a vast dark
wilderness, and therein is a dark house, lonely and full of echoes, and
in it there are seven gloomy hags, who are warned already of your coming
and are waiting to plunge you in a bath of molten lead."

"It is not a choice journey," said Art, "but I have no choice and must
go."

"Should you pass those hags," she continued, "and no one has yet passed
them, you must meet Ailill of the Black Teeth, the son of Mongan Tender
Blossom, and who could pass that gigantic and terrible fighter?"

"It is not easy to find the daughter of Morgan," said Art in a
melancholy voice.

"It is not easy," Crede' replied eagerly, "and if you will take my
advice--"

"Advise me," he broke in, "for in truth there is no man standing in such
need of counsel as I do."

"I would advise you," said Crede' in a low voice, "to seek no more for
the sweet daughter of Morgan, but to stay in this place where all that
is lovely is at your service."

"But, but--" cried Art in astonishment.

"Am I not as sweet as the daughter of Morgan?" she demanded, and she
stood before him queenly and pleadingly, and her eyes took his with
imperious tenderness.

"By my hand," he answered, "you are sweeter and lovelier than any being
under the sun, but--"

"And with me," she said, "you will forget Ireland."

"I am under bonds," cried Art, "I have passed my word, and I would
not forget Ireland or cut myself from it for all the kingdoms of the
Many-Coloured Land."

Crede' urged no more at that time, but as they were parting she
whispered, "There are two girls, sisters of my own, in Morgan's palace.
They will come to you with a cup in either hand; one cup will be filled
with wine and one with poison. Drink from the right-hand cup, O my
dear."

Art stepped into his coracle, and then, wringing her hands, she made yet
an attempt to dissuade him from that drear journey.

"Do not leave me," she urged. "Do not affront these dangers. Around the
palace of Morgan there is a palisade of copper spikes, and on the top of
each spike the head of a man grins and shrivels. There is one spike only
which bears no head, and it is for your head that spike is waiting. Do
not go there, my love."

"I must go indeed," said. Art earnestly.

"There is yet a danger," she called. "Beware of Delvcaem's mother, Dog
Head, daughter of the King of the Dog Heads. Beware of her."

"Indeed," said Art to himself, "there is so much to beware of that I
will beware of nothing. I wil