Myself.  How wonderful!

Murtagh.  Was it not, Shorsha?  The salmon, do you see, was a fairy salmon.

Myself.  What a strange coincidence

Murtagh.  A what, Shorsha?

Myself.  Why, that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul, which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane.

“What thief was that, Shorsha?”

“Thief!  ’Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir.  Sigurd was the hero of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of Ireland.  He, too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom from a burn.  According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and what not.  I have heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old, but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now.  It is true, when I knew you of old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd, and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as soon as you told me again about Finn’s burning his finger, the coincidence struck me.  I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes—­”

“Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody bating and plundering, which they never paid them back.  Och, Shorsha! you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good to the plundering villains—­the Siol Loughlin.”

“They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others, Finn-ma-Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin songs, I’ll tell the world so.”

“But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye—­to say nothing of the Irish part of it.”

“Then the world, Murtagh—­to say nothing of the Irish part of it—­ will be a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe oneself, and respect oneself.  How few whom the world believes believe and respect themselves.”

“Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?”

“I’d rather you should not, Murtagh; I know all about it already.”

“Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha?  Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes!  Och, Shorsha! let me tell you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone, Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him—­for Finn could do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in Dungarvon times of old;” and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the following effect:  —