Chapter X: Part 10

When the queen’s sons went with the swords and spears to Gaivnin Gow, he said, “I cannot work for you. I am minding this cow, Glas Gownach, that travels three provinces of Erin every day; I must go with her wherever she goes, bring her home, and put her behind the bellows in the forge every night. If the cow goes from me I am lost, with my wife and children. We have no means of support but her milk.”

“I am as good a man as you,” said the best of the brothers; “I will mind the cow, and bring her back in the evening.”

The smith let the cow go with him at last, and went to work at the swords and spears. The young man followed the cow faithfully, all day, brought her back in the evening, left her outside the forge, and went in himself. The smith had the swords and spears tempered.

“Where is the cow Glas Gownach?” asked Gaivnin Gow.

“Outside at the door.”

“Bad luck to you, she is gone from me now, gone forever!”

They went out. Not a trace of Glas Gownach. She had gone to Balor Beiman in Lochlin, for he had the halter.

There was a great battle on the following day, the queen fell and her sons, except two. Balor’s sons were all killed, and the Lochlin men driven away.

Balor rose up in anger when the news came to Lochlin. “I’ll have satisfaction for my sons,” said he. “I will burn all Erin!”

Besides his two eyes Balor had a third one, an evil eye, in the middle of his forehead, with the power to burn everything in the world that it looked upon. Over this eye he kept seven steel shields, and a lock on each one of them.

“I will destroy Erin, and no man can stop me,” said Balor; “for no man can kill me but the son of my daughter. She has no son, and if she had itself, he could kill me only with the red spear made by Gaivnin Gow, and it cast into my eye the moment I raise the last shield from it, when I am standing on Muin Duv[4] [Black Back] to burn Erin.”

One day the two brothers were talking, and Cian, the youngest son of the queen of the Firbolgs, said to his only living brother, “We have done great harm to Gaivnin Gow. It is by us that the cow went from him, and we should bring her back.”

“That is more than we can do,” said the second brother, “unless we get help from Bark an Tra, the druid.”

The two brothers went to Bark an Tra, and Cian told their story.

“The work is a hard one; I don’t know can you do it,” said the druid; “but you can try; I will help you. The cow is with Balor Beiman, in Lochlin. He stole her halter when he went from Erin; and she followed it the day your brother left her outside the forge. No man can bring the cow with him unless he has the halter, and it is hard to get that.

“Balor Beiman can be killed only by the son of his daughter; he has her behind seven locked doors. No living person sees the daughter but himself. He sees her every day, takes food and drink to her. To bring back the cow you must make the acquaintance of Balor’s daughter. I will give you a cloak of darkness; put it over you, and make your way to Lochlin. When Balor goes to see his daughter, you go with him. He opens one door, goes in and locks it, opens the second, goes in and locks that, and so on. When he is inside in his daughter’s chamber the seven doors are locked behind him.”

Cian put on the cloak of darkness, and no man could see him; he went to Lochlin then, and followed Balor to his daughter’s chamber. He waited till the night when she was sleeping, went then to her bedside, and put his hand on her heavily.

She screamed, saying, “Some one is in the chamber.”

Balor came, very angry and with an evil face, to see who was in it. He searched the chamber through, searched many times, found no one. Failing to find any one, he returned to his own place and went to bed. Cian came again and put a heavier hand on Balor’s daughter. She roared out that some one was in the chamber. Balor came, searched, and looked several times, and went away. The third time the young man put a still heavier hand on the maiden, and she screamed louder. Balor searched this time more carefully, found no man, and said, “Oh, you are a torment; it’s dreaming you are. You are hoping for some one to be in the world to destroy me, but that is what never will be. If I hear another scream here I will take the head off you surely.”

No sooner was Balor gone this time, and the seven doors locked, than the young man came again, and put a heavier hand than ever on the maiden. She did not scream then; she was in dread of her father, but said slowly, “Are you a living man or a ghost?”

“I am so and so,” said Cian, “the best champion in the world, and I have come here to win you.” He talked on till he pleased her, they agreed then. He spent three days in her company. On the fourth day he followed Balor out of the chamber, and away with him back to Erin. He went to Bark an Tra, the druid.

“Were you in Lochlin with Balor?”

“I was.”

“How did you behave?”

“So and so,” said Cian.

“You must be there again at the right time.”

Cian was back in Lochlin at the right time, unseen in his cloak of darkness, and brought away a child with him to Erin. The child was not thriving for three years, hardly lived, and was puny.

“The child is not doing well,” said Cian to the druid.

“The child will do well yet,” answered Bark an Tra. “Take him now to Lochlin as far as Balor; the child will not thrive till his grandfather calls him by name.”

Cian went to Balor. “Well,” said Balor, “who are you and what journey are you on?”

