Here Dunderhead stopped singing with a roar of pain, for while cutting himself some more bread, the knife slipped and gashed his hand in a most terrible manner. A great spout of blood gushed out like a torrent and settled into a dark red pool on the table, while the giant, roaring with anger, wrapped up his wounded hand in his handkerchief, which was as large as a tablecloth. “What are you crying about, giant?” asked Gillydrop, who had perched himself on the table, where he sat, looking like a green beetle. “I’ve cut my finger,” said the giant in a sulky tone; “you’d cry, too, if you cut your finger. Don’t call me a giant—my name is Mr. Dunderhead. What is your name?” “Gillydrop. I’m a faery.” “I thought you were a beetle,” said Dunderhead crossly. “What do you want here?” “I’ve come to see the giants, Mr. Dunderhead,” replied Gillydrop. “You won’t see any, then,” said Dunderhead, making a face. “They’re all dead except me. I’m the last of the giants. You see, we ate up every boy and girl that lived near us, and all the sheep, and all the cattle, until there was nothing left to eat; and as none of us could cross the Sea of Darkness, every one died except me, and I won’t live long—this loaf is all I’ve got to eat.” “Perhaps if I do a kindly deed to Dunderhead by getting him a meal, I’ll be able to go back to Faeryland,” thought Gillydrop, as he listened to the giant’s story. “Well, what are you thinking about?” growled Dunderhead, cutting himself another slice of bread. “I was thinking how I could get you some food,” replied Gillydrop. “What! you?” roared the giant; “a little thing like you get me food! Ha, ha, ha!” and he thumped the table with his great fist. Now, as he did this, everything on the table jumped up with the shock, and so did Gillydrop, who had no time to spread his wings and prevent himself falling; so when he fell he came down splash into the pool of blood. He gave a cry of terror when he fell in, and after crawling out with some difficulty, he found his beautiful green clothes were all red, just as if he had been dipped in red ink. The rude giant laughed heartily at the poor elf’s plight, but to Gillydrop it was no laughing matter, for there is nothing the faeries dislike so much as the colour red. “Oh dear, dear, dear!” sighed Gillydrop, while the tears ran down his face; “now I’ll never go back to Faeryland.” [Illustration: THE RUDE GIANT LAUGHED HEARTILY AT THE POOR ELF’S PLIGHT] “Why not?” asked Dunderhead, who was still eating. “Because my clothes are red,” replied the elf ruefully; “no one who wears red clothes is allowed to live in Faeryland. Cannot I clean my clothes?” “No,” answered the giant, taking a bit out of the loaf. “You are dyed red with my blood, and the only way to get your clothes green again is to wash them in my tears.” “Oh, let me do it at once!” cried Gillydrop, jumping up and down with delight. “Do cry, Mr. Giant, please do.”