The king was in a great room on the ground-floor of his castle. In front of him was an awfully big pot full of oil, and it boiling.
“Well,” said the king when he saw the stranger before him, “only that the Black Thief is dead, I’d say you were that man.”
“I am the Black Thief,” said the stranger.
“We will know that in time,” said the king; “and who are these three young men?”
“Three sons of a king in Erin.”
“We’ll begin with the youngest. But stir up the fire there, one of you,” said King Conal to the attendants; “the oil is not hot enough.” And turning to the Black Thief, he asked, “Isn’t that young man very near his death at this moment?”
“I was nearer death than he is, and I escaped,” said the Black Thief.
“Tell me the story,” said the king. “If you were nearer death than he is, I will give his life to that young man.”
“When I was young,” said the Black Thief, “I lived on my land with ease and plenty, till three witches came the way, and destroyed all my property. I took to the roads and deep forests then, and became the most famous thief that ever lived in Erin. This is the story of the witches who robbed and tried to kill me:—