Said Theegerje, “I have no shelter to give you. There is not a house nearer to you than the house of Grig, and that is seven miles away; and if you go there don’t tell that you have seen me. I am his servant boy, and Grig is lying on the one bed for seven years, and if you go there tell him you are the best doctor ever stepped.”
Morrocha went on then, and when he came to Grig’s house, said Grig, “If it were not that you are a good doctor, I would cut the head from you.”
“The death-bands on you,” said Morrocha; “sorry I am I came to cure you, above and beyond the report I heard about you at home and abroad.”
“And,” said Grig, “if I had Njuclas Croanj and my wife she would not be on your side.”
She was sleeping at Grig’s back in the bed, and he told her to get up, and she did not stir, and Grig lifted his hand and struck her on the jaw-bone and put it out of joint, and she awoke and she said, “What made you do that to me?”
“Be silent, woman; don’t you see the Irish doctor that’s come to cure me, and to see me hale and whole and as good as ever I was?”
“Musha, it’s a poor place he’s come to. There isn’t a wisp dry or wet that isn’t under your side, and we haven’t a stool better than the floor, or a chair better than a lump of clay, and we haven’t as much fire as would cook the wing of a butterfly.”
“Be silent, woman,” said Grig, “and take my old great coat and fix it under me.”
She did that; and Theegerje came, and a load of faggots with him, and he put down a good fire, and Morrocha got food to eat, and when he warmed himself at the fire he was weary-wet, and he was falling asleep.