XIII

      The Cloud-woman, Mor, was the daughter

      Of Griann, the Sun,—well, and she

      Made a marriage to equal that grandeur,

      For her goodman was Lir, the Sea.

      The Cloud-woman, Mor, she had seven

      Strong sons, and the story-books say

      Their inches grew in the night-time,

      And grew over again in the day.

      The Cloud-woman Mor,—as they grew in

      Their bone, she grew in her pride,

      Till her haughtiness turned away, men say,

      Her goodman Lir from her side;

      Then she lived in Mor's House and she watched

      With pride her sons and her crop,

      Till one day the wish in her grew

      To view from the mountain-top

      All, all that she owned, so she

      Traveled without any stop.

      And what did she see? A thousand

      Fields and her own fields small, small!

      "What a fine and wide place is Eirinn," said she,

      "I am Mor, but not great after all."

      Then a herdsman came, and he told her

      That her sons had stolen away:

      They had left the calves in the hollow,

      With the goose-flock they would not stay:

      They had seen three ships on the sea

      And nothing would do them but go:

      Mor wept and wept when she heard it,

      And her tears made runnels below.

      Then her shining splendor departed:

      She went, and she left no trace,

      And the Cloud-woman, Mor, was never

      Beheld again in that place.

      The proud woman, Mor, who was daughter

      Of Griann, the Sun, and who made

      A marriage to equal that grandeur,

      Passed away as a shade.

XIV

AND that was the last story that Fedelma told, for they had crossed the Meadows of Brightness and had come to a nameless place—a stretch of broken ground where there were black rocks and dead grass and bare roots of trees with here and there a hawthorn tree in blossom. "I fear this place. We must not halt here," Fedelma said.

And then a flock of ravens came from the rocks, and flying straight at them attacked Fedelma and the King of Ireland's Son. The King's Son sprang from the steed and taking his sword in his hand he fought the ravens until he drove them away. They rode on again. But now the ravens flew back and attacked them again and the King of Ireland's Son fought them until his hands were wearied. He mounted the steed again, and they rode swiftly on. And the ravens came the third time and attacked them more fiercely than before. The King's Son fought them until he had killed all but three and until he was covered with their blood and feathers.