Part 7

He took the giant with him, and he put him under the mouth of a _douac_, and a lock on him. He came back, and he brought the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, into the castle with him, and they spent that night merrily—a third of it with Fenian tales, a third of it with telling stories, and a third of it with the mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep.

In the morning, the day on the morrow, he brought the son of the king of Ireland out, and his people with him, and left them at the head of the avenue, and he came back himself and loosed out the giant, and said to him, that he must give him the rusty sword that was under the corner of his bed. The giant said that he would not give that old sword to anyone, but that he would give him the sword of the three edges that never left the leavings of a blow behind it, or if it did, it would take it with the second blow.

“I won’t have that,” said the short green man, “I must get the rusty sword; and if I don’t get that, I must go for my master, and he shall strike the head off you.”

“It is better for me to give it to you,” said the giant, “and whatever place you will strike a blow with that sword, it will go to the sand (_i.e._, cut to the earth) though it were iron were before it.” Then he gave him the rusty sword.

The son of the king of Ireland, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, went forward after that, until evening came, and the end of the day, until the horse was going under the shade of the docking, and the docking would not wait for him. The March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, and they would overtake the wind of March that was before them, and they were that night (arrived) in the eastern world, where was the lady.

The lady asked the king of Ireland’s son what it was he wanted, and he said that he was looking for herself as wife.

“You must get me,” said she, “if you loose my geasa[21] off me.”

He got lodging with all his servants in the castle that evening, and in the night she came and said to him, “Here is a scissors for you, and unless you have that scissors for me to-morrow morning, the head will be struck off you.”

She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep, and as soon as he did, she came and took the scissors from him and left him there. She gave the scissors to the King of Poison,[22] and she desired the king to have the scissors for her in the morning. Then she went away. When she was gone the King of Poison fell into his sleep; and when he was in his sleep the short green man came, and the old slippers on him, and the cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand, and wherever it was the king had left the scissors out of his hand, he found it. He gave it to the king of Ireland’s son, and when she (the lady) came in the morning, she asked; “Son of the king of Ireland, have you the scissors?”

“I have,” said he.

There were three scores of skulls of the people that went to look for her set on spikes round about the castle, and she thought that she would have his head on a spike along with them.

On the night of the next day she came and gave him a comb, and said to him unless he had that comb for her next morning when she would come, that the head should be struck off him. She placed a pin of slumber under his head, and he fell into his sleep as he fell the night before, and she stole the comb with her. She gave the comb to the King of Poison, and said to him not to lose the comb as he lost the scissors. The short green man came with the old slippers on his feet, the old cap on his head, and the rusty sword in his hand; and the king did not see him until he came behind him and took away the comb with him.

When the king of Ireland’s son rose up the next morning he began crying for the comb, which was gone from him. “Don’t mind that,” said the short green man: “I have it.” When she came he gave her the comb, and there was wonder on her.

She came the third night, and said to the son of the king of Ireland to have for her the head of him who was combed with that comb, on the morrow morning. “Now,” said she, “there was no fear of you until this night; but if you lose it this time, your head is gone.”

The pin of slumber was under his head, and he fell into his sleep. She came and stole the comb from him. She gave it to the King of Poison, and she said to him that he could not lose it unless the head should be struck off himself. The King of Poison took the comb with him, and he put it into a rock of stone and three score of locks on it, and the king sat down himself outside of the locks all, at the door of the rock, guarding it. The short green man came, and the slippers and the cap on him, and the rusty sword in his hand, and he struck a stroke on the stone rock and he opened it up, and he struck the second stroke on the King of Poison, and he struck the head off him. He brought back with him then the comb to the king’s son, and he found him awake, and weeping after the comb. “There is your comb for you,” said he; “she will come this now,[23] and she will ask you have you the comb, and tell her that you have, and the head that was combed with it, and throw her the skull.”

