Part 6 (1/2)
”And you should not be,” said the fairy queen, ”for never lady yet had truer knight than Cuglas. I loved him, and I love him dearly. I lured him here hoping that in the delights of fairyland he might forget you.
It was all in vain. I know now that there is one thing no fairy power above or below the stars, or beneath the waters, can ever subdue, and that is love. And here together forever shall you and Cuglas dwell, where old age shall never come upon you, and where pain or sorrow or sickness is unknown.”
And Cuglas never returned to the fair hills of Erin, and ages pa.s.sed away since the morning he followed the hounds into the fatal cave, but his story was remembered by the firesides, and sometimes, even yet, the herdboy watching his cattle in the fields hears the tuneful cry of hounds, and follows it till it leads him to a darksome cave, and as fearfully he listens to the sound becoming fainter and fainter he hears the clatter of hoofs over the stony floor, and to this day the cave bears the name of the prince who entered it never to return.[A]
[Footnote A: _Uaimh Bealach Conglais_, the cave of the road of Cuglas--now Baltingla.s.s--in the County Wicklow.]
THE HUNTSMAN'S SON
A long, long time ago there lived in a little hut on the borders of a great forest a huntsman and his wife and son. From his earliest years the boy, whose name was Fergus, used to hunt with his father in the forest, and he grew up strong and active, sure and swift-footed as a deer, and as free and fearless as the wind. He was tall and handsome; as supple as a mountain ash, his lips were as red as its berries; his eyes were as blue as the skies in spring; and his hair fell down over his shoulders like a shower of gold. His heart was as light as a bird's, and no bird was fonder of green woods and waving branches. He had lived since his birth in the hut in the forest, and had never wished to leave it, until one winter night a wandering minstrel sought shelter there, and paid for his night's lodging with songs of love and battle. Ever since that night Fergus pined for another life. He no longer found joy in the music of the hounds or in the cries of the huntsmen in forest glades. He yearned for the chance of battle, and the clang of s.h.i.+elds, and the fierce shouts of fighting warriors, and he spent all his spare hours practicing on the harp and learning the use of arms, for in those days the bravest warriors were also bards. In this way the spring and summer and autumn pa.s.sed; and when the winter came again it chanced that on a stormy night, when thunder was rattling through the forest, smiting the huge oaks and hurling them cras.h.i.+ng to the earth, Fergus lay awake thinking of his present lot, and wondering what the future might have in store for him. The lightning was playing around the hut, and every now and then a flash brightened up the interior.
After a peal, louder than any which had preceded it, Fergus heard three loud knocks at the door. He called out to his parents that someone was knocking.
”If that is so,” said his father, ”open at once; this is no night to keep a poor wanderer outside our door.”
Fergus did as he was bidden, and as he opened the door a flash of lightning showed him, standing at the threshold, a little wizened old man with a small harp under his arm.
”Come in, and welcome,” said Fergus, and the little man stepped into the room.
”It is a wild night, neighbors,” said he.
”It is, indeed, a wild night,” said the huntsman and his wife, who had got up and dressed themselves; ”and sorry we are we have no better shelter or better fare to offer you, but we give you the best we have.”
”A king cannot do more than his best,” said the little man.
The huntsman's wife lit the fire, and soon the pine logs flashed up into a blaze, and made the hut bright and warm. She then brought forth a peggin of milk and a cake of barley-bread.
”You must be hungry, sir,” she said.
”Hungry I am,” said he; ”but I wouldn't ask for better fare than this if I were in the king's palace.”
”Thank you kindly, sir,” said she, ”and I hope you will eat enough, and that it will do you good.”
”And while you are eating your supper,” said the huntsman, ”I'll make you a bed of fresh rushes.”
”Don't put yourself to that trouble,” said the little man. ”When I have done my supper I'll lie down here by the fire, if it is pleasing to you, and I'll sleep like a top until morning. And now go back to your beds and leave me to myself, and maybe some time when you won't be expecting it I'll do a good turn for your kindness to the poor wayfarer.”
”Oh, it's no kindness at all,” said the huntsman's wife. ”It would be a queer thing if an Irish cabin would not give shelter and welcome in a wild night like this. So good night, now, and we hope you will sleep well.”
”Good night,” said the little man, ”and may you and yours never sup sorrow until your dying day.”
The huntsman and his wife and Fergus then went back to their beds, and the little man, having finished his supper, curled himself up by the fire, and was soon fast asleep.
About an hour after a loud clap of thunder awakened Fergus, and before it had died away he heard three knocks at the door. He aroused his parents and told them.
”Get up at once,” said his mother, ”this is no night to keep a stranger outside our door.”
Fergus rose and opened the door, and a flash of lightning showed him a little old woman, with a shuttle in her hand, standing outside.