“I am a poor man looking for service.”

“What child is that you have with you?”

“My own child,” said Cian; “my wife is dead.”

“What can you do?” asked Balor.

“I am the best gardener in the world.”

“I have a better gardener than you,” said Balor.

“You have not. What can your gardener do?”

“The tree that he plants on Monday morning has the finest ripe apples in the world on Saturday night.”

“That’s nothing. The tree that I plant in the morning I’ll pluck from it in the evening the finest ripe apples you have ever set eyes on.”

“I do not like to have any child near my castle,” said Balor; “but I will keep you for a time, even with the child, if your wages are not too great for me.”

“I will work a day and a year for the cow.”

Balor agreed to the terms, and took Cian. Balor spoke no word to the child, good or bad, and the boy was not thriving. One day Cian was bringing to Balor a lot of fine apples from one of his trees; he stumbled on the threshold, and the apples fell to the floor. All the people present ran to gather the apples, the child better than others. He worked so nimbly that he picked up two-thirds of all that had fallen, though a whole crowd was picking as well as himself.

“Tog leat Lui Lavada [Take away with you Little Long Hand],” cried Balor.

“Oh, he has the name now,” said Cian.

Cian worked his time out then, and said, “I will take my pay another day.”

“You may take it when you like,” said Balor.

Cian took his son to Erin; the child grew wonderfully after that, and was soon of full strength.

Cian went to the druid.

“The time is near,” said the druid, “when Balor will stand on Muin Duv. He’ll raise his eye-shields; and if the red spear is not put in his eye when the last shield is raised, all Erin will be burned in one flash. Go now and ask Balor Beiman for your wages; say that you want the cow Glas Gownach, for we want her and must have her. He will refuse, dispute, and quarrel, give bad names. You will say that he must pay you, must give the cow or go to judgment. He will go to judgment rather than give the cow; and do you choose his daughter as judge; she will give the cow to you.”

“I will go to judgment,” said Balor, when Cian insisted on getting the cow. “What judgment will you have?”

“My case is a true one,” said Cian. “I ask no judge but the one yourself will take. I ask no judge but your own daughter.”

“Let her be the judge,” said Balor.

Cian put on his cloak of darkness, and, going to the daughter, explained his case to her. Next day Balor went in and told her all the story of the cow Glas Gownach.

“I must have nine days to think the matter over,” said Balor’s daughter.

She got the time, then she asked three days more. On the thirteenth morning Balor went to her and said, “The judgment must be made to-day.”

“Well,” said the daughter, “go out now and stand before the window, you and the gardener, and to whomever the halter comes from me he’ll have the cow.”

When they stood in front of the window, she threw the halter to Cian.

“How could you do that?” cried out Balor.

“Oh, father, they say there is always a crooked cast in a woman’s hand. I threw toward you; but it’s to the gardener the halter went.”

Balor let the cow go. He was very angry, but could not help himself. “You have Glas Gownach; but I’ll have satisfaction in my own time,” cried he, as Cian went away.

“We have troubled you greatly with our work,” said Cian to Gaivnin Gow; “but here is the cow for you, and with her the halter. You can stay at home now and rest; you need follow her no longer.”

Cian went that night to the druid, and said, “I have the cow back in Erin.”

“It is well that you have,” answered the druid. “In five days from this Balor will be here to burn Up Erin. He will stand on Muin Duv at daybreak. He will raise all the shields from his eye; and unless a spear made by Gaivnin Gow is hurled into his eye by his grandson that instant, he will have all Erin in flames. You must bring Gaivnin Gow and the forge with you to Muin Duv, have the spear made, and all things prepared there; and your son must be ready to throw the red spear at the right moment.”

Gaivnin Gow came. They brought the forge, the spear, and all that was needed, put them behind a rock on the side of Muin Duv. On the fifth morning, at daylight, Balor was on the top of Muin Duv; and the instant the last shield reached his upper eyelid Lui Lavada struck him with the spear, and Balor fell dead.

ART, THE KING’S SON, AND BALOR BEIMENACH, TWO SONS-IN-LAW OF KING UNDER THE WAVE.

The King of Leinster was at war for twenty years, and conquered all before him. He had a son named Art; and, when the wars were over, this son was troubled because he could find no right bride for himself. No princess could suit him or his father; for they wanted an only daughter. In this trouble they went to the old druid.

“Wait,” said the druid, “till I read my book of enchantment; and then I will tell you where to find such a woman.”

He read his book, but could find no account of an only daughter of the right age and station. At last the druid said to the king, “Proclaim over all Erin that if any man knows of such a princess he is to come to this castle and tell you.”

The king did as the druid advised. At long last a sailor walked the way, and went to the king. “I know,” said he, “of the woman you wish.”

