“You’ll not get my daughter,” said the king, “unless you have for me here to-morrow the bottle of cure which the three sons of Sean Mac Glinn have in the Eastern World.”
Dyeermud went to his ship with the king’s answer.
“Let me go,” said Foot-on-Shoulder. “I will bring you the bottle in season.”
“You may go,” said Dyeermud.
Away went Foot-on-Shoulder, and was at the sea in a minute. He made a ship of his cap, a mast of his stick, a sail of his shirt, and away with him sailing over the sea, never stopping nor halting till he reached the Eastern World.
In five hours, he came to a castle where the walls of defence were sixty-six feet high and fifty-five feet thick. Sean Mac Glinn’s three sons were playing football on the top of the wall.
“Send down the bottle of cure to me,” said Foot-on-Shoulder, “or I’ll have your lives.”
“We will not give you the bottle of cure; and if you come up, it will be as hard to find your brains five minutes after as to find the clay of a cabin broken down a hundred years ago.”
Foot-on-Shoulder made one spring, and rose six feet above the wall. They were so frightened at the sight of what he did, and were so in dread of him that they cried, “You’ll get what you want, only spare us,—leave us our lives. You are the best man that we have ever seen coming from any part; you have done what no man could ever do before this. You’ll get the bottle of cure; but will you send it back again?”