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Another Random Scribd Document
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of his limbs, and with one stroke of his sword cut off the giant’s
head. There was a tree growing near. Blaiman knocked off a tough,
slender branch, put one end of it in through the left ear and out
through the right, then putting the head on the sword, and the
sword on his shoulder, went home to the king. Coming near the
castle with the giant’s head, he met a man tied in a tree whose
name was Hung Up Naked.
“Victory and prosperity to you, young champion,” said the man;
“you have done well hitherto; now loose me from this.”
“Are you long there?” asked Blaiman.
“I am seven years here,” answered the other.
“Many a man passed this way during that time. As no man of
them loosed you, I will not loose you.”
He went home then, and threw down the head by the side of the
castle. The head was so weighty that the castle shook to its deepest
foundations. The king came to the hall-door, shook Blaiman’s hand,
and kissed him. They spent that night as the previous night; and on
the next day he went to meet the second giant, came to his house,
and struck the pole of combat. The giant put out his head, and said,
“You rascal, I lay a wager it was you who killed my young brother
yesterday; you’ll pay for it now, for I think it is a sufficient length of
life to get a glimpse of you, and I know not what manner of death I
should give you.”
“It is not to offer satisfaction that I am here,” said Blaiman, “but to
give you the same as your brother.”
“Is it any courage you have to fight me?” asked the giant.
“It is indeed,” said Blaiman; “’tis for that I am here.”
“What will you have?” asked the giant; “hard, thorny wrestling, or
fighting with sharp gray swords?”
“I prefer hard, thorny wrestling,” said Blaiman; “as I have
practised it on the lawns with noble children.”
 They seized each other, and made soft places hard, and hard
places soft; they drew wells of spring water through the hard, stony
ground in such fashion that the place under them was a soft
quagmire, in which the giant, who was weighty, was sinking. He
sank to his knees. Blaiman then caught hold of him firmly, and
forced him down to his hips.
“Am I to cut off your head now?” asked Blaiman.
“Do not do that,” said the giant. “Spare me, and I will give you my
treasure-room, and all that I have of gold and silver.”
“I will give you your own award,” said Blaiman. “If I were in your
place, and you in mine, would you let me go free?”
“I would not,” said the giant.
Blaiman drew his broad, shadowy sword made in Erin. It had
edge, temper, and endurance; and with one blow he took the two
heads off the giant, and carried the heads to the castle. He passed
by Hung Up Naked, who asked him to loose him; but he refused.
When Blaiman threw the heads down, much as the castle shook the
first day, it shook more the second.
The king and his daughter were greatly rejoiced. They stifled him
with kisses, drowned him with tears, and dried him with stuffs of silk
and satin; they gave him the taste of every food and the odor of
every drink,—Greek honey and Lochlin beer in dry, warm cups, and
the taste of honey in every drop of the beer. I bailing it out, it would
be a wonder if I myself was not thirsty.
They passed that night as the night before. Next morning Blaiman
was very tired and weary after his two days’ fight, and the third
giant’s land was far distant.
“Have you a horse of any kind for me to ride?” asked he of the
king.
“Be not troubled,” said the king. “There is a stallion in my stable
that has not been out for seven years, but fed on red wheat and
pure spring water; if you think you can ride that horse, you may take
him.”
Blaiman went to the stable. When the horse saw the stranger, he
bared his teeth back to the ears, and made a drive at him to tear
him asunder; but Blaiman struck the horse with his fist on the ear,
and stretched him. The horse rose, but was quiet. Blaiman bridled
and saddled him, then drove out that slender, low-sided, bare-
shouldered, long-flanked, tame, meek-mannered steed, in which
were twelve qualities combined: three of a bull, three of a woman,
three of a fox, and three of a hare. Three of a bull,—a full eye, a
thick neck, and a bold forehead; three of a woman,—full hips,
slender waist, and a mind for a burden; three of a hare,—a swift run
against a hill, a sharp turn about, and a high leap; three of a fox,—a
light, treacherous, proud gait, to take in the two sides of the road by
dint of study and acuteness, and to look only ahead. He now went
on, and could overtake the wind that was before him; and the wind
that was behind, carrying rough hailstones, could not overtake him.
Blaiman never stopped nor stayed till he arrived at the giant’s
castle; and this giant had three heads. He dismounted, and struck
the pole a blow that was heard throughout the kingdom. The giant
looked out, and said, “Oh, you villain! I’ll wager it was you that killed
my two brothers. I think it sufficient life to see you; and I don’t
know yet what manner of death will I put on you.”
“It is not to give satisfaction to you that I am here, you vile
worm!” said Blaiman. “Ugly is the smile of your laugh; and it must be
that your crying will be uglier still.”
“Is it hard, thorny wrestling that you want, or fighting with sharp
gray swords?” asked the giant.
“I will fight with sharp gray swords,” said Blaiman.
They rushed at each other then like two bulls of the wilderness.
Toward the end of the afternoon, the heavier blows were falling on
Blaiman. Just then a robin came on a bush in front of him, and said,
“Oh, Blaiman, son of Apple, from Erin, far away are you from the
women who would lay you out and weep over you! There would be
no one to care for you unless I were to put two green leaves on your
eyes to protect them from the crows of the air. Stand between the
sun and the giant, and remember where men draw blood from
sheep in Erin.”