When she came asking if he had the comb, he said he had, and the head that was combed with it, and he threw her the head of the King of Poison.

When she saw the head there was great anger on her, and she told him he never would get her to marry until he got a footman (runner) to travel with her runner for three bottles of the healing-balm out of the well of the western world; and if her own runner should come back more quickly than his runner, she said his head was gone.

She got an old hag—some witch—and she gave her three bottles. The short green man bade them give three bottles to the man who was keeping the field of hares, and they were given to him. The hag and the man started, and three bottles with each of them; and the runner of the king’s son was coming back half way on the road home, while the hag had only gone half way to the well. “Sit down,” said the hag to the foot-runner, when they met, “and take your rest, for the pair of them are married now, and don’t be breaking your heart running.” She brought over a horse’s head and a slumber-pin in it, and laid it under his head, and when he laid down his head on it he fell asleep. She spilt out the water he had and she went.

The short green man thought it long until they were coming, and he said to the earman, “Lay your ear to the ground and try are they coming.”

“I hear the hag a’coming,” said he; “but the footman is in his sleep, and I hear him a’snoring.”

“Look from you,” said the short green man to the gunman, “till you see where the foot-runner is.”

The gunman looked, and he said that the footman was in such and such a place, and a horse’s skull under his head, and he in his sleeping.

“Lay your gun to your eye,” said the short green man, “and put the skull away from under his head.”

He put the gun to his eye and he swept the skull from under his head. The footman woke up, and he found that the bottles which he had were empty, and it was necessary for him to return to the well again.

The hag was coming then, and the foot-runner was not to be seen. Says the short green man to the man who was sending round the windmill with his nostril: “Rise up and try would you put back that hag.” He put his finger to his nose, and when the hag was coming he put a blast of wind under her that swept her back again. She was coming again, and he did the same thing to her. Every time she used to be coming near them he would be sending her back with the wind he would blow out of his nostril. At last he blew with the two nostrils and swept the hag back to the western world again. Then the foot-runner of the king of Ireland’s son came, and that day was won.

There was great anger on the woman when she saw that her own foot-runner did not arrive first, and she said to the king’s son: “You won’t get me now till you have walked three miles, without shoes or stockings, on steel needles.” She had a road three miles long, and sharp needles of steel shaken on it as thick as the grass, and their points up. Said the short green man to the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh: “Go and blunt those.” That man went on them with one thigh, and he made stumps of them. He went on them with the double thigh, and he made powder and _prashuch_ of them. The king of Ireland’s son came and walked the three miles, and then he had his wife gained.

The couple were married then, and the short green man was to have the first kiss. The short green man took the wife with him into a chamber, and he began on her. She was full up of serpents, and the king’s son would have been killed with them when he went to sleep, but that the short green man picked them out of her.

He came then to the son of the king of Ireland, and he told him: “You can go with your wife now. I am the man who was in the coffin that day, for whom you paid the ten pounds; and these people who are with you, they are servants whom God has sent to you.”

The short green man and his people went away then, and the king of Ireland’s son never saw them again. He brought his wife home with him, and they spent a happy life with one another.

AN ALP-LUACHRA.

Bhi scológ ṡaiḋḃir a g-Connaċtaiḃ aon uair aṁáin, agus ḃí maoin go leór aige, agus bean ṁaiṫ agus muiríġin ḃreáġ agus ní raiḃ dadaṁ ag cur buaiḋreaḋ ná trioblóide air, agus ḋeurfá féin go raiḃ sé ’nna ḟear compórtaṁail sásta, agus go raiḃ an t-áḋ air, ċoṁ maiṫ agus air ḋuine air biṫ a ḃí beó. Bhí sé mar sin gan ḃrón gan ḃuaiḋreaḋ air feaḋ móráin bliaḋain i sláinte ṁaiṫ agus gan tinneas ná aicíd air féin ná air a ċloinn, no go dtáinig lá breáġ annsan ḃfóġṁar, a raiḃ sé dearcaḋ air a ċuid daoine ag deunaṁ féir annsan moínḟeur a ḃí a n-aice le na ṫeaċ féin, agus mar ḃí an lá ro ṫeiṫ d’ól sé deoċ bláṫaiċe agus ṡín sé é féin siar air an ḃfeur úr bainte, agus mar ḃí sé sáruiġṫe le teas an laé agus leis an obair a ḃí sé ag deunaṁ, do ṫuit sé gan ṁoill ’nna ċodlaḋ, agus d’ḟan sé mar sin air feaḋ tri no ceiṫre uair no go raiḃ an feur uile crapṫa agus go raiḃ a ḋaoine oibre imṫiġṫe as an bpáirc.

