagerness 
 to have his own again. But King Diarmid was 
 crafty, havin' heard much o' what the Little 
 People were able to do.
 
 KING DIARMID AN' POL 99 
 
 " What '11 ye give me for returnin' it!" 
 asked he. 
 
 "Whatever ye've a mind to ask for while 
 I'm afther countin' ten," says the little man; 
 an 'with that he began "One! Two! Three!" 
 an' thrue it was that King Diarmid could 
 think o' naught but what had been in his mind 
 the moment before. 
 
 "Some one to advise me how to get the bet- 
 ther o' they robbers," he gasped, fearin' that 
 he'd not get the words out fast enough. But 
 the little king laughed, with somethin' wickeder 
 nor words in the chuckle o' him. 
 
 "That I will," says he. "An' a fine coun- 
 sellor ye '11 be afther findin' him. Sure, Pol is 
 his name; an' advice is the very marrow o' his 
 bones an' the blood o' his body, so don't be 
 usin' him up too fast, an' be left wantin' him." 
 
 With that he pulled a wee, tiny dotteen of a 
 man from his own pouch, an* held him up like 
 a doll in his hand, 
 
 1 ' Grow bigger ! ' ' says he to that same. ' * Grow 
 bigger! Grow up! Grow up! I'm tellin' ye 
 what's for yer good. Grow up! Grow up!" 
 An' as he spoke the wee thing began to take on
 
 100 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 size; an* before King Diarmid 's eyes it sudden 
 grew to be as high as the king o' the Little 
 People, an' mighty like him to look at. 
 
 " 'Twas advice I was givin' him, ye see," 
 says the small king, settin' him down in the 
 road, an' snatchin' his cap. " 'Tis that he lives 
 on. But keep him on scant allowance, cautious 
 like, or he'll masther ye. On the other hand, 
 see that ye don't ask too much o' him at one 
 advisin', an' that ye follow the word he gives." 
 An' the bit king was gone like a puff o' smoke. 
 
 King Diarmid quick caught up the little coun- 
 sellor, an' ran home with him to the castle, an' 
 set him in a corner while he took breath. 
 
 "Ye must lodge me in a room where no rain 
 comes in," says Pol, lookin' round an' here an' 
 there at the broken windows an' the sinkin' 
 rafthers, an' at the holes in the roof where the 
 sun was pourin' in. 
 
 "But there's none, only me sthrong room," 
 says Diarmid, fearful for his store o' gold 
 pieces. 
 
 "Then must ye put me there," says the little 
 man. An' so it had to be. 
 
 Now before long, by heedin 1 the advisin' o'
 
 KING DIARMID AN' P6L 101 
 
 wee Pol, Bang Diarmid began to be gettin' even 
 with all his foes, an' his riches grew without 
 disturbing for he learned to be afther settin' 
 traps that showed all men trespassin' how he 
 was no more to be put upon. 
 
 But 'twas careful King Diarmid had to be; 
 for each time that he asked concernin' some- 
 thin', he saw the thing shrink a bit, an' grow 
 less, an' he remembered how the king o' the 
 Little People had warned him. He'd no idea 
 how to help matthers without riskin' makin' 
 him grow too big; yet 'twas not aisy to keep 
 from gettin' his relief from throubles, an' by 
 reason o' that he noticed, one day, that his 
 small man was but half the size he'd been. 
 
 "What shall I do with ye?" he asked, puzzled 
 dreadful. 
 
 "Put me out to sit in the middle o 9 the road," 
 says Pol, "an' hearken what comes next." 
 
 So Diarmid carried him out to the cross roads, 
 an' set him down; an' there he started up 
 howlin', so that all comin' by stopped to look. 
 
 "I've hurt me toe!" cried Pol the counsellor. 
 
 "Put it in the runnin' wather," says one. 
 
 "Bub it well," says another; an' the one
 
 102 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 afther had his own way o' curia* bruises with a 
 bit o' cobweb, an' told it to him. An' with each 
 piece of advisin' given him the creature grew 
 fatter an' taller, as it had been somethin' good 
 for eatin'. An' when he was as big as afore- 
 time, King Diarmid lugged him home again to 
 keep company with his bags o' riches, that had 
 grown till they nigh filled the sthrong room. 
 
 " 'Twas a dish of advice I was needin'," says 
 the wee thing. "Ye'd well nigh starved me for 
 want o' that same." 
 
 "An' what kind do ye like?" says Diarmid. 
 
 "Any that comes," was the answer. " 'Tis 
 all alike it tastes." So whenever the King 
 thought wee Pol was shrinkin' because o' givin' 
 him too much advice, he ricommended him to 
 tie his shoe, or to brush his coat, or somethin' 
 o' the sort; or talked serious to him about bein' 
 generous; an' he grew right away, an' throve 
 mightily. 
 
 Now a time came when his sons turned up 
 at the castle gate for to be afther visitin' their 
 old home. An' Diarmid kept the door o' his 
 money room fast locked, for fear o' their gettin' 
 any, or perhaps makin' friends with Pol, an'
 
 KING DIARMID AN' POL 103 
 
 gettin' advice about askin' their father for a 
 few gold pieces. 
 
 " 'Tis not goin' to do at all, keepin' me shut 
 up in here," says the little man. "Betther to 
 let me out." 
 
 "Not I," says Diarmid. "I've a wiser plan 
 nor that in me mind." 
 
 "Ay, but let me go peaceable," says P61. 
 
 "Keep ye still," says Diarmid; an' with that 
 word for his supper, the wee man had to be 
 content. 
 
 But him that was used to runnin' round the 
 castle at will, took ill to bein' behind bars; an' 
 all Bang Diarmid could get from him was, "Let 
 me out! let me out!" 
 
 Moreover, the sons were beginnin' to be curi- 
 ous about the sthrange thing that squealed in 
 beyant; an' asked more questions than Diarmid 
 found comfortin'. 
 
 There came a night when thunder rumbled 
 an' growled at a great rate; an' the lightnin' 
 was amazin ' bright. But when. King Diarmid 
 went in for his good-night peep at the little man, 
 all he could spy was a small dark thing perched 
 on the bags, up in a corner.
 
 104 THE SONS O 7 CORMAC 
 
 "I advise ye solemnly to let me out o' here, 
 or ye '11 repent it!" says the small voice o' him. 
 
 "When me sons is gone," answered Diarmid, 
 not even offerin' him advice on bein' silent, but 
 goin' out again an' fastenin' the door. An* 
 he an* his family sat down to what supper there 
 was. 
 
 An' now began a terrible racketin', drownin' 
 the roarin' o' thunder, an' the dhrippin' o' rain 
 on their supper table, by that same token. 
 'Twas "Let me out!" in a big voice first; then 
 1 t Let me out ! " in one fainter, till with it all ye 'd 
 ha' thought each stone in the cracked old castle 
 was shoutin' to get out pf its lodgin'. Hard 
 work had Diarmid to hold his sons from 
 searchin' to see what was wrong; but at last 
 the squealin' ceased, an' all was quiet. 
 
 But when that very next morn's mornin* 
 Diarmid went to speak with his counsellor, sure, 
 not a shadow o' Pol was to be found in any 
 chink; for he'd done naught less than squealin' 
 advice to King Diarmid to let him go free, till 
 he'd squealed himself body an' clothes an' 
 small red nose away into nothin' at all, an' 
 never was he seen more.
 
 KING DIARMID AN' POL 105 
 
 And King Diarmid had to take care of his 
 money all alone? " 
 
 "Ay, sure; an' ye '11 know now what they 
 mean when ye hear them sayin' that a man 
 shrinks from givin' advice. So be off while 
 there's enough o' me left to tend to me 
 weedin'."]
 
 VIII 
 
 FAIB ATLTNN 
 
 [''Hark, now, at the cowld wind blowing the 
 night! 'Tis fine an' thankful yees should 
 be feelin' to be in warm shelter, an' not 
 wandherin' abroad. Sit there by the fire, 
 an' roast yer nuts peaceable like, while I'm 
 afther tellin' yees what happened once, on 
 a night as like this as the two eyes in yer 
 faces."] 
 
 AY, 'twas a night worse nor this, that the wind 
 came howlin' an' bringin' the snow down from 
 the mountains an' pilin' it at the gates o' 
 Breogan the Bed. But little cared he for what 
 the wind might be doin'. 'Twas chieftain over 
 the men o' Lough Derg he was, an' his house 
 was sthrong built o' hewn oak; an' while the 
 roof was but low, the buildin ' was well shielded 
 round with walls of earth, like a fort. 
 
 106
 
 FAIR AILINN 107 
 
 In by a fine roarin' fire sat Breogan the Bed 
 though by that same token 'twas no longer 
 red, but white with years his hair was grown. 
 An' near him, at the feet o' one spinnin', sat 
 Aongas, his son, carvin' a cup for dhrinkin' 
 from a bit o' wood, while the men an' maids 
 went about their workin'. Breogan was 
 dhreamin' o' fightin' long past, an' Aongas bent 
 over his carvin', but ever an' often they turned 
 to look at Fair Ailinn, as she stood in the glow 
 o' the flames, dhrawin' the thread o' white wool 
 from her distaff. 
 
 Afther a bit she began to sing, an' so sweet 
 was that same that only one o ' the maids heard 
 a low knockin ' at the outer gate. She stole out, 
 quiet like, to find who was there an' without 
 stood an old man, carryin' a harp, an' seemin' 
 nigh perishin' with the cowld. She signed him 
 to pass into the hall, while she barred the gate 
 behind him; so alone he came to the doorway 
 an' stood watchin' Fair Ailinn with hungry 
 eyes. Never one looked up till he said 
 
 "Save all here." 
 
 Then all eyes turned to him, an' Ailinn, put- 
 tin' down distaff an' spindle, came forward an*
 
 108 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 led him to the fire, an' took his tatthered old 
 cloak, hangin' it to dhry. She bid a servin' 
 maid bring him meat an' dhrink, an' not till 
 he was warmed an' fed did any ask whither 
 he came. 
 
 " 'Tis a singer without a name I am," says 
 he to Breogan, "an' a wandherer over the land 
 to seek the one whose touch on me harp shall 
 bring me me heart's desire." 
 
 "An' what may that be?" asked Aongas, 
 lookin' up with fearless eyes like a young eagle ; 
 but the old man shook his head an' answered 
 naught. 
 
 "Have ye music in yer harp for us to hear?" 
 asked Breogan. 
 
 "Ay," says the man and sthruck so loud an' 
 clear a note that all ears were listenin' for 
 what might follow. Then, of a sudden like, he 
 broke into a war song, with the clash o ' swords 
 in every line singin' so sthrong an' fierce that 
 Aongas sprang to his feet with eyes flashin' 
 as he had seen battle nigh. 
 
 "Too rare a singer ye are to be wandherin' 
 in storm an ' sleet, ' ' says Breogan. ' ' Stay here
 
 FAIR AILINN 109 
 
 while ye will." An' Fair Ailinn brought him 
 a great horn o' mead. 
 
 Then he swept the sthrings again, an' 'twas 
 a lament for warriors fallen in battle, an' the 
 keenin' o' women was never so sad as that same. 
 An' Breogan shaded his face with his hand, not 
 carin' to let any see how he was feelin'. 
 
 Now afther a time the harper rested from 
 playin', an' sat on the bench by the fire, leanin' 
 his harp on his knee. An' says Aongas 
 
 "Why for have ye no head carved on the 
 pillar o' yer harpf 'Tis naught but a shapeless 
 block." 
 
 "For that I have not found me heart's de- 
 sire," says he. "But old I'm growin', an' no 
 longer shall it be without form. Give me leave 
 to carve on it the head o' yer fair daughter, 
 Breogan, son o' Cennedigh." 
 
 "Leave have ye, though no child o' mine is 
 she save in lovin'. The light o' me house has 
 she been since the day when I found her lyin* 
 sleepin', a lost birdeen, on the shores o' Lough 
 Derg." An' Breogan laid his hand on her hair 
 like floss o' black silk it was as she knelt 
 by him. AJI' she looked up, with love in her
 
 110 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 smilin '. Then the old harper caught the gravin* 
 knife from the hand of Aongas. 
 
 "Bide as ye are, Fair Ailinn, till I've the 
 image o' yer face carven (hit," he cried; an* 
 all in the hall pressed nigher to see what he 
 would do. 
 
 An' while Aongas was betther nor many at 
 the shapin' o' wood an' horn an* bone, yet he 
 could do naught to compare with this. As they 
 stood gazin', the very face o' Fair Ailinn seemed 
 to grow from out the block o' wood, even to the 
 soft curl on her fair forehead, an the shinin' 
 jewel in her ear. 
 
 Aongas looked long, an' turned away sore 
 against his will; but the hour had come when 
 'twas his care to watch at the gate till morn, 
 an' he went out to his post. 
 
 "Bare skill ye have, harper without a name," 
 says Breogan, "an' if gold can buy the work 
 o ' yer hands, 'tis for ye to name yer price. ' ' 
 
 "Wait," answered the harper. "Wait an' 
 hearken." 
 
 Then as they strained their ears for listenin', 
 came tremblin' on the air a sound soft as the 
 singin' o' Fair Ailinn, or the rustle o' wind
 
 FAIR AILINN 111 
 
 in the deep o' the ferns. An' the men an* maids 
 ceased their comin' an' goin', an' sank speech- 
 less on the benches round the hall ; an Breogan 
 nodded drowsy like an' the head o' Fair Ailinn 
 drooped lower, restin' on his knee an' all 
 under the roof, f orebye the harper himself, were 
 too heavy in sleep for dhreamin'. 
 
 One last note he touched, an* up rose Fair 
 Ailinn, her sweet eyes fast closed, an' came 
 toward him like a white mist blown across run- 
 nin' wather. The face o' the harper was full 
 o' wild triumphin'. 
 
 "Gold first," he cried. "Give it in me 
 hands!" 
 
 He pushed the harp so that her soft fingers 
 rested on the sthrings, an' as a note wavered, 
 there were his withered old hands heaped with 
 shinin' money. 
 
 " 'Tis me heart's desire!" he shouted, 
 knowin' that none could wake to hear. He 
 lifted the harp, an* stepped backward toward 
 the door, playin' a song so wild an' so sthrange 
 that Fair Ailinn followed, ever nigher to that 
 harp whose head was like the shadow o' her 
 own in the dyin' firelight, till in a breath she
 
 112 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 vanished, an* naught remained but the image. 
 Quick the old man threw his ragged cloak round 
 him, took the harp on his shouldher, an' went 
 out to the gate, where stood Aongas, watchin' 
 in the night an' dark. 
 
 " 'Tis not goin' out ye are!" says the lad. 
 
 "Ay," says the harper. At sight o' his face 
 Aongas fell back, for the gate was swingin* 
 open before him without help o' hand, an' be- 
 fore he knew it the old man was out an' away. 
 At that same moment the snow ceased fallin', 
 an' when the moon shone from behind a cloud, 
 no man was to be seen. 
 
 Aongas thought sthrange of it, an' afther 
 watchin' an' wondherin', he felt it right to go 
 in an' speak o' the matter to Breogan. An' 
 there, heavy in sleep, lay Breogan, an' round 
 him the men an' maids, an* no touch o' his 
 could rouse any there. He went to the room 
 o' Fair Ailinn, but the door stood open, an' 
 none within. He ran through house an ' hall, an ' 
 without in the courtyard, but ne'er a footprint 
 was in the snow, barrin' his own an* the old 
 harper's. Nowhere was sign o' Fair Ailinn, 
 an' he knew that she had been stolen away.
 
 FAIR AILINN 113 
 
 Only half knowin' what he was doin', he 
 caught up sword an' cloak, an' rushed out to 
 follow the ferack o' the harper in the snow. 
 Through the night he pushed on swiftly, past 
 the little Lough, an* over the hills, goin' ever 
 westward toward the old sea. Never a sight 
 had he o' livin' mortal, though the bright o' 
 the moon showed him the print o' feet that 
 seemed never to weary. But the very wind 
 blowin' on his back seemed helpin' Aongas for- 
 ward, an' when morn came, he was near a half- 
 ruined, dark, old castle, on a crag overlookin' 
 Mai Bay, where the winter waves were beatin' 
 up on the shore. The marks led to a closed 
 gate, but he waited for a breath before beatin' 
 at it. An' in that moment he spied a bit of 
 a fisher's hut, far down the shore, an' he thought 
 it wise to ask there for word o' Fair Ailinn an* 
 the old harper. 
 
 A frightened bit of a lass stood in the door, 
 an' shook her head at his questionin'. 
 
 " 'Tis never more ye '11 see her if she's been 
 stolen away by Oisin, son o' Lua," whispered 
 she. " 'Tis a terrible sorcerer he is, an' five 
 hundred year has he lived in that castle, with
 
 114 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 ne'er a stone fallen or a hinge rusted beyant 
 what it was when he first went in at the door. 
 That which he has desired has he played on 
 his harp, an' there before him would be the 
 thing he willed to have. But in these days 
 much o ' that power has gone from him, for his 
 wicked doin's. Sleep, an' rule over wind an' 
 wather are his; but the gold that he loves, an' 
 the renewin' o' his wicked life, must be played 
 for him by a fair maid with true love in her 
 heart. For that will he have stolen Fair Ailinn, 
 an' hidden her where none can free her save 
 that man who has no fearin' in his heart; an' 
 where's he who fears not Oisin?" 
 
 Aongas laughed, with eyes sparklin' like the 
 risin' sun on the sea. "No fear o' livin' man 
 have I," says he. "Give me a fisher's coat in 
 place o' me cloak, an' ashes to darken me face, 
 an' we shall see what will come o' the power 
 o' Oisin." 
 
 So the fisher lass helped him to change his 
 looks, an' Breogan his father would not have 
 known him for the fine young warrior he'd seen 
 leavin' the hall to guard the gate. An' up to 
 the castle of Oisin he went an' knocked boldly.
 
 FAIR AILINN 115 
 
 Afther some waitin' the harper opened, an* 
 already he seemed younger nor before. 
 
 "What's yer will?" asked he. 
 
 "Me boat is wrecked on the rocks," says 
 Aongas, "an' no way o' gamin' me livin' have 
 I. Give me work, an' naught but food will I 
 ask in return." 
 
 Now Oisin was weary o ' the work o ' carryin ' 
 away an' storin' the gold that Fair Ailinn had 
 played for him, an' little thinkin' he beckoned 
 the lad to enter, knowin' that all fishers along 
 that coast knew well an* feared the breath o' 
 his name knowin' his power over wind an' 
 wather, by reason o' his magic harpin'. 
 
 "Carry these bags to the tower beyant," says 
 he, "while I sleep. An' afther I'll give ye yer 
 food." 
 
 Within, Aongas saw a long, dark hall, with' 
 naught o' furnishin' save a wooden settle, an' a 
 dusty, broken harp by it. 
 
 "Never lay hand on that," says Oisin, fol- 
 lowin' his look. "If ye do, 'twill vanish, an' 
 yer life will be mine in payment. ' ' 
 
 Aongas nodded, pretendin' to be frighted at 
 the thought; but his heart leaped, for on the
 
 116 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 pillar o* the harp he saw the likeness o' Fair 
 AiliTm. So Oisin showed him where to carry 
 the bags o' money, an* watched him a bit as 
 he toiled up the tower stair to the sthrong room 
 then went back to the hall an' lay down on 
 the bench, shammin' sleepin'. But he had a 
 quare thought that within the fisherman's eyes 
 was no real fear o' him, an* danger to his 
 heart's desire lay in that same, so he waited 
 for Aongas to come down to try him. 
 
 An' as the lad bent for a heavy sack, there 
 was a terrible barkin', an' he saw the whole 
 hall filled with fierce dogs, comin' at him to 
 tear him. Aongas looked at them, careless like, 
 though two had teeth in his coat, an' shook Oisin 
 by the shouldher o 9 him. 
 
 "Call off yer beasts," says he. " 'Tis loath 
 I am to harm them." An' there was a ring 
 in his voice not like that of a fisher lad. Oisin 
 mutthered a word, an* the hall was clear; but 
 still he seemed sleepin'. 
 
 When Aongas came down the stair again, 
 he made but a step on the floor, an' sudden like 
 it was slidin' away from under his feet, an' all 
 the walls waverin* as if to fall an' crush him.
 
 FAIR AILINN 117 
 
 Quick as a flash he gave a spring an' landed 
 on top o' Oisin; an* at that all was as before. 
 An* the ashes fell from his face, an' Oisin 
 knew him; but no word he spoke, thinkin' that 
 Aongas might as well finish the carryin' o' the 
 treasure before bein' killed for folio win'. 
 
 The third time came Aongas, when 'twas 
 growin' toward night, an' all the sacks o' gold 
 were stored, an' his service ended. An' as he 
 bent to speak, great flames burst in through all 
 the windows an' doors, an' no way o' gettin' 
 out. Aongas saw Oisin disappear from the 
 bench where he'd been lyin', like a shadow 
 afther sunset, an' he knew that this last hap- 
 penin' was no jestin', for the heat grew ever 
 fiercer; but still was no fearin' in his heart. 
 Lastly his eye fell on the harp. A faint 
 tremblin' sound came from it, an' the thought 
 o' seein' the face o' Fair Ailinn, though 'twas 
 but carved in wood, made black an' charred by 
 fire, was more nor he could dhream o' lettin* 
 come to pass. 
 
 "Betther to see the harp vanish, than that," 
 says he, reckless. "Oisin can do no more nor 
 take me life from me, be it by fire or sorcery."
 
 118 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 He caught the harp on his arm, an' sthmck 
 ringin' music from it. An' as it echoed up into 
 the smoky rafters, of a sudden the fire was 
 gone, an' in the dark stood Aongas, with Fair 
 Ailinn clasped close to him, an' the wind blowin' 
 cold from the sea. The moon shone in at a 
 high window, an' on the floor lay the cloak o' 
 Oisin. Aongas lifted it to wrap about Fair 
 Ailinn, an' there, beneath, was all that ever men 
 saw more o' Oisin son o' Lua. An' a little 
 heap o' dust was that same. Sure, five hundred 
 years had he 'worked ill for his own pleasure ; 
 an' when his enchantin' went against him, the 
 years came back. 
 
 "A good endin', that, for all who work evil," 
 says Aongas. Catchin' up Fair Ailinn, he 
 sprang down to the gate, which stood swingin' 
 in the moon shadows as the wind blew, for the 
 bars were naught but heaps o' rust in their 
 sockets. 
 
 " 'Tis for home we're bound," laughed he, 
 with a light heart. 
 
 Now thrue it is that when they reached the 
 house o' Breogan the Bed, all lay as Aongas 
 had left them, sleepin' this way an' that; an'
 
 FAIR AILINN 119 
 
 none roused till Fair Ailinn laughed an* sang 
 with gladness at bein' there once more. 
 
 Breogan sat up an' rubbed his eyes. 
 
 11 "Tis dhreamin' o' dhreamin' I've been," 
 says he, "but I've woke in time for a weddin'." 
 
 An' to the last day of all there, none knew 
 that they had lost a day an' a night from their 
 lives. 
 
 [" And was the old man never heard of again?" 
 " Never no more, for he blew away en- 
 tirely. If ye doubt me word, go to Mai 
 Bay, an' see what a power o' dust lies on 
 the shore to this day."]
 
 IX 
 
 THE SEBVIN' o' CULAIE; 
 
 [" Nay, nay, then. An end to yer chatter. Never 
 a man learned his lessons by sittin' down 
 an' paintin' a picture o' the teacher; an' 
 'tis never a bridge yees will be afther 
 crossin' by dhreamin' o' what's on the 
 other side. 'Tis hard work that counts, in 
 the end. Hear now!"] 
 
 'TWAS Culain was youngest son to King Ciad; 
 an* fonder he was o' lyin' on the cliffs an' 
 hearkenin' to the beatin' o' the waves, or o' 
 the harpin' an' singin' in the hall, than o' bat- 
 tlin' an' strife. Yet all was not from wantin' 
 strength an' skill, but for lackin' raison for 
 tryin' them. 
 
 Fine sthrong men were his two brothers, an' 
 good at the sword-play, an' had scant patience 
 totith Culain for his aisy-goin' ways. Yet was 
 
 120
 
 THE SERVIN' O' CULAIN 121 
 
 there thrue lovin' between them, an* many a 
 time they shielded him from the wrath o' King 
 Ciad. However, at last an' at length he got 
 an inklin' o' what like his youngest son was 
 gettin' to be, an' one mornin' he called the three 
 to him. 
 
 " 'Tis thinkin' o' sharin' me kingdom be- 
 tween the three o' yees I am," says he, "bem' 
 as I'm growin' old. But first I'd be afther 
 knowin' what each o' yees has done to show 
 himself a man worthy o' rulin' men." 
 
 Well now, they looked at each other, not bein' 
 boastful warriors, but either waitin' for his 
 brother to speak before him. 
 
 "What now?" says old King Ciad, lookin' up 
 expectin' under his white brows. 
 
 Then spoke up Firbis, that was eldest: 
 "When me brother Ingri was attacked by the 
 men o' Torcal the Dane, he fought his way out, 
 five to one, an' reached home by wadin' the 
 rapids in season to warn us. An' bitther cold 
 was the wather on his wounds." 
 
 Then Culain says, eager like : "When the wild 
 boar came nigh to Hllin' me, 'twas Firbis thrust 
 the spear into his throat, never fearin' for him-
 
 122 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 self. An' he outwitted the men o' the North 
 Isles, capturin' their long ships when they were 
 ashore, an* hindherin' them from burnin' the 
 dun." 
 
 "An* what has Culain done to be deservin' 
 his share ?" asked King Ciad. "Has none a 
 good word for him, nor tale of a brave deed?" 
 
 "Sthrong of arm is he," says Firbis, slow 
 o' speech, "an* can sing songs o' battle an' tell 
 rare tales o' heroes. " 
 
 "What use the sthrong arm when 'tis put to 
 no good purpose?" says the King. "Is that 
 the best ye have to tell!" 
 
 "Nay," says Ingri. "But yester-morn he 
 drew Donncha, the groom, from a deep pit 
 where he had lain, bruised, through the night, 
 an' brought him in on his shouldher; an' many 
 a load o' fagots has he carried through the 
 forest to the hut o' Bethoc, that was his nurse." 
 
 But Culain stood silent. 
 
 "A servin' man could well have done as 
 much," says Ciad. "No part o' this kingdom 
 o' mine is for one who has done naught to win 
 it. What king would marry his daughter to a 
 sluggard?"
 
 THE SERVIN' 0' CULAIN 123 
 
 Then the hot blood leapt to the face o ' Chilain. 
 
 "Sluggard shall ye name me no longer 1" he 
 cried. "A princess will I win for me own, an' 
 bring her to share me birthright ; or if ye will, 
 give the kingdom to Firbis an' Ingri, an' a 
 kingdom o' me own will I conquer, or die 
 tryin'." 
 
 "Well spoken,'' answered the old king, hidin' 
 the gladness that warmed his heart at the words 
 o' the lad. "But as I say, so shall it be. Take 
 a sword, an' what horse ye choose; an' a purse 
 with ten gold pieces will I give to ye ; and then 
 be off into the world to seek yer fortune an' 
 learn what it means to be o' the blood o' kings. 
 A year an' a day, an' two days more I give ye, 
 to prove that ye've the heart of a brave man, 
 an' to win yer right to a third o' me lands." 
 
 So Culain took his sthrong sword, an' the 
 purse from his father's hand, an' went down to 
 get a horse to ride. An' there in the stable 
 stood Bethoc, the crone that had been nurse to 
 his mother before him. 
 
 " 'Tis out in the world ye 're goin'," says she, 
 leanin' on her staff. 
 
 "Ay," says Culain, stout like.
 
 124 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "Then give me a promise before ye mount. 
 For though they may call ye sluggard, yet have 
 ye learned o' me one thing that is above buyin' 
 in battle that the word of a king's son can be 
 neither bent nor broken." 
 
 "Have yer promise, then, for that wise les- 
 son," says Culain, waitin' patient for what she 
 should ask. 
 
 "Then 'tis that ye heed an* remember an* 
 obey the words I'm afther speakin' to ye now. 
 Hearken, Culain, son o' King Ciad. 'Tis 
 through servin' ye '11 gain skill an' power that 
 could come to ye in no other way; an' through 
 that same ye '11 at last reach the road for winnin' 
 the good that's comin' to ye if yer heart fails 
 not. Hold fast to yer word once given, an' 
 set yer hand to naught without carryin' it 
 through. Mindin' that, all will go well in the 
 end, though it seem blacker nor storm in winter. 
 Me word is said." 
 
 Then Culain dhropped the silken purse in her 
 withered hand. 
 
 "Ye '11 be needin' it more nor meself," says 
 he; an' from a stall he took the best horse that 
 offered. Then, with a wave o' the hand to the
 
 THE SERVIN' 0' CULAIN 125 
 
 ones watchin' at the gate, he rode away into 
 the deep forest, with the words o' Bethoc run- 
 nin' ever an' all the time in his mind. 
 
 For many an hour he held on his way, never 
 seein' livin' thing (forbye 'twas the birds 
 singin' in the branches, or a roe deer leapin' up 
 the mountain side), till he came to a deep valley, 
 far from the sea. An' fhere he came on a low 
 hut, built o' boughs; an' before it two men sit- 
 tin', fishin* in a little small sthream that ran 
 by, convenient like. Torn an' tatthered lookin' 
 they were, but not seemin' to mind aught, or be 
 shamed by their quare looks. 
 
 "Save all here," says Culain, dismountin' 
 and stoopin' to dhrink the runnin' wather. 
 
 " 'Tis welcome ye are," says the first ragged 
 man, pullin' up a little fish. When the second 
 fellow saw it wrigglin' on the hook, he dhropped 
 his own line, an' they fell to throwin' dice to 
 see which should have it. An' Culain had never 
 seen that done at all. 
 
 "Who are ye?" he asked, wondherin'. 
 
 "Jolly beggar-men," says the first. "Taig 
 am I; an' this, me fellow, is Derg o' the Mill, 
 bein' dhriven out o' one for not workinV
 
 126 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 "An' what sort o' playin' is that ye 're 
 afther?" asked Culain, ever one to be aisy led 
 from his purpose, an' forgettin' what errand he 
 rode on. 
 
 "Thry it an' see, if ye've aught worth 
 stakin'," laughed Derg o' the Mill. " 'Tis rare 
 sport ye '11 find it, an' well suitin' a fine lad like 
 yerself." 
 
 Culain, willin' to learn, sat down on the green 
 bank, an' began throwin' dice with the two 
 beggar-men, stakin' what he had against the 
 small triflin' things they played for, till luck 
 left him entirely. Sure, first thing he knew, the 
 horse was Taig's, an' Derg o' the Mill was 
 flourishin' the fine sword he'd won. 
 
 "We'll be afther sellin' them quick, to the 
 first that comes passin' by," says Derg. 
 
 "Wait," says Culain. "Is there no way for 
 me to get them again? HI honour is it to me 
 for losin' them." 
 
 "Have ye naught else to stake?" asked Taig. 
 
 "Nay," says Culain, "an' no more would I 
 risk if I had. An evil day is this wherein I'm 
 afther meetin' yees." 
 
 "Ay, but wait," says Taig. "Three beggar-
 
 THE SERVIN' 0' CULAIN 127 
 
 men are we now, an' may do great things as 
 any king's son, if we fare out into the world 
 together. Will ye buy back yer horse with six 
 months o' servin' us?" 
 
 "That will I," answered Culain, "an' me 
 sword with other six." 
 
 "Done," says Derg. "An' I'll cast in the 
 bargain the teachin' o' ye how to wile singin' 
 birds, an' what else I know; an' Taig '11 give 
 ye the word that makes flowers bloom where 
 'tis spoken. An' in the end ye may amount to 
 somethin' worthy o' makin' a third in our com- 
 pany, an' thravelin' with us where we go." 
 
 So poor Culain, shamed to tell them how he 
 was a king's son seekin' fortune an' a princess, 
 served the two beggar-men, dhrawin' wather 
 an' buildin' the fire an' roastin' meat. Many 
 a time he'd have given much to slip away by 
 night an' off to freedom, but bound by his given 
 word he was, both to the beggar-men that had 
 won his horse an' sword, an' to Bethoc. So he 
 bent to his labourin' with a will, every day 
 growin' sthrong an' more active; an' many a 
 thrick o' cunnin' sword-play he learned o' Derg, 
 that had been a fightin' man till he grew too
 
 128 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 lazy. An' Taig, that had given up bein' a black- 
 smith to take to beggin', showed him many a 
 sthrange way o' managin' horses. 
 
 An* as the days went on, Culain asked many 
 a time if they were never goin' out in the world 
 to win honour, an* always they promised that 
 'twould be on the next day comin' they'd be 
 off ; but the day never came at all, for there was 
 always more throwin' o' dice, or some one 
 stoppin' beside the road for gossipin', or some 
 rare good cause for puttin' off actin' like men. 
 An' Culain was fair disthracted from bein' so 
 restless havin' to stay servin' beggar-men 
 when great deeds were doin' out beyant. Yet 
 ever the counsel o' Bethoc came in his mind, 
 an* for the pride o' him he'd not take back the 
 word once given. 
 
 "Why not be takin' things aisy, like us?" 
 Taig would say. " 'Tis as good as bein' kings, 
 an' not half the throuble, sittin' here an' lettin' 
 life go on, without frettin' our minds about 
 what matthers." But Culain was fast learnin' 
 different; though ne'er a word came from him 
 as to his bein' a prince. 
 
 Now 'twas nigh on the end o' the twelfth
 
 THE SERVIN' 0' CULAIN 129 
 
 month o* his servin', when one passed bearin' 
 news. 
 
 " 'Tis from the court o' King Murtagh I 
 come," says he, "where lives a fair maid, 
 daughter o* the king's brother, Donal, that was 
 slain in the great battle o' the White Ford. 
 Morna, Love o' Sunshine, they call her. An* 
 much talkin' o' gold an' silver, an' buyin' an' 
 bargainin' has she heard in the court o' Mur- 
 tagh (who would make a betther merchant nor 
 leader in battle, by that same token), till from 
 dislikin' to that has she sworn to wed none 
 save him who shall bring her the gift which 
 no gold nor silver can buy. An' King Murtagh 
 holds her to that, sayin' that that man shall 
 she sure wed, be he plain servin' lad or one o' 
 high degree. An' her a right king's daughter! 
 Ay, but 'tis some thrickery lies under all, to 
 me mind. 'Twill be aisy sayin' 'Take her,' but 
 I'm thinkin' that man '11 be needin' to ride with 
 drawn sword, or never will he win free from 
 the gates." 
 
 "Oho!" says Taig, seein' the man ridin' on 
 his way afther speakin', " 'tis to the court o' 
 King Murtagh we'll be goin'. Maybe we'll get
 
 130 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 a princess for wife to one of us, an' never need 
 to work more. An* for his talk o' thrickery, 
 'twas but to put us off the thrack." An' Derg 
 agreed grinnin' with his ugly face. 
 
 So they had Culain pack up what goods there 
 were, an' tie them in a bundle to carry on his 
 shouldher; an' he followed on foot where they 
 two rode on the horse. An' much he thought 
 to himself, but said naught, knowin' that one 
 day more would set him free o' them, an' eager 
 to be off an' doin' man's deeds. 
 
 When they rode into the outer court o' King 
 Murtagh's dwellin', there, standin' in a door- 
 way, was Princess Morna; an' Love o' Sunshine 
 was she, for on her sweet head it shone like 
 the rare gold. When Culain set eyes on her, 
 'twas as if fire had leapt into his heart, an' he 
 cast his burden far from him, in the hour o' 
 his freedom, scornin' the touch of it. But all 
 around were laughin' at the look o' the beggar- 
 men, an' many stout warriors gathered nigh. 
 
 Dread o' bein' forced to wed one o' these 
 beggar-men was in the heart o' Morna, but she 
 raised her head bravely, an' called on Taig to 
 show his gift. So he knelt down and whispered
 
 THE SERVIN' O' CULAIN 131 
 
 a word, an' there on the hard trodden earth o' 
 the court bloomed many gay flowers. 
 
 "Go ye within an' wait," says Morna, " while 
 I see yer companions." 
 
 So Taig entered the door, feelin' sure o' 
 triumphin' ; an' one who had a secret word from 
 the princess brought him a horn o' sthrong 
 mead. 
 
 " 'Tis no use at all," whispered the servin' 
 man. "Betther nor that gift has been brought 
 before. But I'll give a gold piece to know the 
 word, for pleasurin' me sweetheart. " An' Taig, 
 greedy-like, clutched the gold an' told it. An' 
 at once he was flung out at the little back gate, 
 among the swine-herds. 
 
 Next came Derg, leavin' Culain holdin' his 
 horse an' carryin' the sword, forgettin' that the 
 time o' servin' was up. An' Derg whistled 
 an' from the sky came a hundred singin' birds, 
 twitterin' as in early springtime. So then 
 Morna, fearin' his looks worse nor the other, 
 sent him in afther. An' when he had dhrunk 
 mead, it went with him as with Taig, for he sold 
 his secret, thinkin' that he'd no chance o'
 
 132 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 winnin' Morna whatever an' was pushed 
 stumblin' out among the pigs. 
 
 Last of all Morna looked up an' saw Culain, 
 standin' poorly dressed, but proud an' well to 
 look on. 
 
 "Have ye also a gift that no gold can buy!" 
 says she, half tremblin', an' wondherin' at his 
 differin' so from Taig an' Derg. 
 
 "Ay," says Culain. 
 
 "An' what?" says Morna. 
 
 " 'Tis the thrue love of a king's son," says 
 he. Right quick he caught the gladness fillin' 
 her eyes ; an' never waitin' for askin', he sprung 
 to the saddle, swung her up before him, an' 
 headed for the outer gate. 
 