Blaiman followed the advice of the robin. The two combatants
kept at each other; but the giant was blinded by the sun, for he had
to bend himself often to look at his foe. One time, when he
stretched forward, his helmet was lifted a little, Blaiman got a
glimpse of his neck, near the ear. That instant he stabbed him. The
giant was bleeding till he lost the last of his blood. Then Blaiman cut
the three heads off him, and carried them home on the pommel of
his saddle. When he was passing, Hung Up Naked begged for
release; but Blaiman refused and went on. Hung Up Naked praised
him for his deeds, and continued to praise. On second thought,
Blaiman turned back, and began to release Hung Up Naked; but if
he did, as fast as he loosened one bond, two squeezed on himself, in
such fashion that when he had Hung Up Naked unbound, he was
himself doubly bound; he had the binding of five men hard and
tough on his body. Hung Up Naked was free now; he mounted
Blaiman’s steed, and rode to the king’s castle. He threw down the
giant’s heads, and never stopped nor stayed till he went to where
the king’s daughter was, put a finger under her girdle, bore her out
of the castle, and rode away swiftly.
Blaiman remained bound for two days to the tree. The king’s
swine-herd came the way, and saw Blaiman bound in the tree. “Ah,
my boy,” said he, “you are bound there, and Hung Up Naked is freed
by you; and if you had passed him as you did twice before, you need
not be where you are now.”
“It cannot be helped,” said Blaiman; “I must suffer.”
“Oh, then,” said the swine-herd, “it is a pity to have you there and
me here; I will never leave you till I free you.”
 Up went the swine-herd, and began to loosen Blaiman; and it
happened to him as to Blaiman himself: the bonds that had been on
Blaiman were now on the swine-herd.
“I have heard always that strength is more powerful than magic,”
said Blaiman. He went at the tree, and pulled it up by the roots;
then, taking his sword, he made small pieces of the tree, and freed
the swine-herd.
Blaiman and the swine-herd then went to the castle. They found
the king sitting by the table, with his head on his hand, and a stream
of tears flowing from his eyes to the table, and from the table to the
floor.
“What is your trouble?” asked Blaiman.
“Hung Up Naked came, and said that it was himself who killed the
giant; and he took my daughter.”
When he found that his wife was taken, and that he knew not
where to look for her, Blaiman was raging.
“Stay here to-night,” said the king.
Next morning the king brought a table-cloth, and said, “You may
often need food, and not know where to find it. Wherever you
spread this, what food you require will be on it.”
Although Blaiman, because of his troubles, had no care for
anything, he took the cloth with him. He was travelling all day, and
at nightfall came to a break in the mountain, a sheltered spot, and
he saw remains of a fire.
“I will go no farther to-night,” said he. After a time he pulled out
the table-cloth, and food for a king or a champion appeared on it
quickly. He was not long eating, when a little hound from the break
in the mountain came toward him, and stood at some distance,
being afraid to come near.
“Oh,” said the hound, “have you crumbs or burned bread-crusts
that you would give me to take to my children, now dying of
hunger? For three days I have not been able to hunt food for them.”
“I have, of course,” said Blaiman. “Come, eat enough of what you
like best, and carry away what you can.”
“You have my dear love forever,” said the hound. “You are not like
the thief that was here three nights ago. When I asked him for help,
he threw a log of wood at me, and broke my shoulder-blade; and I
have not been able to find food for my little children since that night.
Doleful and sad was the lady who was with him; she ate no bite and
drank no sup the whole night, but was shedding tears. If ever you
are in hardship, and need my assistance, call for the Little Hound of
Tranamee, and you will have me to help you.”
“Stay with me,” said Blaiman, “a part of the night; I am lonely, and
you may take with you what food you can carry.”
The hound remained till he thought it time to go home; Blaiman
gave him what he could carry, and he was thankful.
Blaiman stayed there till daybreak, spread his cloth again, and ate
what he wanted. He was in very good courage from the tidings
concerning his wife. He journeyed swiftly all day, thinking he would
reach the castle of Hung Up Naked in the evening; but it was still far
away.
He came in the evening to a place like that in which he had been
the night previous, and thought to himself, I will stay here to-night.
He spread his cloth, and had food for a king or a champion. He was
not long eating, when there came opposite him out a hawk, and
asked, “Have you crumbs or burned crusts to give me for my little
children?”
“Oh,” said Blaiman, “come and eat your fill, and take away what
you are able to carry.”
The hawk ate his fill. “My love to you forever,” said the hawk; “this
is not how I was treated by the thief who was here three nights ago.
When I asked him for food, he flung a log of wood at me, and
almost broke my wing.”
 “Give me your company a part of the night; I am lonely,” said
Blaiman.
The hawk remained with him, and later on added, “The lady who
went with the thief was doleful and careworn; she ate nothing, but
shed tears all the time.” When going, and Blaiman had given him all
the food he could carry, the hawk said, “If ever you need my
assistance, you have only to call for the Hawk of Cold Cliff, and I will
be with you.”
The hawk went away, very thankful; and Blaiman was glad that he
had tidings again of his wife. Not much of next day overtook him
asleep. He rose, ate his breakfast, and hastened forward. He was in
such courage that he passed a mountain at a leap, a valley at a step,
and a broad untilled field at a hop. He journeyed all day till he came
to a break in the mountain; there he stopped, and was not long
eating from his cloth, when an otter came down through the glen,
stood before him, and asked, “Will you give me crumbs or burned
crusts for my little children?”
Blaiman gave him plenty to eat, and all he could carry home. “My
love to you forever,” said the otter. “When you need aid, call on the
Otter of Frothy Pool, and I will be with you. You are not like the thief
who was here three nights ago, having your wife with him. She was
melting all night with tears, and neither ate nor drank. You will reach
the castle of Hung Up Naked to-morrow at midday. It whirls around
like a millstone, continually, and no one can enter but himself; for
the castle is enchanted.”
The otter went home. Blaiman reached the castle at midday, and
knew the place well, from the words of the otter. He stood looking at
the castle; and when the window at which his wife was sitting came
before him, she saw him, and, opening the window, made a sign
with her hand, and told him to go. She thought that no one could
get the upper hand of Hung Up Naked; for the report had gone
through the world that no man could kill him.
