There is the story, for instance, of Mongan son of Fiachta, a historical chieftain killed in 625.  According to Tigernach, the oldest of the Irish annalists, Finn MacCool died in A.D. 274.  Finn, you will remember, is the central figure of the Fenian Cycle of sagas; he was the father of Oisin and the leader of the Fenians; next to Cuculain, he is the chiefest hero of Irish legend.  I quote this story from M. de Jubainville.*

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* But without word-for-word exactitude; hence the absence of
inverted commas.   The same remark applies to all the stories
quoted, or nearly quoted, from Mr. Rollerstone’e book.
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Mongan had a quarrel with Forgoll, his chief bard or file, as to the place where Fothad Airgtech king of Ireland had been slain by Cailte, one of Finn’s companions.  Mongan said it was on the banks of the Lame in Ulster, near his own palace; Forgoll said it was at Dubtar in Leinster.  Forgoll, enraged at being contradicted by a mere layman, threatened to pronounce awful incantations against Mongan, which might put rat-hood on him, or anything.  The end of it was that Mongan was given three days to prove his statement; if he should not have done so by that time, he and all his possessions were to become the property of the file.

Two days passed, and half the third, and Mongan did nothing, but remained at his ease entirely, never troubling in the world.  As for his wife, poor woman, from the moment he made the wager her tears had not ceased to flow.—­“Make an end of weeping,” said he; “help will certainly come to us.”

Forgoll came to claim his bond.—­“Wait you till the evening,” said Mongan.  Evening came, and if help was coming, there was no sign of it.  Mongan sat with his wife in the upper chamber; Forgoll out before them waiting to take possession of everything.  Pitiless and revengeful the look of Forgoll; the queen weeping and walling; Mongan himself with no sign of care on him.—­“Be not you sorrowful, woman,” said he; “the one who is coming to help us is not far off; I hear his footsteps on the Labrinne.”  It is the River Caragh, that flows into Dingle bay in the southwest; a hundred leagues from where they were in the palace at Donegore in the north-east of Antrim.

With that she was quiet for awhile; but nothing happened, and she began weeping again.—­“Hush now!” said Mongan; “I hear the feet of the one that will help us crossing the Maine.”  It is another river in Kerry, between the Caragh and the north-east:  on the road, that is, between Mongan’s palace and the Great Plain.

That way he was consoling her again and again; and she again and again breaking out with her lamentations.  He was hearing the footsteps at every river between Kerry and Antrim:  at the Liffey, and then the Boyne, and then the Dee, and after that, at Carlingford Lough, and at last at Larne Water, a little to the south of the palace.—­“Enough of this folly,” said Forgoll; “pay you me what