‘If you want my bay colt, you must first bring me the daughter of the king of the Franks.’
With slow steps went Ian Direach down to the shore where Gille Mairtean the fox awaited him.
‘Plainly I see that you have not done as I bid you, nor will you ever do it,’ spoke Gille Mairtean the fox; ‘but I will help you yet again. For a third time I will change myself into a ship, and we will sail to France.’
And to France they sailed, and, as he was the ship, the Gille Mairtean sailed where he would, and ran himself into the cleft of a rock, high on to the land. Then he commanded Ian Direach to go up to the king’s palace, [!-- full page illustration in original --] [!-- blank page --] saying that he had been wrecked, that his ship was made fast in a rock, and that none had been saved but himself only.
Ian Direach listened to the words of the fox, and he told a tale so pitiful, that the king and queen, and the princess their daughter, all came out to hear it. And when they had heard, nought would please them except to go down to the shore and visit the ship, which by now was floating, for the tide was up. Torn and battered was she, as if she had passed through many dangers, yet music of a wondrous sweetness poured forth from within.
‘Bring hither a boat,’ cried the princess, ‘that I may go and see for myself the harp that gives forth such music,’ And a boat was brought, and Ian Direach stepped in to row it to the side of the ship.
To the further side he rowed, so that none could see, and when he helped the princess on board he gave a push to the boat, so that she could not get back to it again. And the music sounded always sweeter, though they could never see whence it came, and sought it from one part of the vessel to another. When at last they reached the deck and looked around them, nought of land could they see, or anything save the rushing waters.
The princess stood silent, and her face grew grim. At last she said: