The young cuckoo strove towards the big sky again, and he screamed so viciously that a rat that had just come out of the ditch fastened his eyes on him. That creature looked bad to the young cuckoo. Rain plopped on the leaves. Thunder crashed. A bolt struck the tree, and the part above the opening was torn away. The young cuckoo flung himself out on the grass and went awkwardly amongst the blue bells. “What a world,” said he. “All this wet and fire and noise to get me out of the nest. What a world!” The young cuckoo was free, and these were the first words he said when he went into the world. That was the last story the King’s Son told from Maravaun’s book, “The Breastplate of Instruction.” They had another little field of blue flowers to cross, and as they went across it Fedelma told the King’s Son THE STORY OF THE CLOUD-WOMAN XIII The Cloud-woman, Mor, was the daughter Of Griann, the Sun,--well, and she Made a marriage to equal that grandeur, For her Goodman was Lir, the Sea. The Cloud-woman Mor, she had seven Strong sons, and the story-books say Their inches grew in the night-time, And grew over again in the day. The Cloud-woman Mor,--as they grew in Their bone, she grew in her pride, Till her haughtiness turned away, men say, Her goodman Lir from her side; Then she lived in Mor’s Home and she watched With pride her sons and her crop, Till one day the wish in her grew To view from the mountain-top All, all that she owned, so she Traveled without any stop. And what did she see? A thousand Fields and her own fields small, small! “What a fine and wide place is Eirinn,” said she, “I am Mor, but not great after all.” Then a herdsman came, and he told her That her sons had stolen away: They had left the calves in the hollow, With the goose-flock they would not stay: They had seen three ships on the sea And nothing would do them but go: Mor wept and wept when she heard it, And her tears made runnels below. Then her shining splendor departed: She went, and she left no trace, And the Cloud-woman, Mor, was never Beheld again in that place. The proud woman, Mor, who was daughter Of Griann, the Sun, and who made A marriage to equal that grandeur, Passed away as a shade. XIV And that was the last story that Fedelma told, for they had crossed the Meadows of Brightness and had come to a nameless place--a stretch of broken ground where there were black rocks and dead grass and bare roots of trees with here and there a hawthorn tree in blossom. “I fear this place. We must not halt here,” Fedelma said.