 " 'Tis the beggars' servant stealin' the prin- 
 cess!" shouted those round, tryin' to catch the 
 bridle but a word to the horse was all that was 
 needed. An' though many a stout fightin' man 
 drew sword an' spear to stay them, Culain was 
 too swift an' skilled with thrust an' parry an' 
 before any thought to bar the gate, he had cut 
 his path out over warrior an* servin' man, an' 
 was ridin' like the wind over the moorland an' 
 through the forest. An' never did he draw rein
 
 THE SERVIN' O' CULAIN 133 
 
 till he reached the castle o' Ciad, an' claimed 
 the kingdom due. 
 
 An' happy he lived all his life with Morna, 
 Love o' Sunshine, each havin' that gift which 
 no gold could buy, an' blossomin' flowers an' 
 the singin' o' birds at their will, summer an' 
 winter. 
 
 ["An' that's how the son o' Ciad learned the 
 thrue worth o' bein' a right king."]
 
 HOW COBMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 
 
 ["Another! An' one with fightin' in it! Ah h, 
 now, 'tis little small girls should take shame 
 for likin' to hear o' such matthers! Not 
 but what there was a power o' battlin' in 
 those days; an* men strivin' to see which 
 was sthronger, an* often settin' crafty wits 
 against stouter arms nor their own. Wait, 
 now, while I tell yees how King Cormac 
 was afther losin' his kingdom."] 
 
 COEMAC o ' Straight Words they called him, for 
 'twas never a lie nor a thrick he'd stand from 
 any that came in his way; an' he'd never shrink 
 back from his word once given. 'Twas ruler 
 of a fine share o' the land he was, lyin' well 
 up to the north o' the Sea o' Moyle. An' by 
 that raison his coasts were aisy an' open to the 
 134
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 135 
 
 long ships o ' the Northmen, that came from the 
 islands over an' toward the mainland. How an' 
 ever 'twas, though, there 'd never been a time 
 when he'd not beaten them off an' them glad 
 o' their lives to get away. 
 
 A gran' sthrong man he was, an' ever in the 
 foremost where throuble was brewin'; an' then 
 'twas ''look out!" for other men (though never 
 was Cormac known to harm one weaker nor 
 himself by way o' showin' his power). 
 
 An' three fine lads he had, right sons o' his 
 house, barrin' they were not yet grown to age 
 for handlin ' bow nor spear. But well were they 
 afther showin' the marks o' the race they came 
 of, that was bold warriors clear back to nobody 
 knows an' the times o' Fin-mac-Cool not 
 alone through Cormac, but by way o' Muireall, 
 their mother, that was no more livin'. 
 
 Now when all had been quiet an' peaceable 
 along the coasts for a year or two, an' all in 
 the land was thrivin', word came in on the wind 
 that Haco, the fiercest chief o' the Northmen, 
 was gatherin' a great fleet, filled with armed 
 fightin' men, to win Cormac 's rich kingdom an' 
 hold it for himself. An' great preparin' to
 
 136 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 meet him there was, an' gather-in* o' warriors 
 from far off. 
 
 Sure, Cormac made scant doubt o' dhrivin' 
 them back like straws blowin' before the temp- 
 est; yet for care o 9 the chancin' o' war he sent 
 the three sons o' him, that was wild already 
 to stay by him through the battle, far south to 
 a little huntin' lodge by the Lough o' the Eagle, 
 where neither Dane or man o' the North Islands 
 knew the road to follow; thinkin' himself free 
 to fight sthronger with them out o' reach. 
 
 An' a great campin' place was made on the 
 plain above the sea, an' watchers a many had 
 piles o' wood laid for firin' on the hilltops, 
 to give word o' the comin' o' the Northmen if 
 'twas by night. Then Cormac, seein' that all 
 was ready, an' in wait, swore a sthrong vow 
 on his sword, an' sent word o' that same to 
 Haco, by a sure messenger. 
 
 For three days an' three more came wind 
 from the south, an' no word o' the Northmen. 
 Sure, 'twas fair reckless Cormac was growin', 
 for weariness o' waitin'; an' bein' unable to 
 take sleepin' aisy, there came an hour o' the 
 night when he wandhered up over the downs
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 137 
 
 an' into the forest, near to the Glen o' Yew 
 Trees. An* few men o' those parts cared to be 
 neighbour to that same, knowin' it for the home 
 o' the Little People, an' dreadin' the wrath an' 
 pnnishin' o' Cormac, that had made pact with 
 them that no man o' his should be afther dis- 
 turbin' them by day or night. 
 
 So Cormac, fearin' naught, was walkin' slow 
 under the trees, keepin' ever a ready ear for 
 any stirrin', when sudden before him glimmered 
 a wee light, an' there on the brown pine needles 
 strewin' the ground before him stood the Little 
 Green King, noddin' to him in greetin'. 
 
 " 'Tis yer friend I am, Cormac," says he, 
 "an' 'tis wise ye '11 be to heed the counsellin' 
 I've in me heart for ye; for if ye scorn it, evil 
 will come in an hour that's on its road to ye, an' 
 evil that no power o ' mine may ward from ye. ' ' 
 
 "Can we not beat off all that come by 
 strength of our own arms, then?" asked Cor- 
 mac, brave-hearted whatever happened. 
 
 "Ay, when the time is ripe," says the Little 
 Green King. "But evil is in the wind that is 
 turnin' from south to north before its right 
 hour bringin' the ships o' Haco in the days
 
 138 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 when fortune an' the trolls may be afther 
 favourin' them. Sure, for two days in each year 
 the power o' the Little People goes from them, 
 an' their goodwill profits naught to their friends 
 till those hours be passed. Hearken to me, Cor- 
 mac, father an' son o' kings. Ye've sworn a 
 pact with me, that none o' yer people shall speak 
 ill o' mine, or harm our grass rings in the deep 
 o' the forest, or dig about our mounds; an' well 
 have ye kept that same." 
 
 "Ay," says Cormac, "that have I done, an' 
 will while life is in me, for thrue friend o ' mine 
 have ye been sendin' harvest betther nor any 
 in lands far or near, an' fair days an' sunshine. 
 An* when 'twas rare huntin' I was afther 
 wantin', the deer an' wild fowl were fair eager 
 to run an' fly in me path." 
 
 An' again he gave his word, swearin' on the 
 crossed staff an' serpent. 
 
 Then says the Little Green King: "For that 
 shall ye keep favour o' the Little People, 
 whether yer kingdom last or fall from ye. An' 
 for that do I give ye wise counsel, that may save 
 all yet. Wait ye in the forest, dhrawin ' yer men 
 into hidin' in the glens for but two days, an' let
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 139 
 
 the Northmen search as they will, growin' care- 
 less. In the third day shall ye rise an' dhrive 
 them into the sea ; an' victory shall ye have, that 
 none callin ' them kin shall dare come af ther for 
 revengin'." 
 
 "Nay," says Cormac, "that is ill counsel to 
 a king an' a warrior. On the shore will I meet 
 with Haco, come he by night or day, in fair sun- 
 light or grey tempest." 
 
 " 'Tis but waitin' for the third day, an' 
 masthery sure afther," says the Little Green 
 King. 
 
 " 'Tis but breakin' me word given," says 
 Cormac. An' for all the persuadin' talk o' the 
 little man, no other answer would he give. 
 
 Then says the little king, seein' that naught 
 would move him whatever : ' ' Hear me last word, 
 Cormac, that may soon be without a kingdom. 
 Do no ill to the ships o' Haco till ye have him 
 conquered by land. While they lie on the shore 
 the Danes will know that there's a way o' re- 
 treatin' open, an' they may take it an' fly when 
 Haco is never thinkin'. But if the ships be 
 burned an' broken, then will the fury o' mad- 
 men an' the power o' the trolls come in their
 
 140 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 blood, an' none can resist their onsettin'. An* 
 no strength will I have to aid ye in that hour." 
 
 " 'Tis no aid I'm askin'," says Cormac. 
 
 "Then on ye I lay three geasa," says the 
 Little Green King (an' those same were spells 
 that Cormac couldn't help obeyin'). "First, 
 that ye suffer no man save f reeborn warriors in 
 yer camp. Second, that ye carry in yer belt 
 these three darts, keepin' them for the hour 
 when the battle turns against yees. 'Twas 
 forged by Len they were, an' under the rainbow 
 were they tempered, that no armour can stay 
 them. A score o' men shall fall where one flies. 
 Use two as need comes, but hold back the third 
 for yer darkest hour, ever mindin ' that 'tis the 
 last, an' none to follow afther. An' the third is 
 this, Cormac that scorns aidin', that ye sthrip 
 the jerkin from the first man ye kill, an' wear it 
 above yer own." 
 
 With that word he was gone from seein', like 
 the starlight glimmer on a knife, an' Cormac, 
 grippin' fast the three darts o' Len, hastened 
 back to his men, seein' far in the sky to the north 
 the light o' the burnin' signals. An' before
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 141 
 
 night was gone, he had sent far from his camp 
 all that were not warriors born o' free blood. 
 
 Now as day came out o' the dark, down the 
 north-east wind came rushin' the long ships o' 
 Haco, with black sails showin' far against the 
 white foamin' waves, an' shields glitterin' alon^ 
 the sides o' them. An' right at the shore they 
 headed, dhrivin' far up on the sand with the 
 risin' tide. 
 
 Then, with a great cryin' out, Cormac an* his 
 men swept down along the cliff-side, the sun glis- 
 tenin' on their bronze armour an' rich tores o' 
 gold, an' the ash shafts whirrin' ahead to let 
 Haco know what was comin'. Sure, the battle- 
 axes swung under the blue o' the cold sky, an' 
 there was clashin' o' swords an' spears, an' 
 wild strugglin' for masthery up an' down the 
 sand, where none heeded the splashin' o' waves 
 about their feet, nor the tanglin' o' the salt 
 grass. 
 
 An' from the first man slain by Cormac, he 
 sthripped the green coat that he wore, never 
 carin' for the wondherin' o' those nigh, but 
 puttin' it on over his armour; an' all through
 
 142 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the fightin' the sight of it made the men o* Cor- 
 mac wild for folio win*. 
 
 As dark dhrew on, the Danes an* men o' the 
 islands were forced back across the bulwarks o' 
 their ships for shelter; an' Cormac, with his 
 warriors (an' fresh they were still, for all the 
 heat o' their fightin'), went back to the shadow 
 o' the cliffs an' built fires for the night. But 
 Cormac set watchers to see that no surprise 
 came to those sleepin', an' himself kept guard, 
 foremost of all, knowin' Haco an' his men to be 
 full o' cunnin' not to be thought light of. Yet 
 had he feelin' o' triumphin' because he'd beaten 
 them back without aidin' from the Little People, 
 for all the Danes outnumbered his own men. 
 
 And that no plannin' o' his should go strayin', 
 he called aside Cogoran an' Duach, that were 
 chiefs under him, tellin' them the words o' the 
 Little Green King. An' they three shaped out 
 together how the battle should be at the hour o ' 
 dawn, catchin' the men o' Haco asleep. An' 
 while the words were still in the air, there came 
 a rustlin' o' dead leaves behind a great oak, that 
 had fallen in a winter storm long past. Quick 
 they sprang to see who'd been listenin', an'
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 143 
 
 Cogoran leaned over an' dragged out a little 
 bent man, blinkin' an' rubbin' his eyes in the 
 glare o' the fire. 
 
 " 'Twas hearkenin' he was," says Duach, 
 fierce an' angry. 
 
 "Nay," whispered the little sthrange man. 
 " 'Tis from the ships o' Haco I come. A man 
 o' these parts I am, taken prisoner in an old 
 raid, an' this night I slipped off the ship when 
 none saw me, an' here to cry to Cormac for 
 freein'. Forbye bein' weary from toilin' at the 
 oar, I fell to sleepin' in the leaves, and heard 
 naught till this warrior gripped me. ' ' 
 
 "Were ye born free warrior?" asked 
 Cogoran. 
 
 "Ay, that I was," says the crooked one. 
 
 "An* what man's man were ye?" asked Cor- 
 mac. 
 
 "The man o' no man," says the other. An' 
 then Cormac looked closer, an' knew him to be 
 one that had come to serve him in early days; 
 the son of a poor kerne he was. 
 
 "Is not yer name Keir?" he asked. 
 
 "Ay," says the man. 
 
 "Then well I mind ye," says Cormac. "No
 
 144 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 free-born warrior are ye, but a servin' man, an' 
 son o ' Barach, that was bondman to King Aodh, 
 me father. Here can ye not bide, for all save 
 men o' free blood will bring ill fortune to the 
 day comin'. Take food, what ye will, an' go yer 
 way into the forest till the battlin' be over." 
 An' Keir, hatin' him for his words, crept away 
 without more speakin', an' quiet through the 
 bushes, an* down the cliff-side to where the 
 fightin' had been that day. 
 
 Now on the ship o' Haco was anger an* deep 
 dhrinkin', an' great boastin' o' what would be 
 done next day ; but Haco stood on the deck for- 
 ward, lookin' at the darkenin' cliffs, an' thinkin' 
 o' bein' king in room o' Cormac, that had 
 sthruck down more nor a score o' his men that 
 day. An' as it grew late, there was a small bent 
 man crept up to him, comin' out o' the shadows. 
 
 "What will ye give if I show ye the road to 
 beat down Cormac?" asked he. 
 
 "Yer freedom an' land o' yer own," says 
 Haco, laughin' in his yellow beard at the wiz- 
 ened face o' him. 
 
 "Then is the payment mine," says Keir. 
 Ah h, but an evil snake o' the earth was that
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 145 
 
 same, knowin' his own counthry-side as he did; 
 for all the plannin' o' Cormac an* the counsel 
 o' the Little Green King did he tell to Haco, 
 offerin' to guide him unbeknownst to a road up 
 the glens, an' bethrayin' those o' his own birth- 
 land into the clutches o' the Danes. 
 
 "An* 'tis meself that has not forgot the day 
 when Cormac had me whipped for mistreatin' a 
 servin' lad!" says Keir. "Now 'tis me hour 
 for payin'him." 
 
 "Ay," says Haco, "but first shall ye dress as 
 a free warrior o' Cormac 's men; fight or be 
 afther seemin' to fight in his ranks, that ye 
 bring him ill fortune; an' lead me men to the 
 Glen o' Yew Trees." 
 
 An' Keir, tremblin' for what might come, 
 dared say naught against it. 
 
 Then Haco fell to chucklin' in his beard. 
 " 'Tis plain what is the wise road for us," says 
 he. An' straight he went to the men commandin' 
 the other ships, an' together they laid plot to 
 break holes in the boards o ' the ships when the 
 fightin' had begun; an' to dhrive the men o' 
 Cormac toward the Glen o' Yew Trees, forcin' 
 them to gain the ill-will o' the Little People
 
 146 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 (barrin' none save Keir knew where that glen 
 lay). 
 
 'Twasn't half o' no time before all were on 
 foot again; an' the Danes kept well together 
 an' pushed for the top o' the cliffs. But sure, 
 Cormac was ready there in the faint dawnin' 
 light, waitin* to give them such welcome as 
 they'd never tasted. An' while on the day be- 
 fore had been shoutin' an' wild calls, now was 
 scarce a sound beyant the sword-sthrokes an' 
 whirr o' flyin' arrows among the oaks. 
 
 Two times were the men o' Cormac pressed 
 back by Haco, an' both times Cormac, speedin' 
 one o' the darts o' Len, sthruck down the fiercest 
 o' those before him, whirlin' them apart like an 
 eddy o' wind in a pile o' dhry leaves, an' the 
 Danes fell away in turn. At last Haco, growin' 
 impatient, gave signal to those at the ships; an' 
 in a flash o ' time a great hole was stove in each 
 bow, so that they'd float no more. 
 
 'Twas growin' toward night, an' when the 
 Danes heard the crashin' o' the axes on the 
 wood, an' knew what had passed, they thought 
 it the work o' the men o' Cormac. Like wild 
 boars at bay they turned an' flung themselves
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 147 
 
 against the spears an' swords o' their foemen, 
 without waitin' command from Haco; an' so 
 close were they all together, that there was no 
 space for dhrawin' bow. 
 
 An' now Keir, that had been waitin' his time 
 an' keepin' out o' danger behind the warriors o' 
 Connac, slipped by an' pointed out to Haco 
 where was the Glen o' Yew Trees, fearin' goin' 
 too nigh it himself. An' Haco, dhrawin' off a 
 score o' his best warriors, drove the mass o* 
 battlin' men little by little toward it, pressin* 
 an' urgin' them ever onward; while others, 
 comin' fresh from the ships, reached the main 
 body that was thryin' to seize Cormac, an' gave 
 them new strength. 
 
 All at once it flashed on the thought o' Cor- 
 mac what was bein' done, an' he felt the last 
 dart burn hot in his hand. Ay, though he 'd been 
 fightin' like a right hero as he was, he was nigh 
 to bein' overpowered, while the feet o' his strug- 
 glin' men were already at the head o' the for- 
 bidden glen, without any seein* where they were 
 goin'. Scarce a minute had he for choosin' be- 
 tween his honour's sake an' his own freedom, 
 but his given word was sthrong in his heart, an'
 
 148 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 the dart flew whistlin' far from him, sthrikin' in 
 the heart o' the battle, an* breakin' down great 
 trees that choked up the mouth o' the glen so 
 that none could reach it. An* under all was 
 Keir, havin' received his freedom an' the land 
 on which he lay, rewardin' him for bein' a 
 thraitor. Sure, he never knew what had given 
 him his death-blow. 
 
 Then as the Danes, seem* Cormac unarmed, 
 rushed on him with a great cry o ' triumph, the 
 sun sank out o' sight behind the mountains an* 
 he was gone from their eyes. An' where they'd 
 been sthrikin' at a sthrong warrior in a jerkin 
 o' green, sure they found their darts an' axes 
 buried deep in an old mossgrown log. An' all 
 that night they searched in vain for him, far an' 
 wide. 
 
 But Cormac , never knowin* how it came, 
 opened his eyes as if wakin' from sleep, an' saw 
 himself to be lyin' on the shore o' the Lough o' 
 the Eagle, with the sunrise touchin' the hilltops 
 around, the warm wind bringin' the song o' 
 birds in place o' the battle-cries that had been 
 ringin' in his ears, an' by him standin' the 
 Little Green King.
 
 HOW CORMAC LOST HIS KINGDOM 149 
 
 "Where's me kingdom?" cried Cormac, get- 
 tin' on his feet, half mazed. 
 
 "Lost an' gone by the choice ye made," says 
 the other. "Against yer given word ye set it, 
 an' the word was sthronger, an' won. Cormac 
 without a Kingdom are ye, but great favour o' 
 the Little People shall be to ye an* yer sons 
 afther, to honour the word of a thrue man." 
 
 "But me good fightin' men!" cried Cormac. 
 "Naught was me kingdom to me in worth, be- 
 side the warriors who stood battlin' for me like 
 thrue brothers. Never would I have left them 
 to be slain without me sharin' their fate." 
 
 "Aisy now," says the Little King, laughin' at 
 his own thought. "Ne'er one is harmed or left- 
 to be slave to Haco. Many a day may the North- 
 men search, but naught will they find save the 
 bones of a thraitor. An' though Haco hunt long 
 an' weary days for the men o' Cormac, far off 
 in counthries bey ant pur sum' are they an' 
 theirs an' much renown shall they win. An' 
 while Haco an' his men hold the ground on 
 which they tread, yet a waste shall it grow, with 
 neither harvestin' nor huntin' for their needs
 
 150 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 till the day when the last Dane leaves the Little 
 People masthers o' the land. 
 