“Who is she?” asked the king.

“The only daughter of the King of Greece, and she is beautiful. But it is better to keep your son at home than to send him abroad; for there is no man who could not find a good wife in Erin.”

Art would not listen to this advice, but said, “I will go and get that one.”

Next morning he made ready, took farewell of his father, and away he went on his journey. He rode a fine steed to the seashore; there he took a ship, and nothing more is told of him till he touched land in Greece. The King of Greece received Art with great welcome, gave a feast of seven days in his honor, and sent heralds through the city declaring that any man who would fall asleep till the end of the seven days would have the head swept off his body.

Silk and satin were spread under Art’s feet, and respect of every kind shown him. He was entertained seven days, and at last, when the king didn’t ask him what journey he was on, he said, “It is a wonder to me that you do not ask what brought me, and why I am travelling.”

“I am not surprised at all,” said the king. “A good father’s son like you, and a man of such beauty, ought to travel all nations, and see every people.”

“I am not travelling to show myself nor to see people. Men told me that you have an only daughter. I want her in marriage, and ’tis for her sake that I am here.”

“I have never heard news I liked better,” said the king; “and if my daughter is willing, and her mother is satisfied, you have my blessing.”

Art went to the queen and told her the cause of his coming.

“If the king and my daughter are satisfied,” replied she, “that is the best tale that man could bring me.”

Art went to the princess, and she said, “If my father and mother are willing, your words are most welcome to me; but there is one obstacle between us,—I can marry no man but the man who will bring me the head of the Gruagach of Bungling Leaps.”

“Where is he to be found?” asked Art.

“If ’twas in the east he was, I would direct you to the west; and if ’twas in the west he was, I would send you to the east: but not to harm you would I do this, for thousands of men have gone toward that gruagach, and not a man of them has ever come back.”

“Your opinion of me is not very high. I must follow my nose and find the road.”

Next morning Art took farewell of the king, and went his way travelling to know could he find the gruagach. At that time gruagachs and heroes lived in old castles. Art inquired and inquired till he heard where the gruagach lived.

At last he came to the castle, and shouted outside; but if he did it was no use for him, he got no answer. Art walked in, found the gruagach on the flat of his back, fast asleep and snoring. The gruagach had a sword in his hand. Art caught the sword, but could not stir it from the grasp of the gruagach.

“’Tis hard to say,” thought he, “that I could master you awake, if I can do nothing to you in your slumber; but it would be a shame to strike a sleeping man.”

He hit the gruagach with the flat of his sword below the knee, and woke him. The gruagach opened his eyes, sat up, and said, “It would be fitter for you to be herding cows and horses than to be coming to this place to vex me.”

“I am not here to give excuse or satisfaction to you,” said Art, “but to knock satisfaction out of your flesh, bones, and legs, and I’ll take the head off you if I can.”

“It seems, young man, that it is a princess you want; and she will not marry you without my head.”

“That is the truth.”

“What is your name?” asked the gruagach; “and from what country do you come?”

“My name is Art, and I am son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

“Your name is great, and there is loud talk of you, but your size is not much; and if the princess were in question between us, I would think as little of putting that small hill there on the top of the big one beyond it as of killing you. For your father’s sake, I would not harm you; your father is as good a man for a stranger to walk to as there is in the world; and for that reason go home and don’t mind me or the princess, for your father and mother waited long for you, and would be sorry to lose you.”

“Very thankful am I,” said Art, “for your kind speech; but as I came so far from home, and want the princess, I’ll knock a trial out of you before I leave this place.”

Next morning the two faced each other, and fought like wild bulls, wild geese, or wolves, fought all day with spears and swords. Art was growing weak, and was not injuring the gruagach till evening, when he thought, “Far away am I from father, mother, home, and country.” With that he got the strength of a hundred men, gave one blow to the gruagach under the chin, and sent his head spinning through the air. That moment the body went down through the earth.

When the body disappeared, Art thought the head would come down like any other thing; but the earth opened, and the head flew into the earth and vanished.

“I will go back to the castle of the King of Greece,” thought Art, “and tell him the whole story.”

On the way to the castle, and while passing a cabin, a big old man came out of the cabin, and cried, “Welcome, Art, son of the King of Leinster. It is too far you are going to-night. Stay with me, if you like my entertainment.”

“Very thankful am I,” said Art, “and glad to stay with you. It is weak and tired I am.”

When he went in, the old man stripped him, put him first into a caldron of venom, and then into a caldron of cure, and he was as well as ever.

“Would go against the gruagach to-morrow?” asked the old man.

“I would if I knew where to find him.”

“You will find him where he was to-day; but he will be twice as strong to-morrow, since you vexed him to-day.”

