‘In troth I’ll not,’ sez the queen; ‘shure ye know I’m a black Prospitarian, an’ bleeve nun ov yer saints.’ ‘Arrah, nun or yer quare ways,’ sez he; ‘don’t you wish my sowl happy, any how?--an’ if you help me, you will be only helpin’ my sowl to heaven.’ ‘Oh, in that case,’ sez she, ‘here’s at ye, and the sooner the betther. But one charge I’d give ye: take care how ye open yer _claub_ about ground: ye know she thought to come round ye twice before.’ So in the twinklin’ ov an eye she went down to the kitchen, an’ put on a prashkeen, an’ was _first dish_ at the table. The king saw every one lashin’ away at their dinner except Bridget. ‘Arrah, Biddy, honey,’ sez he, ‘why don’t ye help yerself?’ ‘Why, thin,’ sez she, ‘the dhoul a bit, bite or sup, I’ll take undher yer roof until ye grant me one favour.’ ‘And what is that?’ sez the king; ‘shure ye know a king must stand to his word was it half his kingdom, and how do I know but ye want to chouse me out ov it: let me know first what ye want.’ ‘Well, thin, Mr King O’Dermot,’ sez she, ‘all I want is a taste ov ground to sow a few pays in.’ ‘Well, an’ how much do ye want, yer reverence,’ sez he, all over ov a thrimble, betune his wife’s dark looks, and the curse he expected from Bridget if he refused. ‘Not much,’ sez she, ‘for the present. You don’t know how I’m situated. All the pilgrims going to Lough Dhearg are sent to me to put the pays in their brogues, an’ ye know I havn’t as much ground as would sow a pint; but if ye only give me about fifty acres, I’ll be contint.’ ‘Fifty acres!’ roared the king, stretching his neck like a goose. ‘Fifty acres!’ roared the queen, knitting her brows; ‘shure that much ground would fill their pockets as well as their brogues.’ ‘There ye’re out ov it,’ said the saint; ‘why, it wouldn’t be half enough if they got their dhue according to their sins; but I’ll lave it to yerself.’ ‘How much will ye give?’ ‘Not an acre,’ said the queen. ‘Oh, Dorah,’ sed the king, ‘let me give the crathur some.’ ‘Not an _inch_,’ sed the queen, ‘if I’m to be misthress here.’ ‘Oh, I beg pardon,’ sez the saint; ‘so, Mr King O’Dermot, you are undher petticoat government I see; but maybe I won’t match ye for all that. Now, take my word, you shall go on penance to Lough Dhearg before nine days is about; and instead ov pays ye shall have pebble stones and swan shot, in yer brogues. But it’s well for you, Mrs Queen, that ye’re out ov my reach, or I’d send you there barefooted, with nothing on but yer stockings.’ When the king heard this, he fell all ov a thrimble. ‘Oh, Dorah,’ sez he, ‘give the crathur a little taste ov ground to satisfy her.’ ‘No, not as much as she could play ninepins on,’ sez she, shakin’ her fist and grindin’ her teeth together; ‘and I hope she may send you to Lough Dhearg, as she sed she would.’ ‘Why, thin, have ye no feeling for one ov yer own sex?’ sez the saint. ‘I’ll go my way this minit, iv ye only give me as much as my shawl will cover.’