So in the evening the Dagda did that; and no sooner had Cridenbel swallowed down the gold than he died.  Some of the people said then to the king:  “The Dagda has killed Cridenbel, giving him some deadly herb.”  The king believed that, and there was anger on him against the Dagda, and he gave orders he should be put to death.  But the Dagda said:  “You are not giving the right judgment of a prince.”  And he told all that had happened, and how Cridenbel used to say, “Give me the three best bits before you, for my own share is not good to-night.”  “And on this night,” he said, “the three pieces of gold were the best things before me, and I gave them to him, and he died.”

The king gave orders then to have the body cut open.  And they found the gold inside it, and they knew it was the truth the Dagda had told.

And Angus came to him again the next day, and he said:  “Your work will soon be done, and when you are given your wages, take nothing they may offer you till the cattle of Ireland are brought before you, and choose out a heifer then, black and black-maned, that I will tell you the signs of.”

So when the Dagda had brought his work to an end, and they asked him what reward he wanted, he did as Angus had bidden him.  And that seemed folly to Bres; he thought the Dagda would have asked more than a heifer of him.

There came a day at last when a poet came to look for hospitality at the king’s house, Corpre, son of Etain, poet of the Tuatha de Danaan.  And it is how he was treated, he was put in a little dark narrow house where there was no fire, or furniture, or bed; and for a feast three small cakes, and they dry, were brought to him on a little dish.  When he rose up on the morrow he was no way thankful, and as he was going across the green, it is what he said:  “Without food ready on a dish; without milk enough for a calf to grow on; without shelter; without light in the darkness of night; without enough to pay a story-teller; may that be the prosperity of Bres.”

And from that day there was no good luck with Bres, but it is going down he was for ever after.  And that was the first satire ever made in Ireland.

Now as to Nuada:  after his arm being struck off, he was in his sickness for a while, and then Diancecht, the healer, made an arm of silver for him, with movement in every finger of it, and put it on him.  And from that he was called Nuada Argat-lamh, of the Silver Hand, for ever after.

Now Miach, son of Diancecht, was a better hand at healing than his father, and had done many things.  He met a young man, having but one eye, at Teamhair one time, and the young man said:  “If you are a good physician you will put an eye in the place of the eye I lost.”  “I could put the eye of that cat in your lap in its place,” said Miach.  “I would like that well,” said the young man.  So Miach put the cat’s eye in his head; but he would as soon have been without it after, for when he wanted to sleep and take his rest, it is then the eye would start at the squeaking of the mice, or the flight of the birds, or the movement of the rushes; and when he was wanting to watch an army or a gathering, it is then it was sure to be in a deep sleep.