Nuair ḋúisiġ sé ann sin, ṡuiḋ sé suas air a ṫóin, agus ní raiḃ ḟios aige cia an áit a raiḃ sé, no gur ċuiṁniġ sé faoi ḋeire gur annsan ḃpáirc air ċúl a ṫíge féin do ḃí sé ’nna luiḋe. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais ċum a ṫiġe féin, agus air n-imṫeaċt dó, ṁoṫaiġ sé mar ṗian no mar ġreim ann a ḃoilg. Níor ċuir sé suim ann, aċt ṡuiḋ sé síos ag an teine agus ṫosuiġ sé ’gá ṫéiġeaḋ féin.

“Cá raiḃ tu?” ars an inġean leis.

“Bhí mé mo ċodlaḋ,” ar seisean, “air an ḃfeur úr ann sa’ bpáirc ’nna raiḃ siad ag deunaṁ an ḟéir.”

“Creud a ḃain duit,” ar sise, “ní ḟéuċann tu go maiṫ.”

“Muire! maiseaḋ! ni’l ḟios agam,” ar seisean, “aċt tá faitċios orm go ḃfuil rud éigin orm, is aisteaċ a ṁoṫaiġim me féin, ní raiḃ mé mar sin ariaṁ roiṁe seó, aċt béiḋ mé níos fearr nuair a ḃfuiġfiḋ mé codlaḋ maiṫ.”

Chuaiḋ sé d’á leabuiḋ agus luiḋ sé síos agus ṫuit sé ann a ċodlaḋ, agus níor ḋúisiġ sé go raiḃ an ġrian árd. D’éiriġ sé ann sin agus duḃairt a ḃean leis, “Creud do ḃí ort nuair rinn’ tu codlaḋ ċoṁ fada sin?”

“Níl ḟios agam,” ar seisean.

Chuaiḋ sé annsan g-cisteanaċ, n’áit a ḃí a inġean ag deunaṁ cáca le h-aġaiḋ an ḃreác-fast (biaḋ na maidne), agus duḃairt sise leis, “Cia an ċaoi ḃfuil tu andiú, ḃfuil aon ḃiseaċ ort a aṫair?”

“Fuair mé codlaḋ maiṫ,” ar seisean, “aċt ní’l mé blas níos fearr ’ná ḃí mé aréir, agus go deiṁin dá g-creidfeá mé, saoilim go ḃfuil rud éigin astiġ ionnam, ag riṫ anonn ’s anall ann mo ḃoilg o ṫaoiḃ go taoiḃ.”

“Ara ní féidir,” ar s an inġean, “is slaiġdeán a fuair tu ad’ luiġe amuiġ ané air an ḃfeur úr, agus muna ḃfuil tu níos fearr annsan traṫnóna cuirfimíd fios air an doċtúir.”

Ṫáinig an traṫnóna, aċt ḃí an duine boċt annsan gcaoi ċeudna, agus b’éigin dóiḃ fios ċur air an doċtúir. Bhí sé ag ráḋ go raiḃ pian air, agus naċ raiḃ ḟios aige go ceart cad é an áit ann a raiḃ an ṗian, agus nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir teaċt go luaṫ ḃí sgannruġaḋ mór air. Bhí muinntir an tiġe ag deunaṁ uile ṡóirt d’ḟeud siad ḋeunaṁ le meisneaċ a ċur ann.

