She put him in hiding before evening in a box, and Croagcill came in, and having a heavy deer upon his shoulders. He drew it through the fire, and through the ashes, and through his long, cold teeth, and there was not one bit left but the bones. ‘Fru, fra, feasog,’ he says then; ‘I feel the smell of a sweet-voiced liar of an Irishman in some place that is not far off.’ ‘My dear and my love, and my man that is better than his father,’ says the King’s daughter, ‘it is that I myself was at the top of the house, and there came a little bird from Ireland and perched upon my hand.’ ‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ says he. ‘You to get your death,’ says the King’s daughter; ‘what at all would I do being left in this strange house?’ ‘Och,’ says he, ‘I will never get my death; for there is no one knows where the life of my body is hid.’ ‘Oh, and where is it?’ says the King’s daughter. ‘It is in the green plot that is outside the door,’ says he. He went out in the morning, and the King’s daughter rose up and she took roses and posies and every sort that was pretty, and she put them out on the green plot. And she let the Fish’s son come out for the daytime, and she put him back in the box at night. When Croagcill drew to the house in the evening there was a big beast upon his shoulders, and he drew it through the fire, and through the ashes, and through his long, cold teeth, and there was not a bit left on it. ‘Fru, fra, feasog, I get the smell of the sweet-voiced, lying Irishman coming to my house to-night,’ says he. ‘My love and my secret, there is nothing at all but what is used to be in it,’ says she. ‘There is, and more,’ says he. ‘Oh, I was up at the top of the castle, and a little bird from Ireland came and perched on my head,’ says she. ‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ says Croagcill. He went out then. ‘What is the reason the green plot to be full of roses and posies?’ says he. ‘Didn’t I hear you say,’ says she, ‘that is the place your life is?’ ‘Och,’ says he, ‘you to know the place where my life is, it is likely you would have affection for it.’ ‘I would indeed be fond of it,’ says she. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘there is a green holly-bush beyond at the brink of the sea, and it is inside that tree my life is, and I will never get my death till the Fish’s son from Ireland will come and will cut down that tree with his sword, and that is a thing will not happen for ever.’ [Illustration: IT IS IN THAT FOX CROAGCILL’S LIFE WAS.]