“I will,” said the King.
“Thank ye. There’s a wee red cap that I’m mortal fond of, and I lost it awhile ago; if I could be hung with it on I would hang a deal more comfortable.”
The cap was found and brought to Teig.
“Clip, clap, clip, clap, for my wee red cap. I wish I was home!” he sang.
Up and over the heads of the dumfounded guard he flew, and—whist!—and away out of sight. When he opened his eyes again he was sitting close by his own hearth, with the fire burnt low. The hands of the clock were still, the bolt was fixed firm in the door. The fairies’ lights were gone, and the only bright thing was the candle burning in old Shawn’s cabin across the road.
A running of feet sounded outside, and then the snatch of a song:
“’Tis well that ye mind, ye who sit by the fire,
That the Lord He was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!”
“Wait ye, whoever ye are!” And Teig was away to the corner, digging fast at the loose clay, as the terrier digs at a bone. He filled his hands full of the shining gold, then hurried to the door, unbarring it.