 “I will not go,” said Blaiman. “I will not leave you where you are;
and now keep the window open.”
He stepped back some paces, and went in with one bound
through the window, when it came around the second time.
While Hung Up Naked was tied to the tree, the tributes of his
kingdom remained uncollected; and when he had the woman he
wanted safe in his castle, he went to collect the tributes. She had
laid an injunction on him to leave her in freedom for a day and a
year. She knew when he would be returning; and when that time
was near she hid Blaiman.
“Good, good!” cried Hung Up Naked, when he came. “I smell on
this little sod of truth that a man from Erin is here.”
“How could a man from Erin be here?” asked Blaiman’s wife. “The
only person from Erin in this place is a robin. I threw a fork at him.
There is a drop of blood on the fork now; that is what you smell on
the little sod.”
“That may be,” said Hung Up Naked.
Blaiman and the wife were planning to destroy Hung Up Naked;
but no one had knowledge how to kill him. At last they made a plan
to come at the knowledge.
“It is a wonder,” said the woman to Hung Up Naked, “that a great
man like yourself should go travelling alone; my father always takes
guards with him.”
“I need no guards; no one can kill me.”
“How is that?”
“Oh, my life is in that block of wood there.”
“If it is there, ’tis in a strange place; and it is little trouble you take
for it. You should put it in some secure spot in the castle.”
“The place is good enough,” said he.
 When Hung Up Naked went off next day, the wife told Blaiman all
she had heard.
“His life is not there,” answered Blaiman; “try him again to-night.”
She searched the whole castle, and what silk or satin or jewels
she found, she dressed with them the block of wood. When Hung Up
Naked came home in the evening, and saw the block so richly
decked, he laughed heartily.
“Why do you laugh?” asked the woman.
“Out of pity for you. It is not there that my life is at all.”
On hearing these words, she fainted, was stiff and cold for some
time, till he began to fear she was dead.
“What is the matter?” asked Hung Up Naked.
“I did not think you would make sport of me. You know that I love
you, and why did you deceive me?”
Hung Up Naked was wonderfully glad. He took her to the window,
and, pointing to a large tree growing opposite, asked, “Do you see
that tree?”
“I do.”
“Do you see that axe under my bed-post?” He showed the axe. “I
cannot be killed till a champion with one blow of that axe splits the
tree from the top to the roots of it. Out of the tree a ram will rush
forth, and nothing on earth can come up with the ram but the
Hound of Tranamee. If the ram is caught, he will drop a duck; the
duck will fly out on the sea, and nothing on earth can catch that
duck but the Hawk of Cold Cliff. If the duck is caught, she will drop
an egg into the sea, and nothing on earth can find that egg but the
Otter of Frothy Pool. If the egg is found, the champion must strike
with one cast of it this dark spot here under my left breast, and
strike me through the heart. If the tree were touched, I should feel
it, wherever I might be.”
 He went away next morning. Blaiman took the axe, and with one
blow split the tree from top to roots; out rushed the ram. Blaiman
rushed after him through the fields. Blaiman hunted the ram till he
was dropping from weariness. Only then did he think of the hound,
and cry, “Where are you now, Little Hound of Tranamee?”
“I am here,” said the hound; “but I could not come till you called
me.”
The hound seized the ram in one moment; but, if he did, out
sprang a duck, and away she flew over the sea. Blaiman called for
the Hawk of Cold Cliff. The hawk caught the duck; the duck dropped
an egg. He called the Otter of Frothy Pool; the otter brought the egg
in his mouth. Blaiman took the egg, and ran to the castle, which was
whirling no longer; the enchantment left the place when the tree
was split. He opened the door, and stood inside, but was not long
there when he saw Hung Up Naked coming in haste. When the tree
was split, he felt it, and hurried home. When nearing the castle, his
breast open and bare, and he sweating and sweltering, Blaiman
aimed at the black spot, and killed Hung Up Naked.
They were all very glad then. The hawk, hound, and otter were
delighted; they were three sons of the king of that kingdom which
Hung Up Naked had seized; they received their own forms again,
and all rejoiced.
Blaiman did not stay long. He left the three brothers in their own
castle and kingdom. “If ever you need my assistance,” said Blaiman
to the brothers, “send for me at my father-in-law’s.” On his return,
he spent a night at each place where he had stopped in going.
When the king saw his daughter and Blaiman, he almost dropped
dead from joy. They all spent some days very happily. Blaiman now
thought of his uncles; and for three days servants were drawing
every choice thing to his vessel. His wife went also to the ship. When
all was ready, Blaiman remembered a present that he had set aside
for his mother, and hurried back to the castle, leaving his wife on the
ship with his uncles. The uncles sailed at once for Erin. When
Blaiman came back with the present, he found neither wife, ship,
nor uncles before him. He ran away like one mad, would not return
to his father-in-law, but went wild in the woods, and began to live
like the beasts of the wilderness. One time he came out on an edge
of the forest, which was on a headland running into the sea, and
saw a vessel near land; he was coming that time to his senses, and
signalled. The captain saw him, and said, “That must be a wild beast
of some kind; hair is growing all over his body. Will some of you go
to see what is there? If a man, bring him on board.”
Five men rowed to land, and hailed Blaiman. He answered, “I am
from Erin, and I am perishing here from hunger and cold.” They took
him on board. The captain treated him kindly, had his hair cut, and
gave him good clothing. Where should the captain be sailing to but
the very same port of his grandfather’s kingdom from which Blaiman
had sailed. There was a high tide when the ship neared, and they
never stopped till she was in at the quay. Blaiman went on shore,
walked to the chief street, and stood with his back to a house. Soon
he saw men and horses carrying and drawing many kinds of
provisions, and all going one way.
“Why are these people all going one way?” inquired Blaiman of a
man in the crowd.