Ṫáinig an doċtúir faoi ḋeire, agus d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé creud do ḃí air, agus duḃairt seisean arís go raiḃ rud éigin mar éinín ag léimniġ ann a ḃolg. Noċtuiġ an doċtúir é agus rinne sé ḃreaṫnuġaḋ maiṫ air, aċt ní ḟacaiḋ sé dadaṁ a ḃí as an m-bealaċ leis. Chuir sé a ċluas le na ṫaoiḃ agus le na ḋruim, aċt níor ċualaiḋ sé rud air biṫ ciḋ gó raiḃ an duine boċt é féin ag ráḋ—“Anois! Nois! naċ g-cluinn tu é? Nois! naċ ḃfuil tu ’g éisteaċt leis, ag léimniġ?” Aċt níor ṫug an doċtúir rud aír biṫ faoi deara, agus ṡaoil sé faoi ḋeire go raiḃ an fear as a ċéill, agus naċ raiḃ dadaṁ air.

Duḃairt sé le mnaoi an tiġe nuair ṫáinig sé amaċ, naċ raiḃ aon rud air a fear, aċt gur ċreid sé féin go raiḃ sé tinn, agus go g-cuirfeaḋ sé druganna ċuige an lá air na ṁáraċ a ḃéarfaḋ codlaḋ maiṫ ḋó, agus a ṡoċróċaḋ teas a ċuirp. Rinne sé sin, agus ṡluig an duine boċt na druganna uile agus fuair sé codlaḋ mór arís aċt nuair ḋúisiġ sé air maidin ḃí sé níos measa ’ná ’riaṁ, aċt duḃairt sé nár ċualaiḋ sé an rud ag léimniġ taoḃ astiġ ḋé anois.

Chuir siad fios air an doċtúir arís, agus ṫáinig se aċt níor ḟeud sé rud air biṫ ḋeunaṁ. D’ḟág sé druganna eile leis an ḃfear, agus duḃairt sé go dtiucfaḋ sé arís i g-ceann seaċtṁuine eile le na ḟeicsint. Ní ḃfuair an duine boċt fóiriġín air biṫ as ar ḟág an doċtúir leis, agus nuair dáinig an doċtúir arís fuair sé é níos measa na roiṁe sin; aċt níor ḟeud sé aon rud ḋéanaṁ agus ní raiḃ ḟios air biṫ aige cad é’n cineál tinnis do ḃí air. “Ní ḃéiḋ mé ag glacaḋ d’airgid uait feasta,” ar seisean, le mnaoi an tíġe, “mar naċ dtig liom rud air biṫ ḋéanaṁ annsan g-cúis seó; agus mar naċ dtuigim creud atá air, ní leigfiḋ mé orm é do ṫuigsint. Tiucfaiḋ mé le na ḟeicsint ó am go h-am aċt ní ġlacfaiḋ mé aon airgioḋ uait.”

