The Master could not brook this. He strode the floor in gloomy indignation; and at length they heard him saying, "If I should venture to demand it—But is it then to be my last great work? The demand is dreadful!—I will—I'll demand it. Never shall it be said that Michael Scott was out-done in his own art, and that by a poor peddling friar. Come all of you hither," added he in a louder tone. "Look at that mountain to the east. It is known to you all—the great hill of Eildon. You see and know that it is one round, smooth, and unbroken cone."
"We all know it, and have known it from infancy," was the general answer.
The Master gave three strokes with his heel, and called the names of his three elfin pages, who in an instant stood before him.—"Work, Master, work,—what work now?"
"Look at that mountain to the east," said he, "ycleped the hill of Eildon. Go and twist me it into three."
The pages grinned, looking at him with eyes of a devilish gleam, as a ravenous creature eyes its prey.
"The hill is a granite rock," said one,—"and five arrow-flights high," said another,—"and seventy round the base," said the first.
"All the powers of earth, and hell to boot, are unmeet to the task," added the third.
"Thou art a proud and impertinent liar, perverse imp of the regions of flame," said the Master: "Note this, The thing must, and shall be done; even though a body and soul should both be given up as the guerdon. I know my conditions; they are sealed, and subscribed, and I am not to be disobeyed. Get to your work without more hesitation."
The three pages then fell to reeling about and about, singing a wild and uncouth trio, in words of the following import:
"Pick and spade
To our aid!
Flaught and flail,
Fire and hail!
Winds arise, and tempests brattle,
And if you will the thunders rattle.
Come away
Elfin grey,
Much to do ere break of day!