 "Not even meself could aid ye till sunset o' 
 the day o' the weakness o' me people ; but rulers 
 o' men shall yer sons be in the end, an' strength 
 an' swiftness beyant that of other men shall be 
 for ye an' for them afther, while wearin' the 
 green jerkin in which ye fought for me 
 thrown' the last dart o' Len without carin' for 
 yer own danger. ' ' 
 
 So King Cormac that was Cormac without 
 a Kingdom, through keepin' faith with the Little 
 People that trusted him, an' through holdin' 
 fast to his word given went in to his own in the 
 rough huntin' lodge, an' lived there content to 
 the end o' his life. An' never was a greater 
 hunter, nor one swifter, nor a man sthronger. 
 An' his honour held fair at a heavy price was 
 a word for rememberin' many a year afther, 
 even in far lands.
 
 WIND AN* WAVE AN* WANDHEBIN ' FLAME 
 
 [" "Tis mindin' somethin' that happened far 
 an* back o' the times o' the Little People I 
 am. Sure, 'tis meself had nigh on forgot it 
 entirely, but when all's quiet I'll be afther 
 tellin' it."] 
 
 THERE was always battlin' somewhere, back in 
 those days; an' heroes that fought with sword 
 an' spear forged far up an' under the rainbow 
 by Len the Smith, that was mighty in all sorts o' 
 wisdom. 
 
 Now one time he was beatin' out a great 
 shield o' gold; an' 'twas wrought so cunnin' 
 that who turned it over an' laid it on the wather 
 could step on it an' sail where he would. An' 
 for a device on it he made roses o' the fine gold, 
 raised far out from it, as they'd been growin' 
 151
 
 152 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 right there. Almost they seemed wavin' in the 
 wind. 
 
 An* as he came to sthrikin' the last blows, his 
 hand slipped, an' his great hammer went flyin' 
 downward through the air; an' his cry o' com- 
 mand sent ringin' afther it was too late to 
 hindher. 
 
 Now 'twas about toward sunset, an' the waves 
 were beatin' high an' wild afther storm on the 
 west coast, that Artan, son o' Duallach, that 
 was a king's son, was huntin' along the shore. 
 All day he'd been tryin' to keep from the com- 
 pany o' Myrdu, his half-brother, but only by 
 now had he shaken him off ; an' he was runnin' 
 swiftly, for gladness o' bein' alone with the 
 breeze an' the flyin' spray. 
 
 Just as the sinkin' sun touched the sea, he 
 heard the great cryin'-out o' Len, out o' the 
 North, an' looked up into the deep sky. An' 
 there he saw, whirlin' down toward him, some- 
 thin' first dark an' then bright. Not a fearin' 
 thought was in him; an' as it came nigh he 
 sprang with hand stretched out an' caught it 
 just savin* it from bein' buried in the beach 
 sand.
 
 WAVE AND WANDHERIN' FLAME 153 
 
 The force of its fallm' sent him to his knees, 
 but in a breath he was on his feet again, lookin' 
 at what he held. Sure, 'twas nothin' less than a 
 great hammer, glowin' an' darkenin' by turns, 
 as there had been livin' fire within it. 
 
 "What 'n ever are ye, then?" cried Artan, 
 out o' the surprise, never thinkin' on gettin' an 
 answer. Yet thrue an' at once came a whis- 
 perin' like wind in pine forests far off 
 
 "The hammer o' Len." 
 
 "An' how '11 1 get ye back to him, not knowin' 
 where to find him?" asked Artan. "Sure, the 
 winds must rise up an' blow me to the end o' the 
 rainbow, where he sits, or I'll never get there at 
 all." 
 
 The words were scarce past his lips when 
 down across the hills came a warm gust o' south 
 wind the last o' the storm an' caught him up, 
 still clingin' to the hammer, an* swept him up- 
 wards till he could see naught for mist an' hur- 
 ryin ' clouds. Then came a f eelin ' o ' sinkin ', an ' 
 a sudden jar ; an' there he was standin' on green 
 turf, lookin' at white mountains, risin' higher 
 nor aught he'd seen, an' between him an' them
 
 154 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 shimmered the rainbow itself, glowin' all col- 
 ours in the light o' sunset. 
 
 "Ay, 'tis aisy seein' where I am," laughed 
 Artan, startin' toward it bravely. 
 
 For a while he went on, an' at last he came 
 nigh enough to see the mighty shape o' Len, 
 standin' waitin' at his forge. An' while night 
 was fast comin' on, an' the stars showin' out in 
 the sky over all, yet^the sun-fire was still flamin' 
 up in his smithy, workin' his will at a word. 
 
 If fear had had place in the heart of Artan, 
 then was time for it, when he saw the deep eyes 
 o' Len, like dark sea-water in caves, lookin' far 
 an* through him. But never had that come to 
 him, an' without speakin' he raised the hammer 
 toward the sthrong knotted hand that claimed 
 it. 
 
 1 'Whist, then!" says Len, graspin' it quick 
 for fear the metal was coolin '. "Say naught till 
 I'm done!" With that he beat an' turned the 
 shield, an' gave the endin' touches to it. Then, 
 with another big shout, he hung it on the rain- 
 bow, flashin' an*' shinin' till men on earth below 
 saw it for Northern Lights in the night sky.
 
 WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME 155 
 
 "How came ye here in me forge, Artan, son o' 
 Duallach I " he cried. 
 
 ' * That I know not, ' ' spoke out Artan. ' ' When 
 I held yon hammer in hand, an' cried on the 
 wind for bio win' me to him that owned it for 
 no other road there was for returnin' it the 
 warm blast came out o' the south an' caught me 
 up here." 
 
 "Ay," laughed Len, deep an' hearty. "The 
 winds are at the will o ' him that handles it ; but 
 too great a power is that to be given careless to 
 mortal man. What reward will ye have, now? 
 Whether gold, or power above other men, or the 
 fairest o' maids for yer wife?" 
 
 Then the blood reddened the face of Artan. 
 
 "Naught care I for gold," says he. "An* 
 power over men should be for him that wins it 
 fair." 
 
 "Then 'tis the fairest o' maids ye '11 be afther 
 wantin'?" asked Len. "Have ye seen such a 
 one?" 
 
 "Nay," says Artan. "Dark are the faces in 
 the house o' Duallach, an' little to me likin'." 
 
 "Then shall ye have one fair as day," says 
 Len. He turned to where the shield was hangin',
 
 166 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 an* from the heart o' that same he plucked a 
 rose o' the beaten gold, an* gave it to Artan. 
 
 "Cast it in the sea surf at sunrise," says he, 
 "callin' 'Darthuil!' then shall ye have yer re- 
 ward. But one thing mind. Safely yer own is 
 she not till first lost an' won back. When ye 
 know not where to seek aid in searching cry on 
 me name at the seacoast, an' aid will there be 
 for ye if ye come not too late wind, wave, an' 
 wandherin' flame. Never does Len forget. 
 Hold fast yer rose." 
 
 As he spoke, again came a gale, chill from the 
 north this time, an' whirled Artan past cloud 
 an' above surgin' seas, an left him on the hilltop 
 above the beach at the last hour before the 
 dawnin'. 
 
 Quick Artan hastened down the cliff, still 
 graspin' the golden rose, an' stood where the 
 little small waves curled over the stones, waitin' 
 for the first gleam o' the sun to touch the sea. 
 Hours it seemed to him, but minutes it was in 
 truth, before he caught a long breath, raised the 
 rose high in air, an' tossed it swift an' sure into 
 the snowy crest of a green incomin' wave.
 
 WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME 157 
 
 "Darthuil!" he cried, an' the cliff echo made 
 a song of it. 
 
 As the drops flew upward in the red dawn an' 
 the breaker swept in, there by his side stood a 
 maid with the gold o' the rose in her hair, an* 
 the white o' sea-foam in her fair skin, an' the 
 colour o' the sunrise in lips an* cheek. Blither 
 nor spring, he caught her hand an' led her over 
 the hills to the house o' Duallach, they two 
 singin' for joy o' livin' as they went. 
 
 Now not long had the two been wed (an' wel- 
 come were they under the roof of Duallach), 
 when Myrdu, that was half-brother to Artan, 
 but older nor him, came back from far huntin', 
 ill-pleased at missin' Artan for his companion, 
 an' for helpin' him carry the red deer he'd shot. 
 
 " 'Tis an ill youth," says he, "an' will get no 
 good from lyin' on the cliff edge an' lettin' the 
 hunt go by. ' ' 
 
 "Nay," says Duallach, slow to anger. "Fair 
 fortune has he won, an' the favour o' the gods; 
 an' has brought home a bride, fair as the sun 
 at noon." 
 
 Then was Myrdu half ragin' from bein' jeal- 
 ous ; but not wishin' to show that same, he called
 
 158 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 for meat an' dhrink to be brought him in the 
 great hall. An' Artan, wishin' to be friendly 
 like, cried out for Darthuil to serve his brother. 
 Sure, when Myrdu saw her comin' toward him 
 shinin' among the dark lasses o' Duallach's 
 household like a star in the night sky fury was 
 in his heart for thinkin' that Artan, bein' 
 younger nor him, had won what he had not, an* 
 soon he laid plans for stealin' her from his 
 brother. 
 
 'Twas not many days before word o' this 
 came to the ear o' Duallach; an' he, hatin' 
 strife, bade Artan an' Darthuil take horse an' 
 ride swiftly southward to the Lough o' the Lone 
 Valley, to dwell on the little island in it till evil 
 wishes had passed from the heart o ' Myrdu. So 
 Artan, mindin' what Len had foretold, yet 
 thinkin' it wiser not to be afther losin' Darthuil 
 at all, rode away with her on his left hand when 
 Myrdu was sleepin' an' not knowin' what was 
 bein' done. 
 
 When he roused an' found them gone, an' that 
 none o' the house would say whither, he was in 
 a fine passion ; but he made as if he was afther 
 goin' huntin', an' took his two fierce hounds an'
 
 WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME 159 
 
 went off to trace the road they'd taken. An' 
 sure enough, 'twas not many hours before he 
 was on their path. 
 
 Now safer would it have been had Artan told 
 Darthuil the full raison why he was takin' her 
 far into the shelter o' forest an' lough o' the 
 wilderness; but she, trustin' him, asked naught, 
 thinkin' no evil o' livin' man. So scarce had 
 Artan left her in the low cabin on the island an' 
 gone off to hunt, than Myrdu pushed through 
 the bushes, leavin' the hounds on the shore be- 
 hind, an' floated himself out to the island on a 
 couple o' logs lashed with a thong o' deer-skin. 
 Ay, but Darthuil was startled, not dhreamin' 
 why he'd come. 
 
 " 'Tis Artan is hurt, an' afther sendin' me 
 for ye," says Myrdu, lookin' down unaisy like, 
 from not wishin' to meet the rare clear eyes o' 
 her. "Come, an' I'll take ye where he lies." 
 
 Not waitin' a moment was Darthuil, then, but 
 Jiurried doin' as she was bid, never thinkin' 
 what evil might be in store. 
 
 Afther a few hours Artan came back through 
 the trees, an' game a plenty he'd found. He 
 pulled out his boat o' skins, an' quick paddled
 
 160 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 back to the island. But there he found no Dar- 
 thuil; no, nor any sign o' her save the little 
 print o' her sandal by the wather's edge. 
 
 Then came to his mind the promise o' Len. 
 Never darin' to waste an hour searchin' by him- 
 self, he ferried his horse across to the mainland, 
 mounted, an' pushed for the sea. Never once 
 did he stop for restin' till he was standin' where 
 the waves beat over him, where he had cried on 
 Darthuil, an* she had come to him. 
 
 "Len!" he called. "Yer aidin', Len! Dar- 
 thuil is stolen from me. ' ' 
 
 There came a rumblin' o' thunder, an' on the 
 shore stood a great figure, like a pillar o ' cloud 
 reachin' half to the sky. 
 
 "Never safe yer own till lost an' found, I 
 said," came the deep voice. "Now I give ye 
 wild servants, a wind an' a wave an' a wan- 
 dherin' flame for helpin' ye to bring her safe 
 again. Mind well that each will obey ye but 
 once, so call on them only when yer sharpest 
 need comes. When ye've again set the feet o' 
 Darthuil safe in the hall o' Duallach, none can 
 take her from ye more. Now follow yer love.
 
 WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME 161 
 
 "Tis to the Northland has Myrdu carried her. 
 Let him not pass the White Eocks, or wind an' 
 wave an' flame will lose power to aid ye. Use 
 yer wit, now, an' use it well." 
 
 Artan would have spoken to thank him, but 
 with the last word Len was no more there; so 
 he mounted again an' turned to the north; an' 
 behind him came the wind, whisperin', over the 
 grass; an' the wave, runnin' up the sthream 
 near at hand; an' the flame, creepin' among 
 dhry leaves, but settin' fire to naught else, its 
 time not bein' come. 
 
 Together they all thravelled the betther part 
 of a long day, an' late on Artan saw dust risin' 
 ahead. 'Twas a cloud that Myrdu had raised to 
 hide the way he was goin', an' beyant it he was 
 ridin', carrying Darthuil before him on his sad- 
 dle o' skins, with the two hounds lopin' along 
 beside to fright her from tryin' to escape, an' to 
 give warnin' of any followin'; while not many 
 miles ahead were the White Rocks, that he was 
 pushin' to reach. 
 
 On hurried Artan, but his horse was wearied, 
 an* little head could he make. Moreover, the
 
 162 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 cloud o' dust left Tiin> uncertain o ' what was hid. 
 So he thought well, an' chose wind to serve him 
 first. 
 
 "Go on, an* blow the dust far away, whis- 
 perin' courage to Darthuil the while," says he. 
 An' at once the wind sped far ahead, obeyin' 
 his command. When the two dogs felt it touch 
 them, they cowered low; but Darthuil took 
 heart, knowin' that help was at hand. An' the 
 dust was no more hidin' her from Artan, so she 
 waved her hand an' called aloud to him to ride 
 in haste. 
 
 Then Myrdu, fearin' that he might yet lose 
 her, threw a handful o' twigs behind him in the 
 road; an' fallin' they turned into dead trees, 
 stoppin' the way on all sides. But Artan well 
 knew the way to clear his path. 
 
 "Go forward!" he cried to the wandherin' 
 flame, "an' leave not a trace o' them!" As he 
 spoke, the flame swept up high in air, roarin' 
 an' smokin'; an' in half an instant naught re- 
 mained o' the logs but a pile o' smouldherin' 
 ashes. But still was Myrdu fast nearin' his 
 goal, an' had one thing more for helpin'.
 
 WAVE AND WANDHERIN' FLAME 163 
 
 He dropped a little sharp knife in the road- 
 way ; an' as it fell, it cut into the dust, an' there 
 opened a wide, terrible chasm, not to be crossed 
 by horse nor man. Then Artan grew clear des- 
 perate. 
 
 1 'Wave!" he shouted, " bring Darthuil to 
 me!" 
 
 Up then it rose, rollin' forward like floodtide 
 in spring; an' it filled the gulf, an' swept away 
 dogs an' horse an' Myrdu himself, that none 
 were heard of from that on; but Darthuil it 
 floated gentle like, as she had been a tuft o' 
 thistle-down, back to Artan, waitin' for her. 
 
 He caught her an' clasped her close, an' 
 turned his horse, an' never halted till he led her 
 safe into the hall o ' Duallach, where none might 
 steal her from him again. An' there they lived 
 happy all their lives. 
 
 But as for the wind an' the wave an' the 
 wandherin' flame, so sweet an' fair was Dar- 
 thuil that ne'er would they go from her to re- 
 turn to Len. To the last o' her life the wind 
 blew soft for her when 'twas overly hot else- 
 where, an' clear cool wather flowed up from the
 
 164 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 ground to save her dhrawin' any from the river, 
 an' fire burned bright on her hearth without 
 need o' plenishing an* all that for the love o' 
 Darthuil, that was made By Len out o' the foam 
 tossed by the wind from the sea-wave, an* the 
 wandherin* flame o* the sunrise.
 
 XII 
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 
 
 ["Naught but a bit o' dhry bread, was it, ye 
 were castin ' away ? When there 's birds an ' 
 little fishes 'ud be glad of it? Some day ye 
 may go wantin' it! Hear how one prouder 
 nor ye was afther learnin' a lesson not to 
 be slightin' the like!"] 
 
 FAIR an' tall was Grainne, with shinin' dark 
 eyes that were seldom soft in smilin', or even 
 seemin' so much as to see the poor by the road- 
 Bide an* at the gates. Eiches had she, an' many 
 a thing to be proud about, by an* beyant the 
 bein' sister to Euadan Mor, that was a mighty 
 sthrong chieftain. Far up on a broad hill-plain 
 was his dun; an' treasures a plenty had he won 
 in battle, makin' a name for himself by land an' 
 sea. Many a brave champion came thinkin' to 
 win Grainne, as she sat high among her servin' 
 165
 
 166 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 maids, in Dun-glas, spinnin' the white wool with 
 her distaff o' gold, but cool greetin' had she for 
 the best o' them. 
 
 Now on a fair spring day, when the world was 
 goin' well, 'twas Euadan Mor was afther 
 bringin' Finola, that was the daughter to King 
 Ferdoragh, back to Dun-glas for his wife. A 
 gay train was that came ridin' with her; war- 
 riors in silk o* scarlet, an' laughin' girls in 
 white an' green an' gold, on horses shod with 
 silver; an' back o' them all, an' around, came 
 stout fightin' men in ringmail, carryin' spears 
 an' swords o' wrought bronze, for guardin' the 
 princess an' the rest. 
 
 Sure, Grainne met them with welcome, an* 
 had a great feast spread in the hall, to do honour 
 to Ruadan Mor an' his bride ; an' for seven days 
 there were fine rejoicin's, through all Dun-glas 
 an' the counthry round. More nor one o' the 
 heroes from King Ferdoragh 's court looked 
 long at Grainne the Haughty, but naught lay in 
 her heart for any man o' them, barrin' 'twas 
 thoughts o' bein' too high for him. 
 
 "Why will ye not make choice o' these?" 
 asked Finola, gentle like. ' ' Sthrong champions
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 167 
 
 an' sons o' kings are Niall an' Kermad an' 
 Tuathall mac Osra. Many a fair maid in King 
 Ferdoragh's court would be glad o' that ye 're 
 turnin' from." 
 
 "Ay, then," says Grainne, with flashin' light 
 in her eyes, "for why was it no man o' them 
 that ye chose? Betther to be sister o' Euadan 
 Mor, nor wife to a weaker man!" An' Finola 
 could set no word against that, at all, for 
 laughin' an' thinkin' the same to herself. 
 