“You must be a stranger,” answered the man, “since you do not
know that they are going to the castle. The king’s elder son will be
married this evening. The bride is the only daughter of the King of
the kingdom of the White Strand; they brought her to this place
twelve months ago.”
“I am a stranger,” said Blaiman, “and have only come now from
sea.”
“All are invited to the wedding, high and low, rich and poor.”
“I will go as well as another,” said Blaiman; and he went toward
the castle. He met a sturdy old beggar in a long gray coat. “Will you
sell me the coat?” inquired Blaiman.
“Take your joke to some other man,” answered the beggar.
 “I am not joking,” said Blaiman. “I’ll buy your coat.”
The beggar asked more for the coat than he thought would be
given by any one.
“Here is your money,” said Blaiman.
The beggar gave up the coat, and started to go in another
direction.
“Come back here,” said Blaiman. “I will do you more good, and I
need your company.”
They went toward the castle together. There was a broad space in
front of the kitchen filled with poor people, for the greater part
beggars, and these were all fighting for places. When Blaiman came,
he commanded the crowd to be quiet, and threatened. He soon
controlled all, and was himself neither eating nor drinking, but
seeing justice done those who were eating and drinking. The
servants, astonished that the great, threatening beggar was neither
eating nor drinking, gave a great cup of wine to him. He took a good
draught of the wine, but left still a fair share in the cup. In this he
dropped the ring that he got from his wife in her own father’s castle,
and said to a servant, “Put this cup in the hand of the bride, and say,
‘’Tis the big beggar that sends back this much of his wine, and asks
you to drink to your own health.’”
She was astonished, and, taking the cup to the window, saw a
ring at the bottom. She took the ring, knew it, and ran out wild with
delight through the people. All thought ’twas enchantment the
beggar had used; but she embraced him and kissed him. The
servants surrounded the beggar to seize him. The king’s daughter
ordered them off, and brought him into the castle; and Blaiman
locked the doors. The bride then put a girdle around the queen’s
waist, and this was a girdle of truth. If any one having it on did not
tell the truth, the girdle would shrink and tighten, and squeeze the
life out of that person.
“Tell me now,” said the bride, “who your elder son’s father is.”
 “Who is he,” said the queen, “but the king?”
The girdle grew tighter and tighter till the queen screamed, “The
coachman.”
“Who is the second son’s father?”
“The butler.”
“Who is your daughter’s father?”
“The king.”
“I knew,” said the bride, “that there was no kingly blood in the
veins of the two, from the way that they treated my husband.” She
told them all present how the two had taken her away, and left her
husband behind. When Blaiman’s mother saw her son, she dropped
almost dead from delight.
The king now commanded his subjects to bring poles and
branches and all dry wood, and put down a great fire. The heads
and heels of the queen’s two sons were tied together, and they were
flung in and burned to ashes.
Blaiman remained awhile with his grandfather, and then took his
wife back to her father’s kingdom, where they lived many years.
FIN MACCOOL AND THE DAUGHTER
OF THE KING OF THE WHITE
NATION.
One day Fin MacCool and the Fenians of Erin set out on a hunt
from the Castle of Rahonain, and never stopped till they came near
Brandon Creek, and started a hornless deer in a field called
Parcnagri.
Over hills and through valleys they chased the deer till they came
to Aun na Vian (the river of the Fenians). The deer sprang from one
side of this river toward the other, but before reaching the bank was
taken on a spear by Dyeermud.
When the hunt was over, Fin and the Fenians went back to the
place where the deer had been started at Parcnagri, for they always
returned to the spot where they roused the first game, and there
they feasted.
The feast was nearly ready when Fin saw a boat sailing in toward
the harbor of Ard na Conye (Smerwick Harbor), and no one on board
but a woman.
“’Tis a wonder to me,” said Fin, “that one woman should manage
a boat under sail on the sea. I have a great wish to know who that
woman is.”
“’Tis not long I would be in bringing you tidings,” said Dyeermud.
Fin laughed; for Dyeermud was fond of the women. “I would not
refuse you permission to go, but that I myself will go, and be here
before our feast is ready.”
Fin went down from Parcnagri, and stood at the strand of Ard na
Conye. Though great was his speed, the woman was there before
him, and her boat anchored safely four miles from shore.
Fin saluted the woman with friendly greeting; and she returned
the salute in like manner.
“Will you tell me, kind man, where I am now?” asked the woman.
“In the harbor of Ard na Conye.”
“Thanks to you for that answer,” said the woman. “Can you tell
where is Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place?”
“Wherever Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place is, I am that man myself.”
“Thanks to you a second time,” said the woman; “and would you
play a game of chess for a sentence?”
“I would,” replied Fin, “if I had my own board and chessmen.”
“I will give you as good as your own,” said the woman.
“I have never refused, and never asked another to play,” said Fin.
“I will play with you.”
They sat down, and Fin won the first game.
“What is your sentence, Fin MacCool?” asked the woman.
“I put you under bonds of heavy enchantment,” said Fin, “not to
eat twice at the one table, nor to sleep two nights in the one bed, till
you bring a white steed with red bridle and saddle to me, and the
same to each man of the Fenians of Erin.”
“You are very severe, O Fin,” said the woman. “I beg you to soften
the sentence.”
“No,” answered Fin, “you must give what is asked; I will not soften
the sentence.”
“Look behind,” said the woman.
Fin turned, and saw a white steed for himself, and the like for
each man of the Fenians of Erin, all with red bridles and saddles.
“Play a second game, now,” said the woman.
 They played, and she won.
“Hasten, kind woman,” said Fin, “and tell me the sentence.”
“Too soon for you to hear it,” said she.
“The sooner I hear it, the better,” said Fin.
“I put you, O Fin, under bonds of heavy enchantment to be my
husband till a shovel puts seven of its fulls of earth on your head.”