Is air éigin d’ḟeud an ḃean an ḟearg do ḃí uirri do ċongṁáil asteaċ. Nuair ḃí an doċtúir imṫiġṫe ċruinniġ sí muinntir an tiġe le ċéile agus ġlac siad cóṁairle, “An doċtúir bradaċ sin,” ar sise, “ní fiú traiṫnín é. Ḃfuil ḟios aguiḃ creud duḃairt sé? naċ nglacfaḋ sé aon airgiod uainn feasta, agus duḃairt sé naċ raiḃ eólas air ḃiṫ aige air dadaṁ. ’Suf’ air! an biṫeaṁnaċ! ní ṫiucfaiḋ sé ṫar an tairseaċ só go bráṫ. Raċfamaoid go dtí an doċtúir eile, má tá sé níos faide uainn, féin, is cuma liom sin, caiṫfimíd a ḟáġail.” Bhí uile ḋuine a ḃí annsa teaċ air aon ḟocal léiṫe, agus ċuir siad fios air an doċtuir eile, agus nuair ṫáinig sé ní raiḃ aon eólas do ḃ’ ḟearr aige-sean ’ná do ḃí ag an g-ceud-ḋoċtúir aċt aṁáin go raiḃ eólas go leór aige air a n-airgiod do ġlacaḋ. Ṫáinig sé leis an duine tinn d’ḟeicsint, go minic, agus gaċ am a ṫáinig se do ḃí ainm eile aige níos faide ’na a ċéile air a ṫinneas, ainmneaċa (anmanna) nár ṫuig sé féin, ná duine air biṫ eile, aċt ḃí siad aige le sgannruġaḋ na n-daoine.

D’ḟan siad mar sin air feaḋ ḋá ṁí, gan ḟios ag duine air ḃiṫ creud do ḃí air an ḃfear ḃoċt, agus nuair naċ raiḃ an doċtúir sin ag déanaṁ maiṫ air biṫ ḋó, fuair siad doċtúir eile, agus ann sin doċtúir eile, no go saiḃ uile ḋoċtúir a ḃí annsa’ g-condaé aca, saoi ḋeire, agus ċaill siad a lán airgid leó, agus b’éigin dóiḃ cuid d’á n-eallaċ ḋíol le h-airgiod ḟáġail le na n-íoc.

Bhí siad mar sin le leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ag congṁáil doċtuir leis, agus na doċtúiriḋ ag taḃairt druganna ḋó, agus an duine boċt a ḃí raṁar beaṫaiġṫe roiṁe sin, ag éiriġe lom agus tana, go naċ raiḃ unsa feóla air, aċt an croicion agus na cnáṁa aṁáin.

Bhí sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ dona sin gur air éigin d’ḟeud sé siúḃal, agus d’imṫiġ a ġoile uaiḋ, agus buḋ ṁór an ṫriobloíd leis, greim aráin ḃuig, no deoċ bainne úir do ṡlugaḋ agus ḃí uile ḋuine ag ráḋ go m-b’ḟearr dó bás ḟáġail, agus buḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin, mar naċ raiḃ ann aċt mar ḃeiḋeaḋ sgáile i mbuideul.

Aon lá aṁáin, nuair ḃí sé ’nna ṡuiḋe air ċáṫaoir ag doras an tiġe, ’gá ġrianuġaḋ féin ann san teas, agus muinntir an tiġe uile imṫiġṫe amaċ, agus gan duine ann aċt é féin, ṫáinig seanduine boċt a ḃí ag iarraiḋ déirce o áit go h-áit suas ċum an dorais, agus d’aiṫniġ sé fear an tiġe ’nna ṡuiḋe annsa’ g-cáṫaoir, aċt ḃí sé ċoṁ h-aṫruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ caiṫte sin gur air éigin d’aiṫneóċaḋ duine é. “Tá mé ann só arís ag iarraiḋ déirce ann ainm Dé,” ars an fear boċt, “aċt glóir do Ḍia a ṁáiġistir creud do ḃain duit ní tusa an fear céudna a ċonnairc mé leiṫ-ḃliaḋain ó ṡoin nuair ḃí mé ann só, go ḃfóiriġ Dia ort.”

“Ara a Sheumais,” ar san fear tinn, “is mise naċ ḃfeudfaḋ innsint duit creud do ḃain dam, aċt tá ḟios agam air aon rud, naċ mḃéiḋ mé ḃfad air an t-saoġal so.”

“Aċt tá brón orm d’ḟeicsint mar tá tu,” ar san déirceaċ, “naċ dtig leat innsint dam cia an ċaoi ar ṫosuiġ sé leat? creud a duḃairt na doċtúiriḋ?”

