They caught each other then, one grip under the arm and one on the shoulder. ’Tis not long they were wrestling when Lawn Dyarrig had Short-clothes on the earth, and he gave him the five thin tyings dear and tight.
“You are the best hero I have ever met,” said Short-clothes; “give me quarter for my soul—spare me. When I did not tell you of my own will, I must tell in spite of myself.”
“It is as easy for me to loosen you as to tie you,” said Lawn Dyarrig, and he freed him.
“Since you are not dead now,” said Short-clothes, “there is no death allotted to you. I’ll find a way for you to leave Terrible Valley. Go and take that old bridle hanging there beyond and shake it; whatever beast comes and puts its head into the bridle will carry you.”
awn Dyarrig shook the bridle, and a dirty, shaggy little foal came and put its head in the bridle. Lawn Dyarrig mounted, dropped the reins on the foal’s neck, and let him take his own choice of roads. The foal brought Lawn Dyarrig out by another way to the upper world, and took him to Erin. Lawn Dyarrig stopped some distance from his father’s castle, and knocked at the house of an old weaver.
“Who are you?” asked the old man.
“I am a weaver,” said Lawn Dyarrig.
“What can you do?”
“I can spin for twelve and twist for twelve.”