Oonagh took them all, and each she kneaded into the heart of one of her great dough-cakes. Over the fire she baked them and set them all upon the shelf,—two-and-twenty fine loaves of bread, one-and-twenty with griddles inside and one with no griddle at all.
Next morning she was up before daylight; and so for that matter was Fin, fidgeting and fuming, and keeping a sharp lookout down the valley. As for Oonagh, she went about smiling and humming to herself as if it were a May morning.
First she took a great pot of milk and made it into curds and whey. “Fin,” said she, “when Cucullin comes—.” And she told him what he must do with the curds.
“And now,” she said, “help me while I pull out the old cradle.”
With that she put her hand to a cradle the size of an ark, and taking two quilts an acre square began spreading them out and tucking them up inside.
“Don’t be standing about, Fin,” said she, “but go and dress yourself up like a bit of a boy.”
By that time Fin decided that she was daft entirely. But he did as she bid nevertheless, for the fact was he was at his wits’ end, and thought that since Cucullin was to make pulp of him at any rate, it did not much matter how he was dressed.
Up the valley came a roar like thunder. Fin’s house on the top of Knockmany trembled and the cradle inside rocked to and fro.
“That’ll be Cucullin singing to himself on his way up from Granua’s to beat Fin,” said Oonagh.