“Na doċtúiriḋ!” ar san fear tinn, “mo ṁallaċt orra! ní’l ḟios air dadaṁ aca, act ní ċóir dam ḃeiṫ ag eascuine agus mise ċoṁ fogas sin dom’ ḃas, ’súf’ orra, ni’l eólas air biṫ aca.”

“B’éidir,” ar san déirceaċ, “go ḃfeudfainn féin biseaċ ṫaḃairt duit, dá n-inneósá ḋam creud atá ort. Deir siad go mbíḋim eólaċ air aicídiḃ, agus air na luiḃeannaiḃ atá maiṫ le na leiġeas.”

Rinne an fear tinn gáire. “Ní’l fear-leiġis ann sa’ g-condaé,” ar sé, “naċ raiḃ ann só liom; naċ ḃfuil leaṫ an eallaiġ a ḃí agam air an ḃfeilm díolta le na n-íoc! aċt ní ḃfuair mé fóiriġin dá laġad ó ḋuine air biṫ aca, aċt inneósaiḋ mé ḋuit-se mar d’éiriġ sé ḋam air dtús.” Agus ann sin ṫug sé cúntas dó air uile ṗian a ṁoṫuiġ sé, agus air uile rud a d’orduiġ na doċtúiriḋ.

D’éist an déirceaċ leis go cúramaċ, agus nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé an sgeul uile, d’ḟiafruiġ sé ḋé, “cad é an sórt páirce í air ar ṫuit tu do ċodlaḋ?”

“Is móinḟeur a ḃí ann,” ar san duine tinn, “aċt ḃí sé go díreaċ bainte, ann san am sin.”

“Raiḃ sé fliuċ,” ars an déirceaċ.

“Ní raiḃ,” ar seisean.

“Raiḃ sroṫán uisge no caise a’ riṫ ṫríd?” ars an déirceaċ.

“Bhi,” ar seisean.

“An dtig liom an ṗáirc ḟeicsint?”

“Tig go deiṁin, agus taisbéunfaiḋ mé ḋuit anois é.”

D’éiriġ sé as a ċáṫaoir agus ċoṁ dona agus ḃí sé, stráċail sé é féin air aġaiḋ, no go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite ann ar luiḋ sé ’nna ċodlaḋ an traṫnóna sin. Bhreaṫnuiġ fear-na-déirce air an áit, tamall fada, agus ann sin ċrom sé air an ḃfeur agus ċuaiḋ sé anonn ’s anall agus a ċorp lúbṫa agus a ċeann cromṫa ag smeurṫaċt ann sna luiḃeannaiḃ, agus ameasg an luiḃearnaiġ do ḃí ag fás go tiuġ ann.

D’éiriġ sé faoi ḋeire, agus duḃairt sé, “Ta sé mar ṡaoil mé,” agus ċrom sé é féin síos arís, agus ṫosuiġ ag cuartuġaḋ mar roiṁe sin. Ṫóg sé a ċeann an dara uair, agus ḃí luiḃ ḃeag ġlas ann a láiṁ. “An ḃfeiceann tu sin,” ar sé, “áit air biṫ ann Éirínn a ḃfásann an luiḃ seó ann, bíonn alp-luaċra anaice leis, agus ṡluig tu alp-luaċra.”

“Cad é an ċaoi ḃfuil ḟios agad sin?” ars an duine tinn, “dá mbuḋ mar sin do ḃí sé, is dóiġ go n-inneósaḋ na doċtúiriḋ ḋam é roiṁe seo.”