 Now on the mornin ' o 9 the seventh day 'twas 
 ridin' out for far huntin' they were, with horses 
 an' hounds an' a golden horn to each. An' as 
 they came through the gate, Tuathall, bein' in 
 haste to push ahead where Grainne was ridin', 
 sthruck against an old crone that was limpin' 
 along, an' sent her down in the roadway. Niall, 
 seein' an' pityin', but not darin' to wait* for 
 fear Tuathall should be forehand with him, 
 turned his horse, not to graze her, tossed her a 
 bit o' silver, an' galloped on. But Kermad, that 
 was youngest o' the three, leapt from his horse 
 an' set her on her feet. 
 
 She shook her withered hand at Tuathall 
 as he went, never lookin' back sayin', "Ye
 
 168 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 shall seek for that ye 're following an' never 
 come nigh it!" An' afther Niall she cried, 
 "Many a day shall ye pass by what ye most 
 desire, never knowin' it!" But on Kermad she 
 looked different like, an* says she, "In the end 
 shall ye win what's in yer heart!'' 
 
 Kermad, laughin' an' light-heart, rode off 
 afther the hunt ; but says one that Grainne had 
 spoke sharp to, "Scant good will it be to him to 
 be winnin' Grainne the Haughty, that's in his 
 heart the now ! Bitther proud is she to all be- 
 neath her, holdin' herself higher nor kings' 
 sons!" 
 
 1 ' Is she that ? ' ' says the crone. ' ' Then 'tis for 
 me to be doin' me part!" An' she was gone 
 from sight like a whiff o' smoke. 
 
 Now at first Grainne rode by Finola, in 
 mornin' sunlight that came through the trees 
 an' caught the dew on the hillside grass; but 
 afther a bit, wearyin' o' havin' Kermad an' the 
 others near, she waited till all were bendin' for- 
 ward to look at a spotted fawn ; an* then, turnin' 
 the head o' her black horse, she was off like 
 light, down a deep glen, no one seem' her go. 
 
 Down an' on she pushed, by an' beside the
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 169 
 
 little small sthream that went laughin' through 
 the glen; an' while with one soft white hand she 
 was keepin' her horse in the way she chose, 
 swingin' from the other was the huntin' horn. 
 Afther a while or two, when she'd nigh on for- 
 got those in the forest above her, a thicket o' 
 nut bushes barred the way, an' only by walkin' 
 to the bed o' the sthream could she make her 
 way through them. The stiff branches would 
 ha' thrust her back, but never was Grainne one 
 to be turned from a path once taken, an' she 
 pressed on till she came out on the plain, far 
 from any parts she'd ever seen. An' 'twas far 
 past noon, for shadows were fallin' eastward. 
 
 Lookin' back, up the far mountain side, she 
 could make out no way o' returning for the run- 
 nin' wather had been lost in the nut-thicket, an' 
 tangled boughs o' bushes hid the way she'd 
 come. A wide, lonely plain was here, with no 
 sound o' birds singin' or trees rustlin' in the 
 wind; an' sudden wishin' she'd been less head- 
 sthrong leavin' the hunt, Grainne put the golden 
 horn to her lips an' blew a long blast. But 
 waverin' it echoed, an' no answer came, for all 
 her waitin' an' hearkenin'.
 
 170 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 Sure, then was no soft feelin' in her mind for 
 Niall an' Kermad an' those others, but rather 
 dark anger, blamin' them for her plight. Hot 
 with so much as havin' let them be in her 
 thought, she held her head high an' looked 
 round, near an' far, searchin' for sight of any 
 that might guide her into beaten thrack, but no- 
 where was sign o' livin* soul. So not knowin' 
 what other to do, she set off toward what 
 seemed like a mound she'd once passed when 
 ridin' eastward from Dun-glas. 'Twas bad 
 goin' undher foot ? with hidden bog-holes to be 
 watchin' for; but while hunger was maMn' her 
 keen to be reachin' shelter an' food, yet each 
 step made the land seem more lonesome. 
 
 Well, when she'd gone a good arrow-shot, she 
 saw, off to the left, in a sort o* clear spot, a low 
 round hut o' woven reeds an' clay, an' quick 
 she bent her way toward that same. As she 
 came nigh, peerin' out o' the door was the head 
 of a wrinkled old crone, lookin' scowlin' at her. 
 
 "What will ye be afther learnin' o' me?" 
 asked the old woman, never stirrin'. "The work 
 o' the poor?" 
 
 "Work? An' learnin'?" cried Grainne.
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 171 
 
 "What should ye be teachin' me, forbye 'tis the 
 path to Dun-glas ! Come out, while I speak with 
 ye!" 
 
 The crone hobbled out o' the low door, mut- 
 therin' to herself, an' came beside the horse. 
 " 'Tis a far cry to Dun-glas," says she. "Bet- 
 ther for ye to be restin' yer horse, before goin' 
 on." 
 
 Grainne shook her head. * * That will I not I " 
 she cried. "So far has he come, an' back shall 
 he take me. Eest can he have in Dun-glas, where 
 is a fitter place for him nor this." 
 
 Grainne turned eyes on her, as if that same 
 had been honourin' dust beneath her feet. 
 "Bring me food an' dhrink," she ordhered. 
 "Naught have I tasted since early dawn." But 
 when the crone came tottherin' back with 
 muddy wather in a dhrinHn' shell, an' a broken 
 cake .0' coarse ground barley meal, dark an' 
 hard, 'twas angered Grainne was. She supped 
 a dhrop or two of the wather, bein' sore parched 
 from the sun ; but when she took the crust in her 
 hand, 'twas not she would be bringin' it to her 
 lips. 
 
 "Is it the like o' that ye'd be offerin' to the
 
 172 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 sister o' Ruadan Mor," says she, "that has 
 never eaten aught poorer nor white bread o' 
 the fine wheat? If ye've naught fit for eatin', 
 point out me road an' let me be goin'I" an* she 
 flung the crust into the muddy pool beside her. 
 
 The old crone caught up the bread an' wiped 
 it, keepin' it in her brown withered hand, an' 
 lookin' at Grainne with fear-givin' eyes as she 
 spoke: "Grainne the Haughty may ye be, 
 sister to a great warrior, an' sought o' princes 
 that know not the hard heart o ' ye, but by the 
 food that would ha' fed me, that ye cast into 
 mud an' foul wather when 'twas offered to yer 
 need an' hunger, never shall ye go free till ye've 
 paid the score by givin' me here in me hand 
 barley bread o' yer own plantin' an' reapin', 
 grindin' an' bakin'I" 
 
 An' while Grainne was yet starin' at her, the 
 crone whispered a sthrong spell into the palm o' 
 that hand, an' touched the horse with it, an* 
 then threw the dhrops from the dhrinkin* shell 
 over Grainne. Sure, in a flash there was no 
 horse there at all, but Grainne was standin' on 
 the bog turf, scarce believin' but what all was 
 an evil dhream.
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 173 
 
 "Where's me horse?" says she. 
 
 * ' Far an ' away in Diin-glas ! Go in the hut ! ' ' 
 says the old woman, as she had been misthress 
 o* many. 
 
 "That will I not!" cried Grainne again. 
 "Ye've no power for keepin' me here! 'Tis 
 Euadan Mor will be sendin' out men for seeHn' 
 me, through all the land, an' a sore punishin' 
 will be for ye I" 
 
 "Nay!" says the other, with a sneerin* laugh. 
 "Naught will they be findin* o* Grainne the 
 Haughty!" 
 
 "Naught?" cried out Grainne, the fire-gleam 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "If ye doubt, look ye in the pool. What ye 
 see in it shall all see that come askinM" An* 
 Grainne, glancin' against her will into the pool 
 o' dark, still wather, saw nothin' at all but the 
 reflectin' o' two white hands. Not so much as 
 the shadow o' herself was lyin' in the sunway 
 across it ! 
 
 Now back in Dun-glas all were standin' in the 
 courtyard or watchin' from the tops o' the 
 walls, for hours had gone by, an' all were in 
 from the huntin' save Lady Grainne, though
 
 174 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 men mounted an' afoot had been sent scourin' 
 the hill-glens for sign o' her. An' even as they 
 talked, Finola gave a cry, an' there in the gate 
 stood Grainne's horse, none havin' seen how it 
 came. 
 
 " "Tis the dark powers have stolen her 
 away!" says Finola; an' many thought the 
 same. 
 
 "Then shall they bring her again!" says 
 Tuathall mac Osra. " 'Tis meself will search 
 for her a month before givin' up hope o' findin' 
 her, ay, an' weddin' her." 
 
 "A month?" says Niall. " 'Tis for a year 
 an' a week an' a day I'll be afther bin din' me- 
 self to keep on seekin', an' feel paid by a kiss o' 
 the hand o' fair Grainne." 
 
 But says Kermad: "If I find her not in a 
 month, for a year will I search an' for ten years, 
 an' while the life stirs me heart, askin' only 
 the hope o' bringin' smilin' to the dark eyes o* 
 Grainne. ' ' 
 
 So over the mountain sides they sought her, 
 an' through deep glens, an' to every rath an' 
 dun, hut an' grianan, for long leagues, trusted 
 men went for askin' word an' for tracin' out
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 175 
 
 where Grainne might be hid. An' many a night 
 that followed saw them draggin' weary feet 
 back to Dfrn-glas without aught o' news. An' 
 Euadan an' Finola mourned for her as one 
 never to be found more. 
 
 Hot summer came, an' Tuathall, wearyin', 
 rode back over the hills to the court o' Fer- 
 doragh; yet Niall an' Kermad still kept holdin' 
 to hope, while autumn winds were scattherin' 
 dhry leaves here an' there, an r when winter 
 snows covered all. 
 
 But when spring days were warm in the land, 
 says Niall to Kermad, ridin' from a far glen 
 toward Dun-glas: " 'Tis dead she is, or in the 
 land o' the Little People! Home will I be 
 turnin', where are laughin' fair maids a 
 plenty. ' ' 
 
 " Farewell tKen," says Kermad. 
 
 So Niall spurred away, an' Kermad spurred 
 on slow, thinkin' so deep o' Grainne that he 
 took scant count o' where he was. By an' be- 
 yant, as dusk was nigh, he came to an open 
 space on the hillside, an' slackened rein, that 
 his horse might crop the young grass. Now 
 here in the open, where sun would come, was a
 
 176 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 bit o' bare brown earth, as it had been fresh 
 turned up. An' as the horse was movin' by that 
 same, sudden, out o' the air, came two white 
 hands, an' turned his head another way. Sure, 
 Kermad wondered, all amazed. He caught up 
 the reins an' watched, but naught more did he 
 see, barrin' 'twas a swirl o' white mist blown 
 past by a chill wind. 
 
 All night, back in Dun-glas, he couldn't keep 
 those white hands out o' his dhreamin', so like 
 were they to fair ones he'd seen spinnin' white 
 wool from a golden distaff; an' the next evenin' 
 at the same hour, he sought the far clearin* 
 afoot, an' waited, hid by a bush. An' as the 
 sunset light passed from the treetops, out o' 
 mist came the white hands again, graspin' a 
 rough pointed branch an' tryin' to dig up the 
 earth in the open, but seemin' to find it ill work, 
 there among stones an' rocks. 
 
 Kermad waited till the hands were blown 
 away by that same cold wind again, an' then 
 dhrew his sword an' fell to diggin' up the patch 
 o' ground with it, an' by dark 'twas turned up 
 for planting if that was why 'twas wanted.
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 177 
 
 Watchin' next evenin' afther that, the hands 
 came, sowin' seed careful, an' coverin' it with 
 earth, an' they bein' drifted away before all was 
 done, 'twas Kermad finished the plantin'. 
 
 Sure, while he still kept show o' wandherin' 
 over the country, all his thought was o' the little 
 field beyant, an' the gentle hands that tended it. 
 There he went, time afther time, an' now he'd 
 see them, in the mist, an ' then maybe not. How- 
 ever it was, the summer went flittin' by, while 
 he saw the green stalks o' barley shootin' up, 
 there in the forest, an' aided keepin' them from 
 bein' weed-grown, an' brought wather there 
 when was drought for a time. 
 
 The ears o' the grain grew ripe an* hard, an' 
 one night o' full moon he saw the white hands 
 pluckin' them, an' rubbin' them to rid the grain 
 o' chaff an' straw. Sudden he began thinkin' 
 that if he was to find where the hands came 
 from, 'twas time, for they might be carryin' 
 away their harvest an' not returnin'. So when 
 he felt the wind, he followed the swirlin' mist 
 down over rocks an' briers an' roots, never 
 carin', an' at last over bog an' marsh, in the
 
 178 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 dark o' mist an' fog, to a low hut. An' from 
 the door came an old crone, holdin' a burnin' 
 brand up in the night. 
 
 "Finish now yer lesson!" she cried, an' 
 Kennad, watchin', saw the hands bring out 
 grindin' stones an' crush the grain, an' then 
 pick up sticks an ' build a fire. Next, they mixed 
 the meal into a cake, an' set it to bake over the 
 coals, an' as he caught sight o' them clear in the 
 fire-flame, he knew them! 
 
 Quick he sprang from his hidin' an' grasped 
 firm hold o' the crone's arm. 
 
 ' * The white hands ! " he cried. * ' 'Tis yerself 
 has hidden Lady Grainne, an' shall do it no 
 longer!" 
 
 ' ' 'Twas learnin' the work o' the poor she was 
 needin'," mutthered the crone. "What is she 
 to ye, that ye should keep up searchin' for what 
 Euadan Mor gave up, a year gone by?" 
 
 "Dearest of all in me heart!" says Kennad. 
 1 * Let her free o ' yer spells, or ill shall it be for 
 ye!" A step forward he took, in anger, but 
 paused, feelin' the touch o' two soft hands 
 holdin' him back. 
 
 "Ay, now that the bakin' is done," says the
 
 GRAINNE THE HAUGHTY 179 
 
 old woman, as if not seein ' him or carin * what he 
 would do. ' '-Give me here the cake ! ' ' 
 
 An' in the savin' of the words, the servin' 
 hands laid the cake in hers. In two pieces she 
 broke it, savin': "Full half shall be mine, as 
 payin' for that once cast in the mud; an' in the 
 other share lies freein' for the one that planted 
 an' reaped, ground an' baked the barley bread. 
 But hark, now," turnin' to Kermad. " 'Twas 
 planted an' grown by helpin' from ye, an* not 
 alone, as right should ha' been. That share I 
 give to ye. Will ye free her by givin' it?" 
 
 "Ay!" shouted Kermad, quick snatchin' the 
 broken barley cake from the crone's fingers an' 
 holdin' it out. No swirl o' mist he saw then, 
 but one with soft smilin' eyes, an' willin' hands 
 that were laid in his. 
 
 The crone looked at the two standin' there, 
 then whispered a charm in her wrinkled palm 
 an' blew it off into the dark night air, an' all 
 at once 'twas Grainne's own black horse was 
 there by them. 
 
 "Learnin' an' winnin' is done!" cried the 
 old woman; an' with that, hut an' crone, mist 
 an' fog an' clouds were gone on a gust o* warm
 
 180 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 wind. But open lay path before them, over the 
 plain an' up the mountain glen, an* back to Dun- 
 glas in clear light o* the full harvest moon rode 
 Kermad an* Grainne that was no more 
 haughty, havin' learned the work o' the poor.
 
 xm 
 
 LIGHT O' MB EYES 
 
 [" A tale, is it ? Well, hearken then. ' '] 
 
 'TWAS nigh on the end of a rare fine summer day, 
 an' a sweet south wind stirred in the boughs o' 
 the trees at the bend o' the shore, when Alona, 
 daughter to Fathach the Dhreamer, came down 
 the sea-glen with a leaf-basket o' red berries in 
 her little hands, that were brown with the sun. 
 
 Clad all in a dress o ' f awnskin she was, an ' had 
 a bow at her back like a right hunter. The sun- 
 flame itself glinted in her curlin' hair, that was 
 but half held in by a twistin' cord o' gold, an* 
 pure grey an* clear as dewdhrops on grass be- 
 fore sunrise were the laughin' eyes o' her. 
 
 Sure, Mogh the swineherd, that was cross an' 
 old, rose up from the rock on the shore, where 
 he'd been sittin' by a sthranger, an' his quare 
 181
 
 182 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 pinched face shone glad at seein' her. An* says 
 the one beside him, that was covered head an' 
 all with a rough cloak : 
 
 "Whose are the light soft feet I hear 
 comin'?" 
 
 "Those of Alona, child o* Fathach," says 
 Mogh. "But Light o' me Eyes is the name he 
 calls her, an* that same is she to all knowin' the 
 sweet ways o 7 her, barrin' that few save me- 
 self an' the man Bobaran ever see sight o' her 
 in the sea-glen o ' Fathach the Dhreamer. ' ' 
 
 Then Light o' me Eyes, seein' that one not 
 known to her was with Mogh, came toward 
 them; an' says she: 
 
 "Is it a sthranger come journeyin' this way, 
 Mogh, an' ye not afther bringin' him to me 
 father for food an' shelter? 'Tis no kind restin' 
 place for one weary, on rocks by the shore, with 
 night comin' across the hills." 
 
 At that the man raised his head an' flung back 
 his cloak; an' 'twas the right noble young face 
 he had, forbye the eyes o' him were closed. An' 
 in his hand was a little small harp o' carven 
 shell. 
 
 Sure, all the happiness o' Light o' me Eyes
 
 LIGHT O' ME EYES 183 
 
 was drowned in heart-ache, lookin' at him. 
 "Can ye not see, harper?" says she. 
 
 "Nay," answered the harper. "No sight is 
 given me eyes, o' the fair sun on the green sides 
 o' tossin' waves, or o' the dawn growin' bright 
 on the dark hills." 
 
 "But how came ye here?" she asked, won- 
 dherin', "seein' as how the roads are but lost 
 paths in the forest, an' all is wild land for many 
 a mile, save only the swellin' place o' Fathach, 
 where he sits dhreamin' o' the white stars. 
 Have ye not come by a wrong way?" 
 
 "Nay," says the harper again, "for no path 
 chosen, but that o ' chance do I follow. Far have 
 I wandhered, through storm an' wind, through 
 days warm an* soft with sunshine ; yet never has 
 there been lack o' one willin' to lead me on- 
 ward." 
 
 ' ' Then shall hand o ' mine guide ye to a kindly 
 roof this night," says Light o' me Eyes, pitiful 
 like. ' * 'Tis Fathach me father is well pleased 
 at hearin' harpin' or singin' in the hall, an' has 
 ever welcome for one comin' weary." An' 
 givin' the berries to Mogh, an' biddin' him fol- 
 low, she led the harper from the shore an' up
 
 184 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the glen, watchin' careful that no stone or fallen 
 branch should be afther trippin' him. 
 
 In a while they came on a low grey house o' 
 logs, in the turn o' the glen, where a light smoke 
 was curlin' up, tellin' o' meat roastin' within'. 
 An* peerin' from the door stood a squat little 
 dwarf of a man, that cried out : 
 
 "Food is waitin' for ye, Light o* me Eyes. 
 Long has Fathach been pacin' up an' down, 
 restless like, for that ye came not." 
 
 Then says Alona : ' ' 'Tis a guest I have here, 
 Bobaran. See that there's meat an' dhrink a 
 plenty, an' give a horn o' mead, an' what else 
 ye have, to Mogh, that was afther bringin' him 
 to the sea-glen." 
 