After breakfast Art went to the castle, and found the gruagach asleep, as the first time, struck him with the flat of his sword, but so hard that he saw stars.

“Art, son of the King of Leinster, you are not satisfied yet; but you will suffer.”

“I am not satisfied,” said Art. “I’ll have your head or you will have mine.”

“Go home to your father and mother; don’t trouble me: that is my advice.”

“I am thankful to you,” said Art, jestingly; “but I’ll take a trial of you.”

They fought as before. The gruagach had twice the strength of the first day; and Art was knocking no quarters out of him, but suffering from every blow, his flesh falling and his blood flowing.

“I am not to last long,” thought Art, “unless I can do something.” He remembered his father and mother then, and how far he was from home; that moment the strength of two hundred men came to him. With one blow he swept off the gruagach’s head and sent it twice as far into the sky as on the first day; the body sank through the earth. Art stood at the place where the body had vanished.

When the head was coming down, and was near, he caught it and held it firmly by the hair; then, cutting a withe, he thrust it through the ears and, throwing the head over his shoulder, started for the castle of the King of Greece; but before reaching the old man’s cabin, he met three men and with them a headless body.

“Where are ye going?” asked Art.

“This body lost its head in the eastern world, and we are travelling the earth to know can we find a head to match it.”

“Do you think this one would do?” asked Art of one of the men.

“I don’t know,” said he; “it is only for us to try.”

The moment the head was put on the body, men, head, and body went down through the earth.

Art went to the old man, and told him of all that had happened.

“You were very foolish,” said the old man, “to do what you did. Why did you not keep the head and bring it to me? I would tell you what to do.” The old man cured Art’s wounds, and after supper he asked, “Will you fight the gruagach again?”

“I will.”

“Well, if you have the luck to knock the head off him a third time, never part with it till you come to me.”

Art went a third time to the gruagach, struck him with the flat of his sword, and knocked ferns out of his eyes.

“Oh, ho! Art, son of the King of Leinster, you are not satisfied yet, it seems. To-day will tell all. You’ll fall here.”

They went at each other with venom; and each sought the head of the other so fiercely that each hair on him would hold an iron apple. The gruagach had the upper hand till evening. Art thought of home then, of the young princess, and of the mean opinion that she had of him, and gave such a blow that the gruagach’s head vanished in the sky. The body went through the earth, and Art stood as before at the place where it sank till he saw the head coming; he seized it, cut two withes, passed them through the ears, threw the head over his shoulder, and went toward the old man’s cabin. He was within one mile of the house, when he saw, flying from the southeast, three ravens, and each bird seemed the size of a horse. At that time a terrible thirst came on him; he put the gruagach’s head on the ground, and stooped to drink from a spring near the wayside; that moment one of the ravens swept down and carried off the head.

“I am in a worse state now than ever,” said Art, lamenting.

He went to the cabin of the old man, who received him well, and cured him, and said, “You may go home now, since you did not keep the head when you had it; or you may go into a forest where there is a boar, and that boar is far stronger and fiercer than the gruagach: but if you can kill the boar, you will win yet, if you do what I tell you. When the boar is dead, open the body and hide in it. The three ravens will come after awhile to eat; you can catch one of them, and hold it till the others bring the head.”

Art went away to the forest. He was not long in it when the boar caught the scent of him, and ran at him, snapped at his body, and took pieces out of it. Art defended himself till evening, and was more losing than gaining, when he remembered home and that princess who thought so little of his valor. He got the strength of four hundred men then, and made two even halves of the boar. When Art tried to draw his sword, it was broken at the hilt: and he let three screeches out of him that were heard all over the kingdom. He could not prepare the carcass, so he went to the old man with the sword hilt.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you,” said the old man; “and you deserve them. You are the best man I have seen in life.”

“I do not deserve the welcomes,” said Art; “’Tis badly the day has gone with me: my sword is broken.”

“I will give you a better one,” said the old man, taking him to a room where there was nothing but swords. “Here are swords in plenty; take your choice of them.”

Art tried many, but broke one after another. At last he caught an old rusty blade, and shook it. The sword screeched so fiercely that it was heard in seven kingdoms, and his father and mother heard it in Erin.

“This blade will do,” said Art.

“Come, now, and we’ll prepare the boar,” said the old man.

The two went and dressed the boar in the way to give Art room within the body, and a place to seize the raven. The old man went to a hilltop, at a distance, and sat there till he heard the three ravens coming, and they cawing as before. “Oh, it is ye that are coming!” thought he. The birds came to the ground, and walked about, till at last one of them began to peck at the carcass. Art caught that one quickly by the neck; the bird struggled and struggled.

“You might as well stop,” said Art; “you’ll not go from me. This fellow’s head, or the head ye took yesterday,” said Art to the other two.

