“That I will indeed and indeed,” I said. And then I fell asleep.
When I woke we were in the huntsman’s booth that is at the far end of the Shadowy Glen.
There was a long rough-hewn table in it, and I stared when I saw bowls and a great jug of milk and a plate heaped with oatcakes, and beside it a brown loaf of rye-bread.
“Little Art,” said he who carried me, “are you for knowing now who I am?”
“You are a prince, I’m thinking,” was the shy word that came to my mouth.
“Sure, lennav-aghray, that is so. It is called the Prince of Peace I am.”
“And who is to be eating all this?” I asked.
“This is the last supper,” the prince said, so low that I could scarce hear; and it seemed to me that he whispered, “for I die daily, and ever ere I die the Twelve break bread with me.”
It was then I saw that there were six bowls of porridge on the one side and six on the other.
“What is your name, O Prince?”