 Quick the dwarf servin' man ran to obey, 
 hoppin' an' jumpin' along: but Light o' me 
 Eyes drew the blind harper within to Fathach, 
 an' gave him a seat by the rough hewn table, 
 tellin' her father how she'd come on him. 
 
 " 'Tis welcome ye are^ for a day or a year o' 
 days," says Fathach, that was tall an' bent, 
 with long white hair an' gentle eyes that were 
 misted over with much thinkin'. "Eat an*
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 185 
 
 rest." An' he set the best of all there before 
 the wandherin' harper. 
 
 Now when all had eaten, they went out to' ; 
 where benches were set undher a great oak tree,' 
 an' sat silent in the dyin' light while the harper; 
 played old songs merry an* sad, an 7 at last a, 
 fonnsheen so wild an* sthrange that Alona cried 
 out, frightened like, raisin ' her fair head 
 from where it had been leanin' on Fathaeh's 
 shouldher. 
 
 " 'Tis deep in dhreamin' I was!" says she. 
 "A long road was I thravellin', an' at last, by a 
 deep river, I saw two stars fallin' from the 
 night sky into a golden crown that I was 
 holdin'." 
 
 11 Mayhap 'tis a dhream not all a dhream," 
 says the harper. "Hear me now, Fathach, an' 
 you, gentle daughter o' Fathach. Thanks have 
 ye not yet had o' me for the welcome given, or 
 for the kind word that is far more nor gold. But 
 even as I give them, an' tell ye me errand, do I 
 bring ye a sthrange knot, hard for untyin'. 
 Hear, Fathach, a sure token o' me faith." 
 An' he whispered a secret word in the ear o'
 
 186 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the Dhreamer, that nodded, under standin'. But 
 Light o' me Eyes waited, silent. 
 
 Then spoke the harper, low an' sad. An' says 
 he: " Dalian the blind one was the name 
 given me in the dun o' King Ciad, where at 
 many a high feast I sang brave songs to cheer 
 the hearts o' men. An' now that gloom sits 
 there in place o ' mirth, for many a day have I, 
 an' all the harpers o' King Ciad's court, gone 
 searchin' wide an' far, hopin' to find one that 
 may bring back seein' to the King, an' save the 
 land from sore sorrow an' an evil ruler. For 
 Balor, kinsman to Ciad, that was afther hatin' 
 him for bein' alive at all when himself had 
 long been set on bein' King in room o' one far 
 betther skilled in the fightin' thricked him into 
 breakin' in on secrets o' the Little People, 
 Ciad not knowin' where himself was goin'. An' 
 they, angered at any overlookin' them, took 
 sight from his eyes an' left him helpless that 
 was so sthrong. Now is there cloud o' black 
 war, risin' over the land, an' Balor sayin' that 
 Ciad should be no more King, not bein' able to 
 lead his warriors ift battle. Yet have the people 
 love for Ciad, an' naught betther nor fear an'
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 187 
 
 hate for Balor, that was ever layin' heavy bur- 
 dens on those weak. Sure, a year now nigh 
 spent did they set for waitin', thinkin' ever 
 that sight might come back to the right King. ' ' 
 
 "Can that be?" asked Light o' me Eyes, 
 eager. 
 
 "One that had favor among them gained a 
 word from the Little People. An* they told 
 him: 'The lovin' touch, on darkened eyes, of a 
 maid willin' to take that shadow on herself, will 
 free one blind by no fault o' his own.' " 
 
 "An' has none been found willin'?" asked 
 Fathach. 
 
 "None," says the harper, touchin' a sad note. 
 "For what girleen, lovin' the stars an' the fair 
 sun-dawn, an' the gleam o' blossoms in the fresh 
 grass, would make choice to go in darkness, 
 even as Ciad's queen, led ever by tender hands, 
 for sake o' bringin' sight an' safety to a 
 sthrange King an' a people dwellin' far from 
 her, when never one at Ciad's court nor in all 
 the land about but shrank in dread from that 
 same?" 
 
 "Then will I not shrink !" says Light o' me
 
 188 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 Eyes, soft as the fallin' of a rose. "The far 
 questin' is done, harper." 
 
 Sure, 'twas not Fathach nor yet the blind 
 harper, but Mogh the swineherd that sudden 
 flung himself down at her little feet, where 
 she'd risen in the young moonlight, cryin' out 
 against the word she'd spoken. 
 
 "Far betther had I let the sthranger wandher 
 over the cliff-side an' be dashed on the rocks o' 
 the shore!" says he. "What is he, to bring 
 bitther grief to the sea-glen o' Fathach, an' a 
 darkened life to Light o' me Eyes?" 
 
 An' says the harper: " 'Tis right he is! 
 Naught am I to ask it!" 
 
 Then says Alona: " 'Tis not ye that ask it, 
 not yet King Ciad, but the tremblin' hearts o' 
 those helpless in war, an' those old, with white 
 hair, in the land whence ye came, Dalian!" 
 
 "It shall not be!" cried the harper, with a 
 wild beat on the harp strings that echoed far. 
 
 "It shall be!" says Fathach, grave an' stern, 
 "for the white stars have heard the given word 
 o' Light o' me Eyes. This night will I spend 
 watchin' them, to gain clear counsel, an' it may 
 be, learn the will o' them far sthronger nor Bal-
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 189 
 
 or an' the Little People. An' in the mornin' 
 shall Mogh guide an' guard ye, through the 
 deep forest an' to find Bang Ciad." 
 
 With that he led the way within : an' when all 
 were sleepin' sound, he went out under the open 
 sky. 
 
 Early in the grey o* mornin' all was made 
 ready for departin'. The look o' deep wisdom 
 was in the eyes o ' Fathach, but his words were 
 few, as he bade farewell to Light o' me Eyes an' 
 gave her courage. But Mogh he held back till 
 the others had passed among the trees ; an' says 
 he : ' ' Sthrong power to ward off ill is in the pure 
 heart o ' Light o ' me Eyes. Yet guard well this 
 ring o ' wrought bronze I give ye, an ' in the hour 
 when peril past other wardin' comes nigh her, 
 be ready an' fling it from ye upward, sayin': 
 'Fall, Evil, on the Evil-Hearted!' " 
 
 Then Mogh, takin' the ring, Hastened afther 
 Alona, that was guidin' the blind harper down 
 a fern-grown path, where the night mists were 
 still clingin', on into the deep o' the forest; 
 an' for a time they went forward silent, as three 
 in a dhream. 
 
 Yet afther a while, the way leadin' down to
 
 190 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 the shore, an' the little small waves dancin' an' 
 leapin' in the sun, where fresh wind had scat- 
 thered the mist, Light o' me Eyes began 
 singin', an' the dull weight on the hearts o' them 
 with her grew less, an' their steps lighter. An' 
 says she: 
 
 " 'Tis a blithe day for journeyin'! We 
 should go far. An' 'tis o' King Ciad I'm won- 
 dherin' on the way, whether he loves harpin' 
 an' singin' well, an' whether 'tis a sthrong arm 
 he has for the whirlin' sword-play. An' is he 
 one gentle to those weaker nor he?" 
 
 "Ay," says the harper. ''That same he 
 strove to be, though 'tis but young he was when 
 the black shadow fell, an' had had but little time 
 for aught else but leadin' his men as a warrior. 
 Yet a name for skill in harpin' he had won, an' 
 'tis meself has heard him singin' at a high 
 feast." 
 
 "An' was there no maid known to him with 
 heart to go in darkness for his sake, that he 
 must send searchin' through far lands for one to 
 aid him an' his people?" says Mogh, grim-like, 
 trampin' on behind with bent head. 
 
 "Nay!" cried the harper. "One th^re was,
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 191 
 
 that thought much o' bein' Queen an' wearin' 
 cloth o' silk an' a golden torque set with rare 
 jewels ; an' fair was her proud face to Ciad. But 
 as well might he have been afther lovin' wather 
 that had run past into the sea, as her when sor- 
 row came to him!" 
 
 An' so they fared on' over sand an' shingle, 
 ever away from the sea-glen o ' Fathach. When 
 the sun was high they rested for a while, an' ate 
 what Mogh had brought, on a fallen log by the 
 shore; but they slept, that night, in the dark 
 forest, where Mogh made a bit o ' fire with dhry 
 sticks, an' built a shelter for Light o' me Eyes 
 out o' brakes an' brambles. An' 'twas Mogh 
 that brought wather, but the harper would let 
 none other but himself be lavin' the little feet o' 
 Light o' me Eyes, as she leaned weary against 
 a tree; an' for many an' hour 'twas he played 
 soft an' low, that fair dhreams should come to 
 her. An' Mogh an' the harper slept only by 
 turn, lest any danger sfir nigh her. 
 
 With light they went on again, Mogh 
 knowin' well the straight way south, where a 
 swift, wild sthream ran, the Eiver o' Gray 
 Eapids, they called it, beyant which the rule o'
 
 192 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 King Ciad still held power. An' on the second 
 night they made a restin' place for Alona on a 
 hill-slope, where was a patch o' fern among the 
 heather. An' the harper wrapped his cloak 
 about her, to shield her from the chill in the air ; 
 an' all night he sat wakeful. But all this time 
 they met no man. 
 
 Now toward the twilight o ' the third day, the 
 air brought them the dull rush o' flowin' wather 
 near. An' with it came sthrange noises to 
 them; horns o' huntin' where no hunters were, 
 an' wailin' like the shee dancin' in the wind. 
 An' white as moonlight, an' stern grew the face 
 o' the blind harper; but Alona carin' for 
 naught but findin' the safest path among the 
 rocks an' bushes for his feet, an' o' cheerin' him 
 an' Mogh as they went had a laugh blithe as 
 Spring to answer all evil sounds. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis the River o ' Gray Eapids at last, ' ' says 
 Mogh, when they'd reached the strand. "An' 
 in the mornin' I'll search out a way for 
 crossin'." 
 
 "An' may we soon come on King Ciad," says 
 Alona, "for well I know the heart o' Fathach
 
 LIGHT O' ME EYES 193 
 
 will be wearyin' for the hour when Mogh comes 
 bringin' me homeward. " 
 
 "Homeward!" says the harper. "Nay, 'tis 
 Queen o' the land Ciad will have ye afther bein', 
 Alona ! Sure, love an ' high honour will be for ye, 
 an ' riches at yer feet I Have ye forgot ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis not for that I came," says Light o 7 me 
 Eyes, "but for helpin' as a free gift, where was 
 sore need. An* an' it may be some time ye '11 
 come again to the Sea-glen, Dalian, an' sing o' 
 sunshine an' fair blossoms, an' o' the wan- 
 dherin' in the forest these days. Sure, that 
 would be far betther nor gold an' silken robes." 
 
 But the blind harper was silent; an' when 
 Alona slept, he sat by Mogh, hearkenin' to the 
 river. 
 
 At last says he: "No longer can I bear the 
 touch o' her soft hand guidin' me, nor the ten- 
 der, merry voice, like a lilt o' song beside me. 
 Let me wandher away alone to what may come, 
 an' do ye take her, Mogh, back by another path 
 to the sea-glen, tellin' her I'm gone an' ye've 
 lost the way. Ay, rather will I let the river 
 dash me body among the sharp rocks o' the 
 rapids an' beat out life, before havin' her take
 
 194 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 such doom on her through me. Never a King 
 nor a kingdom is worth it!" 
 
 " 'Tis too late," says Mogh. "Willin' would 
 I be, but not for any word o' man dare I cross 
 the biddin' o' Fathach, that has knowledge o' 
 things far off, an' power in sthrange ways. An' 
 more nor aught I could say would it now take 
 to stay Light o' me Eyes from crossin' the 
 sthream before us in search o ' King Ciad. ' ' 
 
 "Yet if she find him not?" says the harper. 
 But Mogh laid hand on his arm. 
 
 1 'Hearken!" says he. " 'Tis the clash of 
 armour an' voices that's comin' over the wather 
 from the far shore; an' flickerin' o' firelight 
 among the bushes beyant." 
 
 "It may be that all fordin' places are held by 
 Balor," says the harper, "lest any cross 
 bringin' aid to Ciad. Or it may be sthrange 
 warriors come to make havoc in the land. Far 
 wiser, Mogh, that ye follow me counsel an' turn 
 away from a King already nigh lost." 
 
 "First will I know," says Mogh. "Stay ye 
 here, guardin' Light o' me Eyes till I come 
 again." An' with that he plunged straight into 
 the wather an' swam steady, battlin' the cur-
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 195 
 
 rent, across the river to where were the fires 
 he'd seen; an' then crept up, aisy like, through 
 long grass, till he heard low speakin' almost be- 
 side him. An' a long while he crouched there, 
 hearin' all said by two warriors that sat apart 
 from the rest, nigh to a hut o' reeds. An' not 
 till they'd made an end an' gone away to the 
 fires did he stir down to the wather again, an' 
 back through the river, that swirled him about 
 like the wind a leaf, ere he could reach the shore 
 where Dalian was waitin', ever hearkenin' for 
 what might come. 
 
 " 'Tis Balor himself is yondher, with many a 
 stout warrior, an' was holdin' counsel away 
 from them with one called Eoghan, never 
 dhreamin' that any was hearin' from the long 
 grass," says Mogh, wringin' the wather from 
 what he wore. 
 
 "Then must we be afther findin' other place 
 for crossin'," says the harper, "for evil are the 
 eyes o' Balor on any fair young girleen." 
 
 "An' 'twas speakin' o' one long wandhered 
 away they were," says Mogh, "that was under 
 sthrong gels to tell none his name while beyant 
 the Eiver o' Gray Rapids."
 
 196 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "Ay!" says the harper, still as wather afther 
 rain. "An* what o' him?" 
 
 "That his was a hopeless quest, seein' how 
 two days more an' the year up then would 
 bring Balor the Kingship. Yet has he had, in 
 secret, the river bank held by certain men from 
 the wild outlands, that know no masther save 
 Balor, an* would bring to him any that crossed, 
 without lettin ' the warriors know. For that has 
 Balor made lyin' rumors a raison for bringin' 
 the army hither.'* 
 
 "Then have the warriors still hope for 
 Ciad?" asked the harper, eager. 
 
 " 'Tis Balor himself says the very army at 
 his back an* round him would rise an' cast him 
 out in a breath, if Ciad stood among them 
 seein'," answered Mogh; an' then would he say 
 no more, but lay down an' fell asleep, wet as he 
 was, an' never stirred for many an hour, till 
 loud in his ear came a wild cry, an' he sprang 
 up to see the harper strivin' to beat back armed 
 men. Even as he woke, two gripped himself, an* 
 at the shore was Light o ' me Eyes held in a boat 
 o ' skins by yet another. Strugglin ' was useless. 
 'Twas but a minute afore all three were bein*
 
 LIGHT 0' ME EYES 197 
 
 ferried over the surgin' wather an* haled up the 
 bank, scarce fair awake as they were, to the hut 
 o' reeds, where, at the door, stood a sullen- 
 faced warrior. An' Mogh knew it Balor him- 
 self, by the voice he'd heard in the night, an' 
 quick he cast the rough cloak over Dalian. 
 
 For a moment they stood, an' then "Have 
 the men bound an' flung far away in the 
 bushes 1" says Balor to the man Eoghan, that 
 was by him. 
 
 "That shall ye not!" says Light o' me Eyes; 
 an' swift she'd the bow free in her hands, an' 
 the arrow from it quiverin' in the shoulder o' 
 him that would ha' laid hold on the harper. An' 
 Mogh, dhrawin' his knife, warned off all. Then 
 Balor, with a harsh laugh, sprang forward an' 
 wrenched the bow from the soft hands, an' 
 would ha' seized Alona herself, but at her cry 
 the sthrong arm o' the harper went round her, 
 an' Balor was flung back in the doorway, an' 
 for a moment could get no breath. An' Mogh 
 saw many a stout warrior hurryin' toward them 
 from the campin' place beyant. 
 
 "He is blind! Are ye men, to harm a blind
 
 198 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 singer?" says Alona, never fearin' aught for 
 herself. 
 
 "An' whither fare ye, lady, with a wild kerne 
 an* a blind harper!" says the man Eoghan, 
 sneerin*. 
 
 "To the King!" says she, "to save him an' 
 the land from evil ! ' ' 
 
 "The King?" says Balor, his face afire at her 
 beauty an' courage, " 'Tis I, Balor, shall be 
 King, the morrow, an' ye Queen! Ciad lies 
 dead in the forest!" 
 
 1 1 Dead ! ' ' cried the harper. 
 
 "Ay!" says Balor, "an' 'tis ye shall follow 
 him this hour, for the blow ye gave !" 
 
 But before the dagger was from his sheath, 
 Alona turned sudden to the harper, with brave 
 light o' lovin' in her face; an' "Take sight, 
 then, pulse o' me heart!" says she, layin' her 
 lips on his eyes. "Betther ye nor me in this 
 hour!" 
 
 But no shadow fell on her sweet eyes! In 
 that very breath, Mogh, that had been watchin ' 
 keen, hurled from him the bronze ring o' 
 Fathach, cryin' "Fall, Evil, on the Evil- 
 Hearted!"
 
 LIGHT O' ME EYES 199 
 
 An' as out o' the sky, curse an* ring sthruck 
 the dark face o' Balor, that staggered, with 
 sudden hands to his brow, an' dropped heavy 
 to the ground. 
 
 The harper strode an' leaned over Balor, in 
 sight o' the warriors nigh them; an' says he: 
 
 4 'Was yon truth or a lie ye spake o' Ciad?" 
 
 " 'Tis dead he is!" says Balor, strikin' at 
 air with his dagger, fierce an' wild. 
 
 "Nay!" cried the harper, sudden flingin' 
 the rough cloak from him, an' lettin' his shout 
 ring out glad as he turned. "Nay, Light o' me 
 Eyes ! For I am Ciad, an ' I see ! " 
 
 But slow an' alone, as night fell, Mogh the 
 swineherd, that was cross an' old, fared on his 
 way back to the sea-glen o' Fathach.
 
 XIV 
 
 CONN THE BOASTEB 
 
 ["A story? 'Tis always a story ye 're wantin', 
 Where's me weedin' o' the garden to come 
 in at all, at all? Sure, 'tis no peace ye 're 
 af ther givin ' me ! 'Tis worse nor the Little 
 People treated Conn the fat cook. Be whist, 
 now, if yees want to hear about it"] 
 
 'TWAS King Dermot was a mighty ruler, but 
 growin' old as time went by, he sent far an' 
 wide for a champion to aid him fightin' the 
 Danes. Many a man came to try his chances, 
 only to be tumbled over by some o ' those in the 
 court. An' King Dermot wanted one sthronger 
 nor any o' them; so when at last Prince Aongas, 
 that had been livin' poor in exile, beat down the 
 last man that stood against him; King Dermot 
 gave him his daughter, Princess Enya, an' made 
 200
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 201 
 
 him the greatest man in the kingdom, all but ex- 
 peptin' himself. 
 