“Kill not our brother,” cried they; “we’ll bring the head quickly.”

“He has but two hours to live, unless ye bring here the head ye took from me.”

The ravens were not gone one hour when the gruagach’s head was in Art’s hands, and the raven was free.

“Come home with me now,” said the old man. Art went with him. “Show this head to the princess,” said the old man; “but do not give it to her; bring it back here to me.”

Art went to the king’s castle, and, showing the head to the princess, said, “Here is the head which you wanted; but I will not marry you.” He turned away then, went to the old man, and gave him the head. The old man threw the head on a body which was lying in the cabin; the head and the body became one, and just like the old man.

“Now, Art, king’s son from Erin, the gruagach was my brother, and for the last three hundred years he was under the enchantment of that princess, the only daughter of the King of Greece. The princess is old, although young in appearance; my brother would have killed me as quickly as he would you; and he was to be enchanted till you should come and cut the head off him, and show it to the princess, and not marry her, and I should do as I have done. My brother and I will stay here, take care of our forests, and be friends to you. Go you back to Erin: a man can find a good wife near home, and need not look after foreign women.”

Art went to Erin, and lived with his father and mother. One morning he saw a ship coming in, and only one man on board, the Red Gruagach, and he having a golden apple on the end of a silver spindle, and throwing the apple up in the air and catching it on the spindle.

The Red Gruagach came to Art, and asked, “Will you play a game with me?”

“I have never refused to play,” said Art; “but I have no dice.”

The gruagach took out dice; they played. Art won. “What is your wish?” asked the gruagach.

“Get for me in one moment the finest woman on earth, with twelve attendant maidens and thirteen horses.”

The Red Gruagach ran to his ship, and brought the woman with her maidens; the horses came bridled and saddled. When Art saw the woman, he fell in love, took her by the hand, and went to the castle. They were married that day. The Red Gruagach would not sail away; he stayed near the castle and watched. Art’s young wife knew this, and would not let her husband leave the castle without her.

Two or three months later she fell ill, and sent for the old king. “You must guard Art, and keep him safe,” said she, “till I recover.”

Next morning the king was called aside for some reason, and Art went out of the castle that moment. At the gate he met the gruagach, who asked him to play. They played with the gruagach’s dice, and Art lost.

“Give your sentence,” said he to the gruagach.

“You will hear it too soon for your comfort. You are to bring me the sword of light, and the story of the man who has it.”

Art’s wife saw the king coming back. “Where is Art?” asked she.

“Outside at the gate.”

She sprang through the door, though sick, but too late.

“You are not a husband for me now, you must go from me,” said she to Art. “The man who has the sword of light is my sister’s husband; he has the strength of thousands in him, and can run with the speed of wild beasts. You did not know me, did not know that I was not that gruagach’s daughter; you did not ask me who I was. Now you are in trouble, you must go. Sit on the horse that I rode, and that the gruagach gave you, take the bridle in your right hand, and let the horse go where he pleases; he will face the ocean, but a road will open before him, and he will never stop till he comes to my father’s castle. My father is King Under the Wave. The horse will stop at steps in front of the castle; you will dismount then. My father will ask where you got that steed, and you will say you got him when you won him and the daughter of King Under the Wave from the Red Gruagach.”

Next morning Art took farewell of his wife and his father and mother, started, and never stopped nor dismounted till he came to the steps outside the castle-yard where horsemen used to mount and dismount. He came down then.

“Where did you get that horse?” asked King Under the Wave; “and where is the rider who left my castle on his back?”

“I won him and the daughter of King Under the Wave from the Red Gruagach.”

“Ah, ’tis easily known to me that it was the Foxy Gruagach who stole my child. Now, who are you, and where are you going?”

“I am Art, son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

King Under the Wave gave a hundred thousand welcomes to Art then, and said, “You are the best king’s son that has ever lived; and if my daughter was to go from me, I am glad that it is to you she went. It is for the fortune that you are here, I suppose?”

“I am not here for a fortune; but I am in heavy trouble. I am in search of the sword of light.”

“If you are going for that sword, I fear that you will not be a son-in-law of mine long. It is the husband of another daughter of mine who has the sword of light now; and while he has it, he could kill the whole world. But I like you better, and will send servants to the stable to get you the worst horse for to-night; you will need the best afterward. Balor Beimenach, this son-in-law of mine, will grow stronger each time you go to his castle. One of my men will ride with you, and show you where Balor lives, and show you the window of the room where he sleeps. You will turn your horse’s back to the window, and call out, ‘Are you asleep, Balor Beimenach?’ He will reply, and call out, ‘What do you want?’ You will answer, ‘The sword of light and the story of Balor Beimenach.’ Put spurs to your horse that instant, and ride away, with what breath the horse has. I will have the twelve gates of this castle open before you, to know will you bring the life with you. Balor is bound not to cross a gate or a wall of this castle without my request, or to follow any man through a gate or over a wall of mine. He must stop outside.”