“Soften the sentence, good woman,” said Fin; “for this cannot be.”
“The gad may tighten on my throat if I do,” said the woman; “for
you did not soften your sentence on me.”
“Do you stop here,” said Fin to the woman, “till I give my men the
steeds, tell them how I am, and return. But where are the steeds?”
“If I was bound by sentence to bring you the steeds, I was not
bound to keep them.”
Fin went his way to Parcnagri, where the Fenians were waiting,
and though dinner was ready, no man tasted it from that day to this.
Fin posted his men on watch at various harbors, left Dyeermud on
Beann Dyeermud (Dyeermud’s peak), just above the harbor of Ard
na Conye, and went to the woman. She took his hand; they sprang
together, and came down in the woman’s boat, which was four miles
from land.
The woman weighed anchor, raised sails, and never stopped
ploughing the weighty sea till she came to the White Nation in the
Eastern World, where her father was king. She entered the harbor,
cast anchor, and landed.
“When you were at home,” said the woman to Fin, “you were
Chief of the Fenians of Erin, and held in great honor; I will not that
men in this kingdom belittle you, and I am the king’s only daughter.
From the place where we are standing to my father’s castle there is
a narrow and a short path. I’ll hasten forward on that. There is
another way, a broad and long one; do you choose that. I fear that
for you there will not be suitable seat and a place in the castle,
unless I am there to prepare it before you.”
Fin went the long way, and the woman took the short path. It was
many a day since the woman had seen her own father. For twenty-
one years she had travelled the world, learning witchcraft and every
enchantment. She hurried, and was soon at the door of the castle.
Great was the welcome before her, and loud was the joy of her
father. Servants came running, one after another, with food, and one
thing better than the other.
“Father,” said she, “I will taste neither food nor drink till you tell
me the one thing to please your mind most.”
“My child,” said the king, “you have but small chance of coming at
that. The one thing on earth to delight my mind most is the head of
Fin MacCool of Erin. If there was a poor man of my name, he would
not be myself if I had that head.”
“Many a year do I know your desire, my father; and it was not for
me to come back after twenty-one years without bringing Fin’s head.
You have it now, without losing one drop of your blood or a single
night’s rest. Fin is coming hither over the broad road; and do you
put men out over against him with music to meet him, and when he
comes between your two storehouses, let the men dash him against
one corner and the other, and give every reason worse than another
to bring him to death.”
The king obeyed his daughter, and sent out guards and musicians.
Fin, going over the broad road, saw men coming with music, and
said to himself, “Great is my joy, or may be my sorrow, for I fear that
my life will be ended in trouble.”
The men received Fin with shouts, and, running up, pushed him
from side to side till he was bruised and bleeding; then they brought
him into the castle.
Glad was the king, and far was the laugh heard that he let out of
himself at sight of Fin MacCool.
 The king gave command then to bind the captive, putting seven
knots of cord on every joint of his body, to throw him into a deep
vault, and give him one ounce of black bread with a pint of cold
water each day.
Fin was put in the vault, and a very old little woman brought his
daily allowance of food.
On his eighth day in prison, Fin said to the old little woman, “Go
now to the king, and say that I have a petition. I ask not my head,
as I would not get it; but say that my right arm is rotting. I ask to be
free in the garden for one hour; let him send with me men, if he
chooses.”
The old woman told the request; and the king said, “I will grant
that with willingness; for it will not take his head from me.”
Thirty armed men were sent, and Fin was set free in the garden.
While walking, he asked the chief of the thirty, “Have you musical
instruments?”
“We have not,” said the chief; “we forgot them. If they were here,
we would give music; for I pity you, Fin MacCool.”
“When I was at home,” said Fin, “having the care and charge over
men, we had music; and, if it please you, I will play some of the
music of Erin.”
“I would be more than glad if you would do that,” said the chief.
The Fenians of Erin had a horn called the borabu; and when one
of them went wandering he took the borabu with him, as Fin had
done this time. It was the only instrument on which he could play.
Fin blew the horn, and the sound of it came to Beann Dyeermud
from the Eastern World. Dyeermud himself was in deep sleep at the
moment; but the sound entered his right ear and came out through
the left. The spring that he made then took him across seven ridges
of land before he was firm on his feet. Dyeermud, wiping his eyes,
said, “Great is the trouble that is on you, Fin; for the sound of the
borabu has never yet entered my right ear unless you were in peril.”
 Then, going at a spring to Cuas a Wudig, he found the remains of
an old currachan, and, drawing out a chisel, knife, and axe, made a
fine boat of the old one. With one kick of his right foot, he sent the
boat seven leagues from land, and, following with a bound, dropped
into it. He hoisted sails, not knowing whither to go, north, south,
east, or west, but held on his way, and ploughed the mighty ocean
before him, till, as good luck would have it, he reached the same
harbor to which the woman had come with Fin MacCool.
Dyeermud saw the boat which had brought them, and said,
laughing heartily, “I have tidings of Fin; he’s in this kingdom in some
place, for this is the boat that brought him from Erin.”
Dyeermud cast anchor, and, landing, drew his sword; and a man
seeing his look at that moment would have wished to be twenty
miles distant. On he went, walking, till he had passed through a
broad tract of country. On the high-road, he saw men, women, and
children all going one way, and none any other. High and low, they
were hurrying and hastening; the man behind outstripping the man
in front.
Dyeermud sat on a ditch to rest, and soon a wayfarer halted in
front of him. “Where are these people all hastening?” asked
Dyeermud.
“From what country or place are you,” asked the man, “not to
know whither all these people are going?”
“Surely I am not of this place or your country,” said Dyeermud;
“and I care not to know whither you or these people are going, since
you cannot give a civil answer to an honest question.”