 As I said before, King Dermot was gettin' on 
 to be old, so afther Prince Aongas was wed to 
 JCnya o' the Fair Hands, 'twas for him to rule 
 in place o' Dermot. An' sure, the king found it 
 mighty aisy an' pleasant to lie abed o' mornin's 
 an' take his comfort, instead o* risin' up to hear 
 all the troubles that the people brought to be 
 settled. An' for that same, he moved his 
 sleepin' place to a high tower on the back wall 
 o' the castle, that looked down into a little small 
 courtyard, where 'twas few people came. 
 
 Now, early one mornin' he was roused before 
 his hour by a great clatter o' tongues below. 
 An' bein' cross as the crabs at losin' his mornin' 
 nap, he rose up an' poked his grey head out o' 
 the window. 'Twas two men was makin' all the 
 to-do, an' arguyin' like mad. One was a big 
 stout man, with a white cloth tied about him, 
 that puffed an' breathed hard while he spoke; 
 an' that was Conn, the chief cook. While the 
 other, that did only half as much o' the talkin', 
 was Art, the groom. A dark, wiry lad was that 
 same, an' betther nor many at the leapin'.
 
 202 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 An' says Conn: "What for a man is Aongas, 
 then? Sure, that big fellow, Conal o ' the Shield, 
 could ha' made three o' him, an' 'twas no work 
 at all that I beat him till he ran out o ' the back 
 door o' the castle. An' had I been dressed in 
 fine cloth, an* not in this that I've on, 'tis I 
 should ha ' had the Princess. ' ' 
 
 'Twas Art was goin' to answer him to the 
 same tune, an' tell how himself had thripped up 
 Breogan at the wrestlin', though that was a man 
 that had thrashed Conn in his time, but just 
 then King Dermot gave a bit of a sneeze, an' 
 Art, bein' a quick-witted lad, changed his man- 
 ner, an' drew on Conn to talk louder an' louder, 
 havin' a spite against him for more raisons nor 
 one. 
 
 "Ay," said Conn, "an' if the Danes came, 
 'tis meself would dhrive them scamperin' 
 sooner nor a boy like Aongas, that never was 
 half fed till he came to this place." 
 
 At that, King Dermot, thinkin' he'd heard a 
 plenty, pulled in his head an' went down to the 
 great hall. There sat Aongas on the high seat, 
 an' many people o' the court standin' by him. 
 When he saw King Dermot, he rose up to give
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 203 
 
 him place, but Dermot sat down beside him an* 
 waited till all was quiet. Then he beckoned to 
 Colla, the waitin' boy, that knelt at his feet. 
 
 "Go, bring Conn, the cook, from where he 
 stands talkin' loud in the little small courtyard, 
 an' be swift/' 
 
 Sure, every last one was wondherin' what 
 King Dermot was wantin' with Conn, an' 
 waited to find out. So back runs Colla, an' 
 Conn followin' with his big shouldhers swingin' 
 from side to side as he walked, an' his head 
 settin' back on his chin. When he saw the look 
 in the eyes o' King Dermot he fell down on his 
 knees for fear o' what might be comin'. An' 
 says the king : 
 
 " 'Tis good ye are at the roastin' o' meat, 
 Conn. An' 'tis fond o' good eatin' ye are. Now, 
 'tis in my mind to give ye a lesson that ye 're 
 sore needin'." With that he told what he'd 
 been hearin'. 
 
 An' first one spoke, an* then another, tellin' 
 what should befall him to teach him betther use 
 o' his tongue. But far from King Dermot 's 
 mind was thought o' spoilin' the best cook he
 
 204 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 had by dhroppin' him in the river, or settin' the 
 dogs to chase him o'er the hills. 
 
 At last says Aongas, laughin', "Dhrive a 
 great stake on the bank o' the river, close by the 
 ford, an' chain him tight to it. An' there let him 
 stay till one passes that is a greater boaster nor 
 he. An ' let his food be crusts from the table an * 
 wather from the river.'* 
 
 Conn said naught, thinkin' that he'd come 
 off aisy afther all he'd said, an' scornin' such 
 light punishment. "Sure," thought he, " 'Twill 
 be no time at all afore I'm back in me own 
 kitchen. 'Tis a fine time I'll be havin', down 
 there by the river, watchin' the world go by, an' 
 havin' no work to be worryin' me." 
 
 But he was reckonin ' without Art, the groom. 
 As soon as they'd left Conn by the ford, Art 
 went off, when none was lookin', an* across 
 counthry to his mother ; an' 'twas on the road to 
 the castle she lived. An' from her he took 
 promise that no man should pass without bein* 
 warned o' the plight o' Conn, an' not to boast o' 
 nothin' whatever. 
 
 So when the first thraveller, that was an old 
 man with earthen pots to sell, came hobblin'
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 205 
 
 along the road to the ford, there sat Conn, 
 makin' out that he was enjoyin' the fine 
 weather, an' payin' no manner of attention to 
 the great stake. 
 
 "Good day," says he. An' "good day to ye," 
 says the potter. 
 
 "Ye look like a man that has done things 
 worth spakin' of," says Conn. "Sit down an' 
 Chat a bit." 
 
 "Not I," says the other. " 'Tis hut a poor 
 potter that I am, an' have done no deeds at all 
 barrin' the makin' o' pots an' pipkins, an' that 
 mortal poorly." With that, bein' warned, an' 
 mindin' how once Conn had dhriven him from 
 the kitchen door without bite nor sup, he tucked 
 up his ragged gown an' waded across the ford, 
 Conn watchin' him discomfortably. 
 
 Next to come was Manus the Singer, an* Conn 
 had great hopes of him, for that he was terrible 
 proud o' his verses. So he smiled round undher 
 his ears, an' made his voice fat an' soft. 
 
 " 'Tis a long weary time ye've been away 
 from us, Manus," says he. "An' 'tis missin' 
 y er elegant singin ' we Ve been. Sure now, in all
 
 206 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 yer thravels ye've never met yer like at the 
 verse makmV 
 
 "Nay," says Manns, winkin' a bit to himself, 
 bnt pretendin' 'twas the snn makin' him blink, 
 ' ' over an' by where the river at our feet pours 
 its wathers into the ragin' Sea o' Moyle, I found 
 a man singin' in the hall o' King Ivar the Dane, 
 by whom 'tis I am but a bungler." 
 
 " 'Tis yer modesty," says Conn. "Sure, the 
 very words ye use to tell of it are ones that 
 wouldn't come in the mind o' common men." 
 
 Now that tickled Manus, for all he'd been 
 warned by Art's old mother. Perhaps he might 
 ha' sat down then, an' told what a fine singer he 
 was, but just then his eye fell on the chain that 
 held Conn. 
 
 "What for is that round ye?" says he. 
 
 "To kape me from fallin' in the river," says 
 Conn. ' ' 'Tis fair worn out I am with the great 
 heat o' the fire ; so King Dermot sent me here to 
 recover meself, an' the chain for fear I'd be 
 feelin' weak." 
 
 " 'Tis meself is feelin' weak, an' hungry by 
 that," says Manus. "I'll be goin' up to the
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 207 
 
 castle an' seein' what is roastin' for dinner. " 
 An ' off lie strode through the ford. 
 
 An' so it went till night came, an* Colla 
 brought Conn a few hard crusts for his eatin'. 
 An' 'twas glad enough poor Conn was to get 
 any food to set his teeth in, for he was nigh 
 famished, never havin' gone empty so long. 
 
 'Twas ill he slept that night, but for hopin' 
 that some great boaster might come passin', an' 
 not be able to kape from tellin ' o ' his fine doin 's. 
 But all in vain. Four an' five days went, an' no 
 one would be any help in the way he wanted. 
 
 Now Conn slept so light, the chain makin' 
 him onaisy, that a breath of a word could 
 rouse him. When the seventh night darkened 
 he was dozin' where he lay, an' by an' by some- 
 thin' pricked the sole o' his foot. He rooched 
 round, onaisy like, an' turned over. Then down 
 by his side he heard small voices talkin'. An' 
 says one: 
 
 "Behold me amazin' strength. Though I am 
 not the height o' this big man's knee, when I 
 put me shouldher to his foot, I heaved him over 
 entirely!" 
 
 "Pooh," says the other voice. " 'Tis naught
 
 208 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 to me own doin'. Tester morn I stood behind a 
 bush across the river from the castle gate an* 
 dhrew a long breath; an' so powerful was it that 
 the gate swung outward, an' half a dozen o' the 
 King's men were dragged through it. 'Twas 
 no use their tryin' to resist at all!" 
 
 * ' Aha ! ' ' thought Conn. ' ' Here 's me chance, 
 forbye I can catch what I'm not seein*. 'Tie 
 either one o ' yees will serve me turn like butther 
 on a cake!" 
 
 So he made a mighty sweep o' his arm, an' his 
 hand came against the long hair o' something 
 an' he held on with all his power. 
 
 Ay, but there was a squealin' an' a squirlin* 
 an' a big outcry all to once. When the little man 
 found himself caught he stamped hard with his 
 foot, an' Conn felt the ground sinkin' undher 
 him; an* before he knew it he was fallen flat on 
 his face in a wide lighted hall, with hundreds o ' 
 the Little People crowdin' round to see him, 
 but him still grippin' the hair an' the little red 
 cap o ' their fellow, that cried out terrible. 
 
 TEen one that was bigger nor most came up to 
 Conn. "By what right do ye tumble into our 
 hall, man o' much flesh!"
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 209 
 
 "By no rights but that I was brought, savin* 
 yer presence," says Conn. 
 
 "Loose the hair o' me son, an' give him his 
 cap," ordhered the chief. 
 
 "Ay, when he promises to stand by me at 
 break o' morn, an' to say to King Dermot what 
 he said in me hearin' o' his great strength." 
 
 "That I'll not!" cried the son. " 'Twas but 
 a bit o' boastin', an' no great matther at that." 
 
 "I thought that same," says Conn, "an' for 
 that I've held on. 'Tis meself has been in a bad 
 way through over much boastin'. An' King 
 Dermot '11 kape me chained to this stake till one 
 comes by that's a greater boaster nor meself. 
 Promise by all ye hold holy that ye '11 help me 
 back to freedom, an' I'll let go, an' give back the 
 cap." 
 
 "Promise, me son," says the chief; an' afther 
 that Conn loosed his hold. 
 
 "But how '11 I get back to the top o' the 
 ground?" says Conn. 
 
 " 'Tis aisy," says the chief o' the Little 
 People. "First ye must cook our supper, an' 
 we'll befriend ye afther." 
 
 Conn, thinkin' that an aisy matther, followed
 
 210 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the Little People to their kitchen. An' 'tis the 
 truth I'm tellin' yees when I say that 'twas the 
 hardest task he'd ever undertaken. Ye see, 
 'twas too low for him to stand upright, an* while 
 the fire was half a dacent size, the dishes for 
 cookin' were so small that he came nigh on 
 crushin' them between his two big hands. An' 
 the knives an* spoons were scarce to be seen. 
 
 The whole night through they kept him toilin' 
 there for them, an' at last when he'd cooked all 
 they had, he dhropped down clean exhausted an' 
 heard himself begin to snore. By an' by the 
 noise grew louder. He opened his eyes sudden 
 like, an' there he was, lyin* in a mighty cramped 
 way, still tied to the stake at the ford; an' 
 down the hill was comin' Colla with his pan o' 
 crusts. 
 
 Well, now, Conn was wondherin' if the Little 
 People was forgettin' their promise, or if he'd 
 dhreamed it all : but just as Colla came near, a 
 small crooked man hobbled up the road an' 
 spoke to him. An* before he'd said many 
 words, 'twas Colla was flyin' up to the gate an' 
 callin' all the men to come an' let Conn loose,
 
 CONN THE BOASTER 211 
 
 for beyant there was one that more nor matched 
 him a hundred times an' more to boot. 
 
 So down came the court, Aongas an' the 
 King at their head, to listen to the tales o ' the 
 crooked man, not knowin' that he was the chief's 
 son o' the Little People. An' not only did he 
 tell his own boastin' over, but that o' his com- 
 panion for his own doin', so that such tales were 
 never heard. 
 
 An' the end o' that all was the loosin' o' fat 
 Conn, that was less fat nor before, by that same 
 token; an' back he went to his kitchen, needin' 
 no more warnin' to kape his tongue at home. 
 An' 'tis I am thinkin' the little man was none 
 too eager to be afther boastin ' in the dark again, 
 without first makin' sure that no fat cook was 
 listenin*.
 
 XV 
 
 THE KING O' THE THREE WINDS 
 
 ["So yees liked hearin' o' Leu? Sure 'twas a 
 mighty smith he was, up under the rainbow, 
 an' masther o' craft beyant all mortal men; 
 an' not mindin' a bit o' jestin', either, when 
 time served. I mind hearin' once whist, 
 now, an' I'll tell yees that one tale more, 
 about him, an' that'll be the last."] 
 
 THERE was one day when mighty battlin' was 
 goin' on, far to the west. An' Len, wearyin' o' 
 the sun-forge, an' the bright curvin' o' the rain- 
 bow, leaned on the north wind to look down at 
 the heroes strivin' for masthery on the sea- 
 coast, with the waves beatin' in high on the 
 rocks. An' more nor one carried spear or shield 
 o' Len's forgin', an' the sun shmin' on the 
 swing o' swords was like sparks flyin' from his 
 212
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 213 
 
 furnace. An' what had come to pass aforetime 
 happened again; for sure, a second time his 
 hammer slipped from his graspin' an* fell 
 through the clouds. 
 
 But 'tis truth I'm tellin' yees that 'twas many 
 an hour before he knew that same. Little 
 meanin' had time an' the passin' o' time to Len. 
 The wild fight was still ragin' on, an' naught 
 cared he for work other than seem' it. So not 
 till truce was cried was he afther lookin' round 
 for his own; an' then no matther where he 
 looked he could see no trace o ' that same far off 
 nor close by him. An' dark an' cloud had blown 
 across the sea, coverin' day with night. So back 
 went Len to his forge, an' sat down for thinkin' 
 seein' as how he couldn't be workin' an' the 
 north wind rumbled in his chimney. 
 
 Many a day passed in that thinkin', an' all 
 that time the north wind blew cowld across the 
 land from the Ould Sea, so that men were feared 
 o' winter comin' before harvestin'. At last Len 
 roused to be doin', an' with a mighty laugh that 
 shook the tops o' the cloud mountains, he strode 
 off down the bridge o' fog shadows to seek for 
 his hammer; with the north wind at his heel,
 
 214 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 guiet, an* scarce darin' to scatther the wet mists 
 out o* the path. 
 
 Now 'twas comin' to be the end o' harvestin' 
 on the lands o' Mahon, chieftain o' the men o' 
 Eosnaree. An' in the hall o' the wide earthen 
 dun sat Mahon an' the older men, tellin' tales o' 
 heroes, with tall flagons o' foamin' mead before 
 them; but on the grass by the little river the 
 young men an' boys were playin' at ball, an* 
 castin' spears at a mark; an' headin' them all 
 was Rodan, sister's son to Mahon, dressed fine 
 in rich cloth o' green laced with gold. An' 
 never a one o 9 them could match him at the 
 games. 
 
 Now while they were runnin' back an' along 
 the river bank, one lad that happened to be 
 afther lookin' over his shouldher began laughin' 
 an' laughin'. An' says Eodan, laughin' too 
 
 "What for are ye makin' me spoil me aim?" 
 
 " 'Tis for the ould beggar man," says the 
 lad. "See him comin', now, an' draggin' an 
 empty chain as if 'twas his dog he was leadin'. 
 An' sure, 'tis speakin' to it he is, tellin' it to be 
 quiet. ' ' 
 
 With that, all save Rodan started laughin ' at
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 215 
 
 the ould, crooked beggar man that was comin' 
 down by the wather side, all in a ragged cloak, 
 carryin' a bit of a rusty chain, an' in his belt 
 more pieces o' that same. 
 
 As he came nigher, a cowld north wind flut- 
 therin' the tatthered cloak he wore, an' flingin' 
 it back that any might see the bare knotted arms 
 an' sthrong hands of him, he turned aside an' 
 threw the chain round a bit of a saplin' that 
 grew near, an' at once the wind fell. Then he 
 looked round at the lads. 
 
 "Is it for sake o' me rags that ye 're jeerin' 
 at an ould man?" says he. 
 
 "Nay," says Eodan, lookin' wrath at his fel- 
 lows. " 'Tis at yer empty chain they were 
 laughin', as boys will. None o' the house o' 
 Mahon will ye find showin' scorn to age or to 
 one in need. An' a night's lodgin' an' a piece 
 o' silver Mahon gives to any that come, an' none 
 may question whither he goes afther." 
 
 "A rare jewel have I lost," says the ould bent 
 beggar, lookin' sharp at Eodan under his 
 shaggy brows, "an' near an f far have I been 
 seekin' it." 
 
 "Then come with me to Mahon an' the wiser
 
 216 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 men, an' it may be they'll have heard somewhat 
 of it, an' be afther guidin' ye to find that same," 
 says Eodan, gentle like; an' takin' the arm o' 
 the sthranger, to be helpin' him a bit, he led him 
 in at the door. 
 
 Now Mahon, lookin' up, saw the two comin'; 
 an' risin' to meet one older an' seemin' feebler 
 nor himself, he caught a glint o' the deep eyes 
 under the heavy brows, an' knew well from 
 years past who was in his hall as guest. But 
 never a word he spoke showin' it, for betther he 
 thought it to wait on the will o ' one mightier nor 
 him. 
 
 " 'Tis kindly welcome ye are," says he, 
 dhrawin' forward the bench for him to be 
 seated. An' Bodan brought food an' spread it 
 on the board before the wayfarin' man, an' his 
 own golden cup filled brimmin' with wine. 
 
 " 'Tis a sthranger, weary with farin' far to 
 seek a lost jewel," spoke Eodan, "an' needin' 
 rest an' aidin'." 
 
 "An' what for a threasure was that same?" 
 asked one o' Mahon 's men, that sat nigh. 
 "Maybe one among us may have heard talk of 
 it, an' can give ye word where to find it."
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 217 
 
 For a time the ould man made no answer ; but 
 afther eatin' a while (an* 'twas the amazin' 
 hunger he seemed to be havin'), he leaned his 
 arm on the rough oaken table an' looked at 
 Mahon, that had been silent, thinkin' o' many 
 wonderful things. 
 
 "What for a wind had ye yestermorn?" says 
 he. 
 
 Then Mahon, showin' respect as to a famed 
 warrior, answered 
 
 "For three hours afther sunrise it blew from 
 the east. Then for three more from the west. 
 Then came a sthrong gale from the south. An' 
 like that same has it been for ten days an' ten 
 more." 
 
 "An' has no wind come from the north?" 
 asked the ould man. 
 
 * ' Not in all that time, ' ' says Mahon. * * Before 
 those days was naught but stormin' from the 
 north for long weeks." 
 
 Then Eodan spoke eagerly. "Ay, but in this 
 very hour came wind from the north, blowin' 
 our spears past their mark. " An' as the words 
 came from him, a deep growlin' was heard with- 
 out the dun, an' a sweep o' wind that stirred the
 
 218 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 thatch above their heads. Eodan looked up 
 wondherin', but the ould man chuckled. 
 