On the following day, Art and a serving-man rode away; the man pointed out Balor’s castle, and the window of his bedchamber. In the evening, Art rode up to the window, and shouted, “Are you asleep, Balor Beimenach?”

“Not very soundly. What do you want?”

“The sword of light and the story of Balor Beimenach.”

“Wait, and you will get them!”

Art put spurs to his horse, and shot away. Balor Beimenach was after him in a flash. Art’s horse was the worst in the stables of King Under the Wave, though better than the best horse in another kingdom. Still Balor was gaining on him, and when he came near the castle, he had not time to reach the gate. He spurred over the wall; but if he did, Balor cut his horse in two behind the saddle, and Art fell in over the wall with the front half.

Balor was raging; he went to his castle, but slept not a wink,—walked his chamber till morning to know would Art come again.

Next evening, Art rode to the window on a better horse, and called out, “Balor Beimenach, are you asleep?” and raced away. Balor followed, and followed faster. Art could not reach the gate before him, so he spurred his horse over the wall. Balor cut this one in two just at the saddle. Art tumbled down from the wall with his life.

This enraged Balor more than the first escape; he slept not a wink that night, but was walking around the whole castle and cursing till morning.

King Under the Wave gave Art the best horse in his stable, for the third night, and said, “This is your last chance with horses. I hope you will escape; but I’m greatly in dread that Balor will catch you. Now put this horse to full speed before you shout, and you will have some chance if your horse runs with what speed there is in him.”

Art obeyed the king. But Balor killed that horse as he had the other two, and came nearer killing Art; for he cut a piece of the saddle behind him, and Art came very near falling outside the wall; but he fell in, and escaped with his life.

“Well,” said King Under the Wave, on the fourth day, “no horse that ever lived could escape him the fourth time. Every vein in his body is wide open from thirst for blood; he would use every power that is in him before he would let you escape. But here is where your chance is. Balor has not slept for three nights; he will be sound asleep this time; the sword of light will be hanging above his head near his grasp. Do you slip into the room, and walk without noise; if you can touch the sword, you will have all Balor’s strength, and then he will give you the story.”

Art did as the king directed. He slipped into the room, saw the sword of light hanging just above Balor’s head. He went up without noise till he caught the hilt of the sword; and that moment it let out a screech that was heard throughout the dominions of King Under the Wave, and through all Erin.

Balor woke, and was very weak when he saw Art. The moment Art touched the hilt of the sword, he had all the strength that Balor had before. The screech that the sword gave put Balor in such fear that he fell to the floor, struck his face against the bed-post, and got a great lump on his forehead.

“Be quiet,” said Art; “the sword is mine, and now I want the story.”

“Who are you?” asked Balor, “and what land are you from? It seems that you are a friend of my father-in-law; for he is shielding and aiding you these four nights.”

“I am a friend of his, and also his son-in-law. I wish to be your friend as well.”

“What is your name?” asked Balor.

“Art, son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

“I would rather you had the sword than any other man save myself.”

Balor rose, and went to his wife, and said, “Come with me to your father’s castle.”

King Under the Wave gave a great feast, and when the feast was over Balor Beimenach took Art aside, and told him this story: “I was married to my wife but a short time, and living in that castle beyond, when I wanted to go to a fair. When not far from the castle, I found I had left my whip behind, and went back for it. For years there had lived in my castle a cripple. On returning I found that my wife had disappeared with this cripple. I went after them in a rage. When I reached her, she struck me with a rod of enchantment, and made a white horse of me. She gave me then to a servant, who was to take grain to a mill with me. I had no saddle on my back, only a chain to cut and gall me. Though a horse, I had my own knowledge. I wanted freedom. The boy who drove me misused me, and beat me. I broke his leg with a kick, and ran away among wild hills to pasture. I had the best grass, and lived for a time at my ease; but my wife heard of me, and had me brought home. She struck me again with her rod of enchantment, made a wolf of me. I ran away to rocky places. The wolves of the mountains bit and tore me; but at last they grew friendly. I took twelve of these with me, and we killed my wife’s cattle, day and night. She collected hunters and hounds, who killed six of the wolves. The other six and I were more harmful than ever. A second party killed the other six, and I was alone. They surrounded me; there was no escape then. I saw among the hunters my own father-in law. I ran to King Under the Wave, fell down before him, looked into his face; he pitied and saved me, took me home with him.

