"for every evening, Cridenbel, the blind man,
makes a demand for the three best bits of my share of food, and takes
them from me." "I will give you an advice," said Angus. He put his hand
in his bag then, and took out three pieces of gold and gave them to him.

"Put these pieces of gold into the three bits you will give this evening
to Cridenbel," he said, "and they will be the best bits in the dish, and
the gold will turn within him the way he will die."

So in the evening the Dagda did that; and no sooner had Cridenbel
swallowed down the gold than he died. Some of the people said then to
the king: "The Dagda has killed Cridenbel, giving him some deadly herb."
The king believed that, and there was anger on him against the Dagda,
and he gave orders he should be put to death. But the Dagda said: "You
are not giving the right judgment of a prince." And he told all that had
happened, and how Cridenbel used to say, "Give me the three best bits
before you, for my own share is not good to-night." "And on this
night," he said, "the three pieces of gold were the best things before
me, and I gave them to him, and he died."

The king gave orders then to have the body cut open. And they found the
gold inside it, and they knew it was the truth the Dagda had told.

And Angus came to him again the next day, and he said: "Your work will
soon be done, and when you are given your wages, take nothing they may
offer you till the cattle of Ireland are brought before you, and choose
out a heifer then, black and black-maned, that I will tell you the signs
of."

So when the Dagda had brought his work to an end, and they asked him
what reward he wanted, he did as Angus had bidden him. And that seemed
folly to Bres; he thought the Dagda would have asked more than a heifer
of him.

There came a day at last when a poet came to look for hospitality at the
king's house, Corpre, son of Etain, poet of the Tuatha de Danaan. And it
is how he was treated, he was put in a little dark narrow house where
there was no fire, or furniture, or bed; and for a feast three small
cakes, and they dry, were brought to him on a little dish. When he rose
up on the morrow he was no way thankful, and as he was going across the
green, it is what he said: "Without food ready on a dish; without milk
enough for a calf to grow on; without shelter; without light in the
darkness of night; without enough to pay a story-teller; may that be the
prosperity of Bres."

And f