Many days' sail from Europe was the Island of Youth. A daring Irish lad reached it, borne by a horse as white as the foam, that never sank. He paused on the way to slay a giant who held a princess in his enchantment, and reached, at length, a land where birds were so many that the trees shook with the burden of them, and the air rang with their song. There, with his wife and a merry band of youths and maids, he spent a hundred years--one long joy of killing; for from dawn till dark the deer met death at his hand, bleeding from the stroke of dart and knife. A floating spear was found near the shore one day, rusted and scarred with battle, and as he grasped it memories of old wars returned to him, so that he was sick with longing to go home and hurl the cutting metal through the ribs of his enemies and see the good red flood burst from their hearts. He remounted his white steed and reached Ireland, careless of the happiness he had left: for those who deserted the island might never return. He reached his home to find men grown too small and mean to fight him, which probably means that he had waxed so great as to make them seem like dwarfs. Appalled at this change, dismayed at the loss of all chance for battle, he sank to the earth. His age came suddenly upon him, and he died. In one of the great Irish monasteries lived St. Brandan, of the holy brotherhood that tilled the soil, taught the permitted sciences, copied and illumined the works of the early Christians, fed four hundred beggars daily, though living on bread, roots, and nuts themselves, lodging and studying in unwarmed cells of stone. Once in seven years the people saw from shore the island of Hy-Brasail. The monks tried to stop its wanderings by prayer and by fiery arrows, yet without avail. Kirwan claimed to have landed on it, and he brought back strange money that he said was used by its people. So late as 1850 Brasail Rock remained on the British Admiralty chart, to show how hard tradition dies. The appearance of this phantom land made Brandan long to explore the realm of mystery wherefrom it had emerged. He hoped to find even the Promised Island of the Saints, when at last he was able to leave the convent where he had endured so many hardships and embarked on Mernoc's ship; blessed region where fruit was borne on every tree, flowers on every bush; region strewn with precious stones and full of perfume that clung to one's garments for weeks, like an odor of sanctity.