“My wife was at her father’s that day, and knew me. She begged the king to kill me; but he would not; he kept me. I served him well, and he loved me. I slept in the castle. One night a great serpent came down the chimney, and began to crawl toward the king’s little son, sleeping there in the cradle. I saw the serpent, and killed it. My wife was at her father’s castle that night, and rose first on the following morning. She saw the child sleeping, and the serpent lying dead. She took the child to her own chamber, rubbed me with blood from the serpent, and told the king that I had eaten the child. ‘I begged you long ago to kill that wolf,’ said she to her father; ‘if you had followed my advice you would not be without your son now.’ She turned and went out.

“Right there on a table was the rod of enchantment, which my wife had forgotten. I sprang toward the king; he was startled, and struck me with the rod, without knowing its power. I became a man, was myself again, and told the king my whole story. We went to my wife’s chamber; there the king found his son living and well. King Under the Wave gave command then to bring seven loads of turf with seven barrels of pitch, make one pile of them, and burn his daughter and the cripple on the top of the pile.

“‘Grant me one favor,’ cried I. ‘I will,’ said the king. ‘Spare your daughter; she may live better now.’ ‘I will,’ said the king; ‘but they will burn the cripple.’

“That is my story for you. Go now, and tell it to the Red Gruagach; keep the sword in your hand while telling the story; and when you have finished, throw the sword into the air, and say, ‘Go to Balor Beimenach!’ It will come to me. When you need the sword, send me word; I will throw it to you; and we’ll have the strength of thousands between us.”

Art gave a blessing to all, and mounted his wife’s steed; the road through the sea opened before him. The wife received him with a hundred thousand welcomes. After that he went to the Red Gruagach, and, holding the sword of light in his hand, told the story. When the story was finished, he threw the sword in the air, and said, “Go to Balor Beimenach.”

“Why did you not give me the sword?” cried the Red Gruagach, in a rage.

“If I was bound to bring the sword, I was not bound to give it to you,” answered Art. “And now leave this place forever.”

Art lived happily with his wife, and succeeded his father.

SHAWN MACBREOGAN AND THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION.

There was a very rich man once who lived near Brandon Bay, and his name was Breogan.

This Breogan had a deal of fine land, and was well liked by all people who knew him. One morning as he was walking on the strand for himself, he found, above the highest tide, a little colt, barely the size of a goat; and a very nice colt he was.

“Oh, what a beautiful little beast!” said Breogan; “he doesn’t belong to any one in this country. He is not mine; but still and all I’ll take him. If an owner comes the way, sure he can prove his claim, if he is able.”

Breogan carried the colt to the stable, and fed him as well as any beast that he had. The colt was thriving well; and when twelve months were passed, it was a pleasure to look at him. Breogan put him in a stable by himself after that, and kept him three years. At the end of the third year, it isn’t a little colt he was, but a grand, fiery steed. Breogan invited all his friends and neighbors to a feast and a great merrymaking. “This will be a good time,” thought he, “to find a man to ride the strange colt.”

There was a splendid race-course on the seashore. The appointed day came, and all the people were assembled. The horse was brought out, bridled and saddled, and led to the strand. The place was so crowded that a pin falling from the sky would not fall on any place but the head of some person old or young, some man, woman, or child that was there at the festival.

For three days the women of the village were cooking food for all that would come; there was enough ready, and to spare. Breogan strove to come at a man who would ride the horse; but not a man could he find. The horse was so fiery that all were in dread of him.

Not to spoil sport for the people, Breogan made up his mind to ride himself. As soon as the man mounted, and was firm in the saddle, the horse stood on his hind-legs, rose with a leap in the air, and away with him faster than any wind, first over the land, and then over the sea. The horse never stopped till he came down on his fore-feet in Breasil, which is a part of Tir nan Og (the Land of the Young).

Breogan found himself now in the finest country man could set eyes on. He rode forward, looking on all sides with delight and pleasure, till out before him he saw a grand castle, and a beautiful gate in front of it, and the gate partly open.

“Well,” thought he, “I’ll go in here for a bit, to know are there people living inside.” With that he tied the bridle to one of the bars of the gate, and left the horse, thinking to come back in a short time. He went to the door of the castle, and knocked on it. A woman came and opened the door to him.

“Oh, then, a hundred thousand welcomes to you, Breogan from Brandon,” said she.

He thanked her, and was greatly surprised when he heard her calling him by name. She brought him then to a parlor; and, though he had fine rooms in his own house, he hardly knew at first how to sit in this parlor, it was that grand and splendid. He wasn’t long sitting, when who should come in but a young woman, a beauty; the like of her he had never seen before in his life. She was first in every way, in good looks as well as in manners. She sat down at his side, and welcomed him.