“Go dtugaiḋ Dia ciall duit, na bac leis na doċtúiriḃ,” ars an déirceaċ, “ni’l ionnta aċt eallta amadán. A deirim leat arís, agus creid mise, gur alp-luaċra a ṡluig tu; naċ duḃairt tu féin gur ṁoṫuiġ tu rud éigin ag léimniġ ann do ḃolg an ċéad lá ’réis ṫu ḃeiṫ tinn. B’é sin an alp-luaċra, agus mar do ḃí an áit sin ann do ḃolg strainseuraċ leis i dtosaċ, ḃí sé mí-ṡuaiṁneaċ innti, ag dul anonn ’s anall, aċt nuair ḃí sé cúpla lá innti, ṡocruiġ sé é féin, agus fuair sé an áit compórtaṁail agus sin é an t-áḋḃar fá ḃfuil tu ag congṁáil ċoṁ tana sin; mar uile ġreim d’á ḃfuil tu ag iṫe bíonn an alp-luaċra sin ag fáġail an ṁaiṫ as. Agus duḃairt tu féin liom go raiḃ do leaṫ-ṫaoḃ aṫta, is í sin an taoḃ ’n áit a ḃfuil an rud gránna ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe.”

Níor ċreid an fear é, a dtosaċ, aċt lean an déirceaċ dá ċóṁráḋ leis, ag cruṫuġaḋ ḋó, gur b’ é an ḟírinne a ḃí sé ag raḋ, agus nuair ṫáiniġ a ḃean agus a inġean air ais arís do’n teaċ, laḃair sé leó-san an ċaoi ċeudna agus ḃí siad réiḋ go leór le na ċreideaṁaint.

Níor ċreid an duine tinn, é féin, é, aċt ḃí siad uile ag laḃairt leis, go ḃfuair siad buaiḋ air, faoí ḋeire; agus ṫug sé cead dóiḃ trí doċtúiriḋe do ġlaoḋaċ asteaċ le ċéile, go n-inneósaḋ se an sgeul nuaḋ so ḋóiḃ. Ṫáinig an triúr le ċéile, agus nuair d’éist siad leis an méad a ḃí an déirceaċ ag rád, agus le cóṁráḋ na mban, rinne siad gáire agus duḃairt siad naċ raiḃ ionnta aċt amadáin uile go léir, agus gurb’é rud eile amaċ ’s amaċ a ḃí air ḟear-an-tiġe, agus gaċ ainm a ḃí aca air a ṫinneas an t-am so, ḃí sé dá uair, ’s trí huaire níos faide ’ná roiṁe sin. D’ḟág siad buidéul no cúpla buideul le n-ól ag an ḃfear boċt, agus d’imṫiġ siad leó, ag magaḋ faoi an rud a duḃairt na mná gur ṡluig sé an alp-luaċra.

Duḃairt an déirceaċ nuair ḃí siad imṫiġṫe. “Ní’l iongantas air biṫ orm naċ ḃfuil tu fáġail beisiġ má’s amadáin mar iad sin atá leat. Ní’l aon doċtúir ná fear-leiġis i n-Éirinn anois a ḋéanfas aon ṁaiṫ ḋuit-se aċt aon ḟear aṁáin, agus is sé sin Mac Diarmada, Prionnsa Chúl-Ui-Ḃfinn air ḃruaċ loċa-Ui-Ġeaḋra an doċtúir is fearr i g-Connaċtaiḃ ná ’sna cúig cúigiḃ.” “Cá ḃfuil loċ-Ui-Ġeaḋra?” ars an duine tinn. “Shíos i g-condaé Shligíġ; is loċ mór é, agus tá an Prionnsa ’nna ċóṁnuiḋe air a ḃruaċ,” ar sé, “agus má ġlacann tu mo ċóṁairle-se raċfaiḋ tu ann, mar ’s é an ċaoi ḋeireannaċ atá agad, agus buḋ ċóir duit-se, a ṁáiġistreas,” ar sé ag tiontóḋ le mnaoi an tiġe, “do ċur iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air, dul ann, má’s maiṫ leat d’ḟear a ḃeiṫ beó.”

“Maiseaḋ,” ars an ḃean, “ḋeunfainn rud air biṫ a ṡlánóċaḋ é.”