 " 'Tis me dog, restless from bein' tied in one 
 place/' says he; an' then low, that none but 
 Mahon heard; "me dog, the north wind. 'Tis 
 for his fellows I seek, servants o' the hammer 
 that slipped from me grasp while I leaned 
 watchin' the war o' the western heroes. An' he 
 would have gone too had I not been houldin' 
 him." 
 
 * ' Ay ! " says Mahon. ' ' Then hear what word 
 o' them I have for ye, good masther o' wisdom 
 an' lord o' power, rememberin' well yer aid 
 given free in me hour o' need in a year long 
 past. Tester morn rode up the river bank a 
 man in rich armour, an' afther him many a 
 sthrong fightin' man. An' last o' them, on a 
 lame pony, a sour-faced dwarf. An' when Eodan 
 here questioned o' them who they were, none 
 would give civil word save the dwarf, that cried 
 out : * 'Tis me lord the King o' the Three Winds, 
 returnin' from victory. An' 'tis an ill fate 
 comes to any that hindher him.' An' no more 
 word would he speak, but rode away past on his
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 219 
 
 limpin' nag. Sure, never was such a king known 
 of any in these parts. ' ' 
 
 The ould beggar nodded, as bein ' well pleased, 
 an ' rose. An ' so tall was he that he 'd need to be 
 stoopin' to pass the lintel o' the door. 
 
 "What lad is this same that led me to ye, 
 Mahon o' Rosnaree?" says he, his voice as deep 
 as a wave in the heart o ' the Ould Sea. 
 
 "Rodan, sister 's son to me," says Mahon, 
 "an' the very core o' me heart, seein' that no 
 sons o' me own house have I, to give aidin' in 
 battle when me right arm fails me with age. ' ' 
 
 "An' has he won honour to his name?" says 
 the ould man. 
 
 "Not yet," answered Mahon, lookin' lovin at 
 the lad, an' seein' the hot blood risin' in his 
 cheeks from hearin' the two discussin' him. 
 "Time an' plenty for that," says Mahon. 
 
 "Then give him leave to go with me on me 
 questin'," says the ould man. "Bare fame shall 
 he win, an' a warrior shall he be, fit to match 
 with heroes." 
 
 An' while Rodan sprang first to his feet in 
 wrath at any thinkin' him one to go trudgin' in
 
 220 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 the dust by a ragged beggar man, yet he'd no 
 more nor met the eyes o' the sthranger than all 
 anger left him, an* 'twas to the end o' the world 
 he'd have gone willin' with that same. 
 
 "Ay," says Mahon. " "Tis meself is well con- 
 tent to have him serve ye. This many a day has 
 he been wearyin' to go out seekin' fortune." 
 
 With never another word the sthranger bent 
 an' passed the door, an' Eodan afther him, 
 never heedin' the wondher o' the lads round 
 about. An' mazed were all when they saw the 
 ould man givin' him the chains from his belt to 
 carry, himself unwindin' the one from the 
 saplin'. 
 
 "Which road went the King o' the Three 
 Winds?" says the beggar. 
 
 "Toward the Ford of Echoes, I heard one cry 
 out," says Eodan. 
 
 So on by day an' night, never restin' for aught 
 but the askin' some passer-by as to the man 
 they were huntin', they went through the wood 
 an' over hill an' rock, till they reached the Ford 
 of Echoes. An' there, on the hillside before 
 them, rose a great high castle, with grey towers 
 an' wide walls. An' waverin' it seemed, onoe
 
 THE KING O' THE THREE WINDS 221 
 
 an' again, like a thing in a dhream. Sure, the 
 ould man sat down laughin'. 
 
 " 'Tis his gran' dwellin' we've been afther 
 discoverin ', Eodan, ' ' says he. ' ' Will ye batther 
 it down with yer hands, or shall I set me dog to 
 the work?" 
 
 ''An' afther 'tis done will yer treasure lie 
 open to ye?" says the lad. 
 
 11 That's for thinkin' about," says the other, 
 well pleased. " 'Tis a wise word ye spoke, not 
 knowin '. Scant use to break down his walls be- 
 fore fin din' where he's me jewel hid. Whist, 
 now, for one's comin' down the hillside." 
 
 While they stood watchin', a dead branch 
 cracked, an ' to the ford, to dhraw wather, came 
 a straight, slender girleen, an' on her shouldher 
 was an earthen jar. When she saw the two be- 
 yant the runnin ' sthream she shook her head. 
 
 " 'Tis an ill land this for any poor men farin' 
 alone. Betther that ye hasten on, stayin' for 
 naught, till ye pass the power o' Curigh Mor." 
 
 "An' who may be Curigh Mor, that men jour- 
 neyin' in peace should fear him?" asked Kodan, 
 seem' how fair was the curlin' black hair o' the 
 maid, an' the little white feet in the grass.
 
 222 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 "King o' the Three Winds is he, an' has been 
 for a score o' days an' more," says she. "A 
 poor kerne was he born, an ' thrall in me father 's 
 house. One day 'twas himself came in with 
 somethin' shinin' under his cloak; an' when me 
 father asked what was that same, he spoke 
 scorn o' his masthery, an' sthruck him down. 
 An' from that hour power over three winds has 
 he gained east an' west an' south, to work his 
 will. An* for that I would say naught to him, 
 the walls o' me father's dwellin' lie scatthered 
 an' blown far down the mountain side; an' 
 meself must dhraw the wather an' be servin' 
 maid to them that serve him ; an' all for scornin' 
 him. Three times have I fled far down the river 
 bank, an' each time has one o' the winds caught 
 me an' blown me back to his castle gate. An' 
 'tis small hope o' help from any livin' man I 
 have, for none can withstand the winds out o' 
 the sky," 
 
 "An' whose child may ye be, that has been so 
 mistreated ? ' ' says the ould man. * ' Maybe we '11 
 be afther findin' some way to aid ye." 
 
 "Eimer is me name, daughter o' him that was 
 Duach o' the Ford," says she, bendin' to fill her
 
 THE KING O' THE THREE WINDS 223 
 
 jar with clear wather. "An' a good warrior 
 was that same, that sthruck no man from be- 
 hind, even when it was his own slave rebellin V 
 
 "Then shall yer wrong be righted," says the 
 ould man. "Choose for yerself whether by me 
 dog or me man, here. ' ' 
 
 Eimer looked at him, doubtin', an' her eyes 
 grew dark with anger. " 'Tis mockin' me ye 
 are," says she. "I see no dog followin' ye; an' 
 what can a lad like yon do against the King o' 
 the Three Winds? If he have the power in his 
 arm to slay even the meanest kerne that slinks 
 by the gates o' Curigh Mor, 'tis debtor to him 
 I'll be ; but sthrong men are they that ride in his 
 train." 
 
 "What shall be done shall ye see," says the 
 ould man, flashin' fire like the sun on steel from 
 the deep eyes o' him. "Now lead us to Curigh 
 Mor, an' leave yer fearin' for us." 
 
 Wide were the eyes of Eimer to see the 
 wather o' the ford dhraw back to let the two 
 pass dhry shod. Thremblin' came on her, an' 
 silent she led the two up the path to the castle. 
 Yet at the gate she waited a bit, lookin' from 
 the bent ould beggar man, worn and slow step-
 
 224 THE SONS O' CORMAG 
 
 pin', to the bright youth, richly clad, that fol- 
 lowed him as a man his masther. 
 
 "Betther that ye come no farther, riskin' yer 
 lives for a servin' maid," says she. "A rough 
 man is Gurigh Mor." 
 
 "Then rougher shall he find us," says the 
 ould man. "Go you an' tell him that two 
 sthrangers crave shelter for the night." 
 
 'Twas before the main gateway they were 
 now, an' as Eimer slipped in away from them, 
 it seemed to Rodan as a swirl o' mist had 
 wrapped her from sight. 
 
 "An' what for an' whatever a castle may this 
 be?" he asked, wondherin' not a little at the 
 quare silence all round, for never a bird sang in 
 any tree, nor child played on the meadow be- 
 yant, nor chatter o' maids an' men came from 
 the courtyards or archways. Only a dull rushin' 
 sound o' storm far underground was round 
 them. 
 
 "The place o' one not to be trusted with 
 power above that o ' men that were his masthers 
 afore," says the ould man, gruff an' short. 
 
 "An' have we strength to cast him from it?" 
 cried Rodan, his face flusliin' with eagerness,
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 225 
 
 an' his heart hot with rage at Curigh Mor for 
 layin' heavy hand on a tender lass with none to 
 guard her. 
 
 "Ay, that may ye do alone. Hearken to me, 
 Eodan. A lad are ye yet, but power shall be 
 given ye if yer heart fail ye not. That which I 
 lost has Curigh Mor found an' turned to evil 
 uses. One chance will I give him to mend his 
 ways, an' if he refuse me that which is me own, 
 then do ye stand forth me champion an' offer 
 battle to all who come, beginnin' with a man o' 
 yer own years. An' the power of each man ye 
 overcome shall be added to yer own, an' a 
 mighty champion shall ye be held afther. But 
 mind this through the battlin'. All in all is it to 
 ye that ye let no fear come nigh yer heart, even 
 though a giant were challengin'." 
 
 An' Eodan nodded, gay an' blithe at the 
 words o' the beggar man. Afther a minute 
 more, the gate opened, an' a great slouchin' fel- 
 low put out his head. 
 
 "What seek ye, beggars, at the door o' Curigh 
 Mor, the mighty King o' Three Winds that work 
 his will night an' day?" says he. 
 
 " 'Tis a smith I am," says the ould man, "an'
 
 226 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 by ill fortune I was afther losin' me hammer. 
 'Tis seekin' it through all lands I am, for its 
 mate has never been seen far nor wide. 'Tis 
 askin' I'd be whether Curigh Mor has found 
 it." 
 
 "Come in," says the gatekeeper. So in they 
 went, an* before them was the wide courtyard. 
 At the farther side stood a knot o* men, an* to 
 them the gatekeeper pointed. 
 
 "Go to them," says he. "There stands Curigh 
 Mor, with the sthrongest champions o ' his court. 
 But 'tis riskin yer ould skin an* bones ye are. 
 Better for ye to go sound an' safe, if wantin' 
 yer hammer, than to cross the King o' the Three 
 Winds." 
 
 But the ould smith shook off the hand o' the 
 one that would have warned him baok, an' 
 beckoned Rodan, an* together they passed 
 across the open space. 
 
 Those standin' nigh to Curigh Mor laughed 
 at seeing the ould bent gaffer hobblin' along, an' 
 a bright young lad, that was yet scarce come to 
 man's years, comin' afther with his arm filled 
 with rusty chains. But a chill went over the
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 227 
 
 heart o' Curigh Mor, an' he drew his rich cloak 
 closer round him. 
 
 "What seek ye, beardin' the King o' the 
 Three Winds? " says he. 
 
 ' ' The help o ' Curigh Mor to give me back that 
 which is me own," says the ould smith. 
 
 "An' what may that be?" asked Curigh Mor, 
 scowlin' fierce an' angered like. 
 
 "Me hammer," says the ould beggar. 
 " 'Twas restin' a bit from me forgin' on a suit 
 of armour I was, an' let it slip from me hand; 
 an' when I would have gone back to me work, 
 'twas gone ; an' ever since have I been searchin' 
 vainly for it. A gift from a mighty hand it was, 
 with powers like none other; for glowin' with 
 fire is it, an' needs no guidin' for doin' its work. 
 Golden is its handle, an' wrought with sthrange 
 runes an' spells.'* 
 
 He looked waitin' at CurigK Mor, that 
 phouted rough like 
 
 ' ' Nay, be off with yees 1 I know naught o ' yer 
 hammer ! ' ' 
 
 "A fine thing, that, for any to be afther givin' 
 to a beggar man," chuckled a quare bit of a 
 dwarf that was sittin' cross-legged nigh them,
 
 228 ( THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 " Maybe ye've stolen Ms cloak o' silver cloth, 
 forbye Ms hammer, Cnrigh Mor; to speak 
 naught o* Ms fine suit o' bronze armour an' the 
 tore o* wrought gold from Ms neck." 
 
 An' while all round were shaMn' an* laughin' 
 at the angered face o' the ould smith, Rodan 
 was keepin' eye on Curigh Mor. A tall, dark, 
 heavy man was he, an' with lowerin' brows an 7 
 great black beard like many o' those nigh. An' 
 bein' as it was warm in the sun, Rodan was won- 
 dherin' how it was that he kept Ms cloak so 
 tight held to him. An' as he was lookin', the 
 ould smith raised his hand with the fourth 
 chain, an' the corner o' Curigh Mor's mantle 
 blew aside. An' beneath Rodan saw, hangin' 
 from his belt, a hammer, with handle o ' wrought 
 gold; an' the head o' that same was glowin' like 
 a coal o' fire in the wind. 
 
 Never waitin' to think what might come, 
 Rodan sprang forward an' struck Curigh Mor 
 on the breast. 
 
 * ' 'Tis a false thaf e ye are ! ' ' says he, fearless. 
 "Give back the hammer, lest evil come on ye an' 
 all in yer ill-gotten castle. The son of a warrior 
 am I, an' sister's son to Mahon o' Rosnaree, an'
 
 THE KING O' THE THREE WINDS 229 
 
 no man's man bnt Ms, that was once aided in 
 need by this man ye 're afther showin' scorn to. 
 An* every man in yer court do I challenge to 
 fight for it, takin' one o' me own years first, an' 
 then one sthronger till I come to yerself, 
 Curigh Mor, that was born no king, but thrall 
 of a betther man nor stands jeerin' by ye. An' 
 the hammer shall ye return to him that owns it 
 by right; an' Eimer, daughter o' Duach o' the 
 Ford, shall ye free, an' give gold in king's 
 measure for forcin' her to serve the cowards 
 that serve ye, thrall an* traitor an' thafe!" 
 
 Then was Curigh Mor ragin' past words. He 
 beckoned to a young fightin' man that stood by, 
 an' pointed to Eodan. An' 'twas few words 
 were needed there. Swords were out, an' silent 
 were all as the wind o' yester morn while 
 clash! went steel on steel. An' before Curigh 
 Mor had fair taken breath to watch the out- 
 comin', sure Eodan had sthruck down young 
 Seumas, an' had him lyin* at his mercy on the 
 rough stones. Dark wrath was in the face o' the 
 King o ' the Three Winds in that hour. 
 
 The ould smith signed quick to Bodan to 
 hearken.
 
 230 THE SONS 0' CORMAC 
 
 "Hang the chains loose on yer arm," says 
 he, whisperin' low, "and if a wind sweeps over 
 ye, cast a chain at it an' take no more heed, for 
 all will go well." 
 
 Bodan nodded, light-hearted an* full o' cour- 
 age, an' stepped out to meet the next man that 
 offered. An' 'twas one broad-shouldhered an' 
 scarred with much battlin' that met him for 
 many o' the weaker o' Curigh Mor's men began 
 slippin' off quiet like, fearin' to be called on to 
 fight in an ill quarrel. 
 
 Now the strength o ' two was in Bodan 's arm, 
 yet was he pressed hard. An' as the smith 
 watched, sure, one pulled at his arm from be- 
 hind, an' 'twas Eimer, her face white with 
 dreadin' what might come to the lad. 
 
 "Look to Curigh Mor," says she. " 'Tia 
 turnin' to the south he is. The wind '11 be 
 afther workin' his wicked will." 
 
 "Wait an' see," counselled the smith. "Be 
 ready, too, an' when ye see a chain fall from the 
 hand o' the lad that fights yer battle an' mine, 
 run ye quick an' bring it to me, fearin' naught." 
 
 Then Curigh Mor pulled the hammer from his 
 girdle, thinkin' none saw an' called on the
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 231 
 
 south wind to dhrive off the beggars. But as it 
 swept up the courtyard, Rodan, never ceasin' 
 his sword playin', threw the first o' the chains 
 from him- an ' sudden all was still, the chain 
 lyin' in the dust an' the scarred warrior by it. 
 Eimer hastened quick an' brought it to its right 
 owner, that grasped it an' held it with firm grip, 
 sayin' words that none could make out. 
 
 When Curigh Mor saw that the power o ' the 
 south wind hindhered Eodan never a bit, he 
 swift loosed the east wind and the west wind, 
 an' like a whirlwind they howled as they met. 
 Scarce knew Rodan where to turn, but out he 
 flung the chains, an' the winds sank, masthered. 
 An' Curigh Mor saw his warriors an' his 
 sthrong fightin' men slinkin' out o' the gate, not 
 wishin' to risk battlin' with that lad. Losin' all 
 wisdom, he dhrew out the hammer that he 'd so 
 far hidden close, an* whirled it above his head, 
 meanin' to beat down the young hero that had 
 named him for what he was. But as the great 
 hammer, glowin' an' sparklin', left his hand, 
 flyin' through the air, the ould beggar whistled 
 sharp an' shrill, an' like a bird swervin' in flight 
 the hammer went straight into the knotted hand
 
 232 THE SONS O' CORMAC 
 
 o ' Len the Smith, that had sought it over many 
 lands. 
 
 Sure, a hush o' death was there in the court- 
 yard, aji' Curigh Mor covered his false head 
 with his arm, while Eodan stood wondherin' 
 that none came against him. 
 
 High in air flashed the hammer, held in the 
 sthrong grasp that knew it well. An ' in place o ' 
 the rags that had covered the ould beggar, ar- 
 mour o' wrought bronze an' a cloak o' silver 
 cloth, an ' a tore o ' fine gold wrought by no mor- 
 tal smith glittered in the noon sun. Once he 
 swung his arm, shakin' wide the chains, an' the 
 four winds swept out from him on every side, 
 an' the walls o' Curigh Mor's castle were scat- 
 thered an' flyin' down the valley side. 
 
 Again he whirled the hammer, an' Curigh 
 Mor an' his dwarf, that were all left o' the 
 proud company, shrunk down to no bigger nor 
 yer finger, an' scutthered away an' hid in the 
 leaves. 
 
 " 'Tis not for little men to be afther showin' 
 discourtesy to sthrangers," says Len, laughin'. 
 
 Then, towerin' high above the forest trees, 
 where the birds were singin' wild an' free, he
 
 THE KING 0' THE THREE WINDS 233 
 
 bent an' caught up Bodan an' Eimer, an' back 
 he strode across the land, like the comin' of a 
 thunder-cloud, never settin' them down till he 
 saw, far below, the great dun o' Mahon, chief- 
 tain in Eosnaree. 
 
 Sure, those within heard the growlin' o' 
 storm, but naught they saw save a dark mist 
 risin' from where stood Kodan, cheerin' Eimer 
 with brave words. 
 
 In the flashin' o' lightnin' from above came a 
 long line o' little men in green, carryin' gold 
 an' rich gifts for the daughter o' Duach, to the 
 hall where sat Mahon but never more did Len 
 the Smith come wandherin' to Rosnaree, 
 seekin' aught lost by lookin' too long at heroes. 
 
 ["An' now be off with yees for the last time, for 
 I've never a tale, nor a thought of a tale, 
 left in me poor ould brain. 'Tis meself 
 ye've blaiidandhered out of all I ever knew, 
 an' me mother before me so out an' pack 
 an' seek fortune for yer selves by an' be- 
 yant the fine school ye 're off to the morn's 
 mornin'."] 
 
 THE END
 
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