“It is never too late, mother.”
“That is right, my child,” said she, “it is better late than never.”
“Tell me, mother, why do you cry in this way and lament?”
“It is no use for me to tell you, my child; three men have just gone back to the strand, and once I was able to give the like of them a good warm dinner.”
“Well, mother, you must go and invite them to dinner this time.”
“What have I to give them to eat, my poor child?”
“If you have nothing to give them but only to be talking till morning, you will have to go and invite them.”
When she was ready he said: “Mother, before you go tie my two hands to the beam that is here in the house above the hearth, that I may not fall in the fire while you are absent.”
Before the mother went out she passed a rope under his arms, tied him to the cross-beam, and put a stool under his feet. He kicked the stool away; he had to pull and drag himself to swing, the fire was catching his feet, the beam was cracking from his weight and the swinging. The sinews of his legs stretched, he got his footing then, and walked to the door.