“Be patient, good man,” said the wayfarer “From what country or
place are you?”
“From Erin,” said Dyeermud.
“I suppose, then, you have known Fin MacCool, or have heard of
him?”
“I have, indeed,” said Dyeermud.
 “If you take my advice,” said the wayfaring man, “you’ll go out on
the same road by which you came in, or else not acknowledge Fin
MacCool of Erin, for that man will be hanged this day before the
king’s castle; the gallows is ready and built for him. When the life is
gone out of him, his head will be struck off, and left as a plaything to
please the king’s mind forever. The body is to be dragged between
four wild horses; and the same will be done to you, if you
acknowledge Fin MacCool of Erin.”
“I thank you for your answer,” said Dyeermud; “and only because
I don’t like to lay a weighty hand on you, you would never again
give advice like that to a man of the Fenians of Erin. But show me
the way to the castle.”
“If you were on the top of that mountain,” said the wayfarer,
pointing northward, “you would see the king’s castle.”
Dyeermud went on in strong haste, and from the mountain-top
saw the king’s castle. On the green field in front of it so many people
had gathered to see Fin MacCool’s death, that if a pin were to drop
from the middle of the sky it could not fall without striking the head
of man, woman, or child. When Dyeermud came down to the field, it
was useless to ask for room or for passage, since each wished
himself to be nearest the place of Fin’s death. Dyeermud drew his
sword; and as a mower goes through the grass of a meadow on a
harvest day, or a hawk through a flock of starlings on a chilly March
morning, so did Dyeermud cut his way through the crowd till he
came to the gallows. He turned then toward the castle, struck the
pole of combat, and far was the sound of his blow heard. The king
put his head through the window.
“Who struck that blow?” asked the king. “He must be an enemy!”
“You could not expect a friend to do the like of that,” replied
Dyeermud. “I struck the blow.”
“Who are you?” cried the king.
“My name when in Erin is Dyeermud.”
 “What brought you hither?” asked the king.
“I came,” replied Dyeermud, “to succor my chief, Fin MacCool.”
The king let a laugh out of him, and asked, “Have any more men
come besides you?”
“When you finish with me, you may be looking for others,” said
Dyeermud.
“What do you want to-day?” asked the king.
“I want to see Fin MacCool, or to fight for him.”
“Fight you may,” said the king; “but see him you will not.”
“Well,” said Dyeermud, “it is too early in the evening for me to rest
without having the blood of enemies on my sword, so send out
against me seven hundred of your best-armed men on my right
hand, seven hundred on my left, seven hundred behind me, and
twenty one hundred before my eyesight.”
Fin’s death was delayed; and the men that he asked for put out
against Dyeermud. Coming sunset, he had the last head cut from
the last body, and, going through his day’s work, made heaps of the
bodies, and piles of the heads.
“Will you give me shelter from the night air?” asked Dyeermud,
then turning to the castle.
“I will, and welcome,” said the king, pointing to a long house at a
distance.
Dyeermud went to the long house, and to his wonder saw there a
troop of wild small men without faith, but no food, fire, or bed.
These men were the agents of the king, who put to death all people
who went against his law. Though a small race of people, they were
strong through their numbers.
When Dyeermud entered, they rose, and began to fill every
cranny and crack they could find in the building.
“Why are you doing that?” inquired Dyeermud.
 “For fear that you might escape; for it’s our duty to eat you.”
Dyeermud then seized by the ankles the one who gave him this
answer, and flailed the others with this man, till he wore him down
to the two shin-bones; all the others were killed saving one, who
was chief. The small chief untouched by Dyeermud fell on his knees,
and cried out, “Spare my head! O Dyeermud, there is not a place
where you will put one foot, in which I will not put my two feet, nor
a place on which you’ll put one hand, in which I will not put my two
hands; and I can be a good servant to you.”
“No man ever asked his head of me with peace, but I gave it to
him,” said Dyeermud.
Sitting down then, Dyeermud asked, “Have you any food?”
“I have not,” said the small chief. “We have nothing to eat but
men sent here from one time to another. If you go to the king’s
bakery, you may find loaves of bread.”
Dyeermud went to the baker, and asked, “Will you give me two
loaves of bread?”
“Hardened ruffian,” said the baker, “how dare you come to this
place for bread, or any other thing, you who killed so many of our
friends and near neighbors? Go out of this, or I’ll burn you in the
oven.”
“I am thankful,” said Dyeermud; “but before you can do to me
what you threaten, I will do the same to you.”
With that he opened the oven-door, threw in the baker, and
burned him to death. Then he caught up as much bread as he could
carry, and went to the long house; but, being used to good food,
could not eat bread alone, and asked the small chief, “Where can I
find drink and meat to go with the bread?”
“There is a slaughter-house behind us, not far from here,” said the
chief, “and the head butcher might give you a piece to roast or boil.”
 Dyeermud went then to the butcher. “Will you give me meat for
supper?” asked he.
“You scoundrel from Erin, if you don’t leave this place I’ll cut off
your head on the block here, and separate it from the body.”
“Never have I met better people to oblige a stranger; but before
you can do to me what you promise, I will do the like to you.”
So Dyeermud caught the butcher, stretched him across the block,
and with the butcher’s own cleaver struck the head off him.
Turning around, Dyeermud saw two fine stalled bullocks dressed
for the king’s table. Taking one under each arm, he brought them to
the long house, and cut them up with his sword; then the small chief
cooked nicely what was needed. The two ate a hearty supper.
Next morning Dyeermud rose up refreshed, and went to the
castle, where he struck the pole of combat.
“What is your wish?” asked the king.
“To see Fin MacCool, or get battle.”
“How many men do you wish for?”
“One thousand of your best armed men on my right hand, as
many on my left, as many behind me, and twice three thousand in
front of my eyesight.”
