“It would surely be better to eat it than to waste it,” said the Philosopher wistfully.
The young people produced large parcels of food from their pockets and opened them, and the bearded man said, “I have a little one myself also, and it would not be wasted if you were kind enough to help me to eat it,” and he pulled out his parcel, which was twice as big as any of the others.
He opened the parcel and handed the larger part of its contents to the Philosopher; he then plunged a tin vessel into one of the milk pails and set this also by the Philosopher, and, instantly, they all began to eat with furious appetite.
When the meal was finished the Philosopher filled his tobacco pipe and the bearded man and his three sons did likewise.
“Sir,” said the bearded man, “I would be glad to know why you are travelling abroad so early in the morning, for, at this hour, no one stirs but the sun and the birds and the folk who, like ourselves, follow the cattle?”
“I will tell you that gladly,” said the Philosopher, “if you will tell me your name.”
“My name,” said the bearded man, “is Mac Cúl.”
“Last night,” said the Philosopher, “when I came from the house of Angus Óg in the Caves of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named Mac Cúl—that the horses had trampled in their sleep and the sleepers had turned on their sides.”
“Sir,” said the bearded man, “your words thrill in my heart like music, but my head does not understand them.”
“I have learned,” said the Philosopher, “that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows to-day the head will understand to-morrow.”