His hound at his foot,
His hawk on his hand,
And his fine black horse to bear him—
and he never drew rein until he came as far as the big bush on the brink of the glen. The grey old man was sitting there under the bush, and said, “King’s son, will you have a game to-day?” The King’s son got down and said, “I will.” With that he threw bridle over branch and sat down by the side of the old man. He drew out the cards and asked the King’s son did he get the thing he had won yesterday.
“That’s all right,” said the King’s son.
“We’ll play for the same bet to-day,” says the grey old man.
“I’m satisfied,” said the King’s son.
They played—the King’s son won. “What would you like me to do for you this time?” says the grey old man. The King’s son thought and said to himself, “I’ll give him a hard job this time.” Then he said, “There’s a field of seven acres at the back of my father’s castle; let it be filled to-morrow morning with cows, and no two of them to be of one colour, or one height, or one age.”
“That shall be done,” says the grey old man.
The King’s son went riding on his horse—
His hound at his foot,
His hawk on his hand—
and faced for home. The King was sorrowful about the Queen; there were doctors out of every place in Ireland, but they could not do her any good.