The champions were sent out to Dyeermud. They went at him,
and he at them; they were that way all day, and when the sun was
setting there was not a man of the nine thousand that had his head
on him.
In the evening he made piles of the bodies and heaps of the
heads.
Then he went back to the long house, and it was better there than
the first night; the small chief had food and drink ready in plenty.
The combats continued for seven days in succession as on this
day. On the eighth morning, when Dyeermud appeared, the king
asked for a truce.
“I will grant it,” said Dyeermud, “if you give me a sight of Fin
MacCool.”
“A sight of Fin MacCool you are not to have,” said the king, “till
you bring the hound-whelp with the golden chain.”
“Where can I find that Whelp?” inquired Dyeermud.
“The world is wide,” said the king. “Follow your nose. It will lead
you. If I were to say ’tis in the west the whelp is, maybe ’tis in the
east he’d be; or in the north, maybe he’d be in the south. So here
and now you cannot blame me if I say not where he is.”
“Well,” said Dyeermud, “as I am going for the whelp, I ask you to
loose Fin MacCool from what bonds he is in, to place him in the best
chamber of your castle, to give him the best food and drink, the best
bed to lie on, and, besides, the amusements most pleasing to his
mind.”
“What you ask shall be granted,” said the king, who thought to
himself, “Your head and Fin’s will be mine in the end.”
Dyeermud went home to the long house, sat down in his chair,
and gloomy was his face.
“O Dyeermud,” said the small chief, “you are not coming in with
such looks, nor so bright in the face, as when you left here this
morning. I’ll lay my head as a wager that you are sent to bring the
hound-whelp with the golden chain.”
“True,” said Dyeermud, “and where to find him I know not.”
“Eat your supper, then sleep, and to-morrow I’ll show you where
that whelp is. Indeed, it is the task you have on you; for many a
good champion lost his head in striving to come at that whelp.”
Next morning Dyeermud and the small chief set out, and toward
evening they came within sight of a grand, splendid castle.
“Now,” said the small chief, “this castle was built by the Red
Gruagach Blind-on-One-Side; within is the hound-whelp with the
golden chain; and now let me see what you’ll do.”
Dyeermud entered the castle, where he found a great chamber,
and in it the gruagach asleep. The hound was tied to the gruagach’s
bed with a golden chain. Untying the chain from the bed, Dyeermud
carried whelp and chain with him under his arm, and hurried on
homeward. When he had gone three miles of road, he turned to the
small chief and said, “That was a mean act I did to the gruagach.”
“What’s on you now?” asked the small chief.
“It would be hard for a man to call me anything higher than a
thief; for I have only stolen the man’s whelp and golden chain.” So
Dyeermud went back to the gruagach, and put the hound-whelp and
chain where he had found them. As the gruagach was sleeping,
Dyeermud struck a slight blow on his face to rouse him.
“Oh,” said the gruagach, “I catch the foul smell of a man from
Erin. He must be Dyeermud, who has destroyed the champions of
our country.”
“I am the man that you mention,” said Dyeermud; “and I am not
here to ask satisfaction of you or thanks, but to wear out my anger
on your body and flesh, if you refuse what I want of you.”
“And what is it that you want of me?” asked the gruagach.
“The hound-whelp with the golden chain.”
“You will not get him from me, nor will another.”
“Be on your feet, then,” said Dyeermud. “The whelp is mine, or
your head in place of him; if not, you’ll have my head.”
One champion put his back to the front wall, and the other to the
rear wall; then the two went at each other wrestling, and were that
way till the roof of the house was ready to fly from the walls, such
was the strength in the hands of the combatants.
“Shame on you both!” cried the gruagach’s wife, running out.
“Shame on two men like you to be tumbling the house on my
children.”
 “True,” said Dyeermud. And the two, without letting go the hold
that they had, went through the roof with one bound, and came
down on the field outside. The first wheel that Dyeermud knocked
out of the gruagach, he put him in the hard ground to his ankles,
the second to his hips, and the third to his neck.
“Suffer your head to be cut off, O gruagach.”
“Spare me, Dyeermud, and you’ll get the hound-whelp with the
golden chain, and my good wish and desire.”
“If you had said that at first, you would not have gone through
this hardship or kindled my anger,” said Dyeermud. With that he
pulled out the gruagach, and spared his head.
The two spent that night as two brothers, eating and drinking of
the best, and in the morning the gruagach gave Dyeermud the
whelp with the golden chain.
Dyeermud went home with the small chief, and went to the castle
next morning.
“Have you brought the hound-whelp with the golden chain?”
asked the king.
“I have,” answered Dyeermud; “and I had no trouble in bringing
them. Here they are before you.”
“Well, am I to have them now?” asked the king.
“You are not,” answered Dyeermud. “If I was bound to bring
them, I was not bound to give them to you. The man who reared
this whelp has a better right to him than you or I.”
Then Dyeermud went home to the long house, followed by the
small chief; and the next morning he asked battle of the king.
“I am not ready for battle to-day,” said the king.
“Am I to get sight of Fin MacCool?” inquired Dyeermud.
“You are not,” said the king, “till you bring me an account of how
the Rueful Knight Without-Laughter lost his eye and his laugh.”
 “Where can I find that knight?” asked Dyeermud.
“The world is wide,” said the king; “and it is for you alone to make
out where that man is.”
Dyeermud went home to the long house, sat in his chair, dropped
his head, and was gloomy.
“O Dyeermud,” said the small chief, “something has gone wrong
to-day, and I’ll lay my head that you are sent to get knowledge of
the Rueful Knight Without-Laughter; but sit down and take supper,
then sleep, and to-morrow you’ll not go astray; I’ll lead you to where
that man lives.”