Breogan remained in the castle a few hours, eating, drinking, talking, and enjoying himself. At long last he thought, “I must be going;” and then he said so.

The first woman laughed. “Well, now, my good friend,” said she, “of all the men that ever came to this place,—and it’s many a man that came here in my time,—there never was a worse man to care for his horse than what you are. Your poor beast is tied to a bar of the gate outside since you came, and you have never as much as thought that he was dry or hungry; and if I had not thought of him, it’s in a bad state he’d be now. How long do you think you are in this castle?”

“Oh, then, I am about seven hours in it.”

“You are in this country just seven years,” said the woman. “The beauty and comfort of this Land of the Young is so great that the life of twelve months seems the length of one hour in another place.”

“If I am here that long, I must be going this minute,” said Breogan.

“Well,” said the woman, “if you are going, I must ask you one question. There will be a child in this castle; and as you are the father, ’tis you that should name it. Now what will the name be?”

“If ’tis a son, you’ll call him Shawn, the son of Breogan, from Brandon in Erin. You’ll rear him for seven years. At the end of that time give him your blessing and the means of making a journey to Erin. Tell him who I am; and if he is anything of a hero, he’ll not fail to make me out.”

Breogan left his blessing with the women, went to the gate, and found his horse standing there, tied in the same way that he left him. He untied the beast, mounted, and away through the air with him, leaving Breasil behind, and never stopped nor halted till he came down about a mile from his own house, near Brandon, exactly seven years from the day that he left it. Seeing on the strand a great number of people, he wondered why they were in it, and what brought them together. A large, fine-looking man was passing the way, and Breogan called out to him: “What are these people all doing that I see on the strand?” asked he.

“You must be a stranger,” said the man, “not to know what these people are here for.”

“I am no stranger,” said Breogan; “but I went out of the country a few years before this, and while I was gone there were changes.”

“If a man leaves his own country for a short time itself,” said the other, “he will find things changed when he comes again to it. I will tell you why these people are here. We had in this place a fine master, and it’s good and kind he was to us. He went out to the strand one day, walking, and found a little colt above the high tide. He took the colt home, reared and fed him three years. Then this man gathered the people to give them a feast, and to know could he find some one to ride the horse. When no one would venture, he mounted himself; and all saw how the horse rose in the air, made a leap over the harbor, and then away out of sight. We think that he fell, and was drowned in the sea; for neither Breogan nor the horse was seen ever after. We are sorry for the man, because he was kind to us; but ’tis equal what became of the horse. After waiting seven years, Breogan’s wife is to be married this evening to some great man from the North. We don’t know what kind is he. He may destroy us, or drive us out of our houses.”

Breogan thanked the man for his words, and hurried on toward his own house. The servants saw him coming, knew him, and cried, “Here comes the master!” and there was a great stir up and down in the house. Next minute the wife heard the news; and out she ran to meet her husband. Any man would think she was glad to see Breogan. “Why are all the people here to-day?” asked he of the wife.

“And was not it this day seven years that you put the country behind you, wherever you went? You left dinner here ready; and the dinner is in the same state it was the day you went away from me. I thought it better to send for the people again, and eat the dinner in memory of you that prepared it.”

The husband said nothing. The people ate the dinner; and every man, woman, and child went home satisfied.

At the end of another seven years, Breogan made a great dinner again. All was ready; a great crowd of people were present. The day being fine, you could see far in every direction.

“Look, now,” said Breogan, to one of his men who had very good eyesight. “Look out toward the water, to know can you see any one coming. Seven years ago to-day, I came home from Breasil, in the Land of the Young; and my son, if I have one, is to be here to-day. He ought to be coming by this time.”

The man looked out as well as he could. “I see a boat with one mast coming toward us,” said he; “and it’s sailing faster than any boat I have ever set eyes on. In the boat I can see only one young man; and very young he is too.”

“Oh, that is he,” said Breogan.

The boat came in at full sail; and it wasn’t long till the youth was standing before his father. “Who are you?” asked Breogan.

“My name is Shawn MacBreogan.”

“If that is your name, sit down here at dinner; for you are my son.”

When the feast was over, the people went home. When Breogan’s wife found out who the boy was, she wouldn’t give the breadth of a ha’penny piece of his body for a fortune, she was that fond of him.

Things went on well till one day when Breogan and his son were out hunting. The day being warm, they sat down to rest; and the son said to the father, “Since I came to you in Erin, you seem vexed in yourself. I have not asked what trouble is on you, or is there anything amiss with you.”

“All things are well with me but one thing,” said Breogan. “There is some understanding between my wife and a man in the north of Erin. I’m in dread of my life; for while I was in Breasil she saw this man, and the day I came home they were going to be married. Since then I have not slept soundly in bed; for messages are passing between them.”