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 some one 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, neighbours,” 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 126 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.”