“Mar sin, cuir go dti Prionnsa Chúil-Ui-Ḃfinn é,” ar seisean.

“Dheunfainn féin rud air biṫ le mo ṡlánuġaḋ,” ars an fear tinn, “mar tá’s agam naċ ḃfuil a ḃfad agam le marṫain air an t-saoġal so, muna ndeuntar rud éigin dam a ḃéarfas congnaṁ agus fóiríġin dam.”

“Mar sin, téiḋ go dtí an Prionnsa,” ar san déirceaċ.

“Rud air biṫ a ṁeasann tu go ndeunfaiḋ sé maiṫ ḋuit buḋ ċóir ḋuit a ḋéanaṁ, a aṫair,” ars an inġean.

“Ní’l dadaṁ le déanaṁ maiṫ ḋó aċt dul go dtí an Prionnsa,” ars an déirceaċ.

Is mar sin ḃí siad ag árgúint agus ag cuiḃlint go dtí an oiḋċe, agus fuair an déirceaċ leabuiḋ tuiġe annsa’ sgioból agus ṫosuiġ sé ag árgúint arís air maidin go mbuḋ ċóir dul go dtí an Prionnsa, agus ḃí an ḃean agus an inġean air aon ḟocal leis, agus fuair siad buaiḋ air an ḃfear tinn, faoi ḋeire; agus duḃairt sé go raċfaḋ sé, agus duḃairt an inġean go raċfaḋ sise leis, le taḃairt aire ḋó, agus duḃairt an déirceaċ go raċfaḋ seisean leó-san le taisbéant an ḃoṫair dóiḃ. “Agus béiḋ mise,” ars an ḃean, “air ṗonc an ḃáis le h-imniḋe ag fanaṁaint liḃ, go dtiucfaiḋ siḃ air ais.”

D’úġmuiġ siad an capall agus ċuir siad faoi an gcairt é, agus ġlac siad lón seaċtṁuine leó, arán agus bagún agus uiḃeaċa, agus d’imṫiġ siad leó. Níor ḟeud siad dul ró ḟada an ċeud lá, mar ḃí an fear tinn ċoṁ lag sin nár ḟeud sé an craṫaḋ a ḃí sé fáġail annsa’ g-cairt ṡeasaṁ, aċt ḃí sé níos fearr an dara lá, agus d’ḟan siad uile i dteaċ feilméara air taoiḃ an ḃóṫair an oiḋċe sin agus ċuaiḋ siad air aġaiḋ arís air maidin, agus an troṁaḋ lá annsan traṫnóna ṫáinig siad go h-áit-ċóṁnuiḋe an Phrionnsa. Bhí teaċ deas aige air ḃruaċ an loċa, le cúṁdaċ tuiġe air, ameasg na g-crann.

D’ḟág siad an capall agus an cairt i mbaile beag a ḃí anaice le háit an Phrionnsa, agus ṡiúḃail siad uile le ċéile go d-táinig siad ċum an tiġe. Chuaiḋ siad asteaċ ’san g-cisteanaċ agus d’ḟíaḟruiġ siad, “ar ḟeud siad an Prionnsa d’ḟeicsint.” Duḃairt an searḃfóġanta go raiḃ sé ag iṫe a ḃéile aċt go dtiucfaḋ sé, b’éidir, nuair ḃeiḋeaḋ sé réiḋ.

Ṫáinig an Prionnsa féin asteaċ air an móimid sin agus d’ḟiaḟruiġ sé ḋíoḃ creud do ḃí siad ag iarraiḋ. D’éiriġ an fear tinn agus duḃairt sé leis gur ag iarraiḋ conġnaṁ ó na onóir do ḃí sé, agus d’innis sé an sgeul uile dó. “’Nois an dtig le d’onóir aon ḟóiriġín ṫaḃairt dam?” ar sé, nuair ċríoċnuiġ sé a sgéul.