“I want nothing of you,” said Cahal, “but this: Send out my bride to me; you took her from her father, the King of Hathony, and she was to be my wife soon when you took her. Send her to me, and put no fog or enchantment on us while we are on the way home.”
“You ask more than I can give,” said Striker, “for Wet Mantle, the hero, took that maiden from me two months ago. When going, she put him under bonds not to molest her for two days and two years.”
“Where can I find Wet Mantle?”
“That is more than I can tell; but put your nose before you and follow it.”
“That’s a short answer, and I would take your life for three straws on account of it; but I’ll let some other man have his chance to take the head off you.”
Cahal mounted his mare then, and was travelling over seas and dry land,—travelling a long time till he came at last to Wet Mantle’s castle. He struck the pole of combat, and out came the messenger.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Seven hundred at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven hundred behind me, and seven hundred before my face.”
“That’s more men than you can find in this place,” said the messenger. “Wet Mantle lives here in his own way, without forces or company; he keeps no man but me, and is very well satisfied.”