Next morning the two set out together, that evening reached the
gruagach’s castle, where there was many a welcome before them,
and not like the first time. The whelp was returned to his owner; and
that night was spent in pleasure by the gruagach, Dyeermud, and
the small chief.
The next morning Dyeermud went forward attended by his two
friends, and toward evening came in sight of a large splendid castle.
Dyeermud approached it, and when he went in, saw that he had
never before set foot in a grander building.
The Rueful Knight Without-Laughter was sitting alone in his parlor
at a great heavy table. His face, resting on the palm of one hand,
was worn by it; his elbow, placed on the table, had worn a deep
trench in the table; and there he sat, trusting to the one eye that
was left him.
Dyeermud shook the sleeping man gently; and when he woke, the
knight welcomed Dyeermud as one of the Fenians of Erin. Dinner
was made ready for all; and when they sat down at the table,
Dyeermud thrust his fork in the meat as a sign of request. “Is there
something you wish to know?” asked the knight.
“There is,” answered Dyeermud.
“All in my power or possession is for you, except one thing,” said
the knight, “and ask not for that.”
 “It is that thing that brought me,” said Dyeermud. “I’ll take no
refusal. I’ll have your head or that knowledge.”
“Well, Dyeermud, eat your dinner, and then I will tell you; though
I have never told any one yet, not even my own lawful wife.”
When the dinner was over, the knight told his story to Dyeermud,
as follows,—
“I was living once in this place here, both happy and well. I had
twelve sons of my own and my own wife. Each of my twelve sons
had his pack of hounds. I and my wife had one pack between us. On
a May morning after breakfast, I and my sons set out to hunt. We
started a deer without horns, and, rushing forward in chase of her,
followed on swiftly all day. Toward evening the deer disappeared in a
cave. In we raced after her, and found ourselves soon in the land of
small men, but saw not a trace of the deer.
“Going to a great lofty castle, we entered, and found many people
inside. The king of the small men bade us welcome, and asked had I
men to prepare us a dinner. I said that I had my own twelve sons.
The small men then brought in from a forest twelve wild boars. I put
down twelve kettles with water to scald and dress the game. When
the water was boiling, it was of no use to us; and we could not have
softened with it one bristle on the wild boars from that day to this.
Then a small man, putting the twelve boars in a row with the head
of one near the tail of the other, took from the hall-door a whistle,
and, blowing first on one side of the row and then on the other,
made all the twelve white and clean; then he dressed, cut, and
cooked them, and we all ate to our own satisfaction.
“In the course of the evening, the king of the small men asked
had I anyone who could shorten the night by showing action. I said
that I had my own twelve sons. Twelve small men now rose, and
drew out a long weighty chain, holding one end in their hands. My
sons caught the other end, pulled against the twelve small men, and
the small men against them; but the small men soon threw a loop of
the chain around the necks of my twelve sons, and swept the heads
off them; one of the small men came then with a long knife, and,
opening the breasts of my sons, took out their twelve hearts, and
put them all on a dish; then they pushed me to a bench, and I had
to sit with my twelve sons stretched dead there before me. Now
they brought the dish to make me eat the twelve hearts for my
supper. When I would not, they drove them down my throat, and
gave me a blow of a fist that knocked one eye out of me. They left
me that way in torment till morning; then they opened the door, and
threw me out of the castle.
“From that day to this I have not seen my children, nor a trace of
them; and ’tis just twenty-one years, coming May-day, since I lost
my twelve sons and my eye. There is not a May-day but the deer
comes to this castle and shouts, ‘Here is the deer; but where are the
hunters to follow?’ Now you have the knowledge, Dyeermud, of how
I lost my eye and my laugh.”
“Well,” asked Dyeermud, “will May-day come soon in this
country?”
“To-morrow, as early as you will rise.”
“Is there any chance that the deer will come in the morning?”
“There is,” said the knight; “and you’ll not have much of the
morning behind you when she’ll give a call.”
Next morning the deer shouted, “Here is the deer; but where are
the hunters to follow?” and made away swiftly.
Dyeermud, the small chief, the gruagach, and the knight hurried
on in pursuit. Coming evening, the knight saw the cave, and called
out to Dyeermud, “Have a care of that place; for ’tis there she will
enter.”
When the deer reached the cave, Dyeermud gave a kick with his
right foot, and struck off one half her hind-quarter.
Barely was this done, when out rushed a dreadful and ugly old
hag, with every tooth in her upper jaw a yard long, and she
screaming, “You hungry, scorched scoundrel from Erin, how dared
you ruin the sport of the small men?”
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Dyeermud made
at her with his fist, and sent jaws and teeth down her throat. What
the old hag did not swallow, went half a mile into the country behind
her.
The hag raced on through the land of the small men, and
Dyeermud with his forces made after her. When they came to the
castle, the king let a loud laugh out of him.
“Why do you give such a laugh?” inquired Dyeermud.
“I thought that the knight had enough the first time he came to
this castle.”
“This proves to you that he had not,” said Dyeermud; “or he would
not be in it the second time.”
“Well,” asked the king of the knight, “have you any man now to
cook dinner?”
“He has,” said Dyeermud; “and it’s long since you or he had the
like of him. I’ll cook your dinner, and we’ll find the food.”
Out they went to a forest, and brought in twelve wild boars.
Dyeermud skinned the game with his sword, dressed, cut, and
cooked it. All ate to satisfaction.
Later on in the evening, the king asked the knight, “Have you any
man to show action?”
“He has,” said Dyeermud, “if you will put out the same twelve men
as you did the first evening.”
The king put them out; and Dyeermud took the end of the chain
to pull against them. He pulled till he sank in the floor to his ankles;
then he made a whirl of the chain, and swept their twelve heads off
the small men. He opened the twelve, put their hearts on a plate,
and made the king eat them. “You forced the knight to swallow the
hearts of his own sons,” said Dyeermud.
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