“Musha,” said the Glashan, “aren’t you very anxious to lose your life?”
“Take me on your shoulders.” “Well, come then. You’re not the first living dead man I carried across.” The Glashan put his pipe into his ear. The King of Ireland’s Son mounted his shoulders and laid hold of his thick mane. Then the Glashan put his horse’s legs into the water and started to cross the River of the Broken Towers.
“The Land of Mist has a King,” said the Glashan, when they were in the middle of the river.
“That, Glashan, I know,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.
“All right,” said the Glashan.
Then said he when they were three-quarters of the way across, “Maybe you don’t know that the King of the Land of Mist will kill you?”
“Maybe ‘tis I who will kill him,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.
“You’d be a hardy little fellow if you did that,” said the Glashan. “But you won’t do it.”
They went on. The water was up to the Glashan’s waist but that gave him no trouble. So broad was the river that they were traveling across it all day. The Glashan threw the King’s Son in once when he stooped to pick up an eel. Said the King of Ireland’s Son, “What way is the Castle of the King of the Land of Mist guarded, Glashan?”
“It has seven gates,” said the Glashan.