“A long distance,” replied the Philosopher. “Sit down here, my friend, and keep me company for a little time.” “I do not like sitting down,” said the young man, “but I always consent to a request, and I always accept friendship.” And, so saying, he threw himself down on the grass. “Do you work in that big house?” said the Philosopher. “I do,” he replied. “I train the hounds for a fat, jovial man, full of laughter and insolence.” “I think you do not like your master.” “Believe, sir, that I do not like any master; but this man I hate. I have been a week in his service, and he has not once looked on me as on a friend. This very day, in the kennel, he passed me as though I were a tree or a stone. I almost leaped to catch him by the throat and say: ‘Dog, do you not salute your fellow-man?’ But I looked after him and let him go, for it would be an unpleasant thing to strangle a fat person.” “If you are displeased with your master should you not look for another occupation?” said the Philosopher. “I was thinking of that, and I was thinking whether I ought to kill him or marry his daughter. She would have passed me by as her father did, but I would not let a woman do that to me: no man would.” “What did you do to her?” said the Philosopher. The young man chuckled “I did not look at her the first time, and when she came near me the second time I looked another way, and on the third day she spoke to me, and while she stood I looked over her shoulder distantly. She said she hoped I would be happy in my new home, and she made her voice sound pleasant while she said it; but I thanked her and turned away carelessly.” “Is the girl beautiful?” said the Philosopher. “I do not know,” he replied; “I have not looked at her yet, although now I see her everywhere. I think she is a woman who would annoy me if I married her.” “If you haven’t seen her, how can you think that?” “She has tame feet,” said the youth. “I looked at them and they got frightened. Where have you travelled from, sir?” “I will tell you that,” said the Philosopher, “if you will tell me your name.” “It is easily told,” he answered; “my name is MacCulain.” “When I came last night,” said the Philosopher, “from the place of Angus Óg in the cave of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named MacCulain that The Grey of Macha had neighed in his sleep and the sword of Laeg clashed on the floor as he turned in his slumber.” The young man leaped from the grass. “Sir,” said he in a strained voice, “I do not understand your words, but they make my heart to dance and sing within me like a bird.” “If you listen to your heart,” said the Philosopher, “you will learn every good thing, for the heart is the fountain of wisdom tossing its thoughts up to the brain which gives them form,”—and, so saying, he saluted the youth and went again on his way by the curving road.