“The pity of it is, he’s not,” said Oonagh. “The fact is, he heard there was a big Scotch giant named Cucullin down at the Causeway looking for him; and nothing would do but off he must be over the hills to meet him. Indeed, for the poor giant’s sake, I hope Fin won’t find him. For with the temper Fin’s in, he’d make paste of him in no time.”
At that Cucullin threw back his great head as if it were some joke Oonagh had made. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared he. “Ho, ho, ho! Make paste of Cucullin, would he? Make paste of Cucullin! Why, why, why, my good woman, I’m Cucullin!”
Oonagh put down her knitting. “Can it be?” cried she. “You, Cucullin!” And with that she gave a clear laugh, as if he were but a wee bit of a man, hardly worth considering.
“Have you ever seen Fin?” asked she, all at once sobering down.
“Why, no,” said Cucullin, “thanks to all the trouble he’s taken to keep himself out of my way.”
Oonagh shook her head. “I thought as much,” said she. “I judged you could never have seen him, to speak as you did. And if you’re fond of your own skin, you’ll pray you may never. Not but what you’re a sturdy fellow of your size, but Fin—”
“Well, well,” cried Cucullin good-naturedly enough, “there’s been never a giant in Ireland could beat me yet. So, now I’ll be off to the Causeway to give Fin his chance.” And with that, up he got, laughing, and took one of his great strides down the hill.
Oonagh rose up too. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, “might I ask one favor before you go? The wind’s blowing in at the door, you see, and would you mind turning the house around for me?”
Cucullin stopped where he stood. “Turn the house!” cried he.