softly
upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the
other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be
blistered. However, on turning it over the eleventh time--and twelve
would have settled the business--he found he had delayed a little bit of
time too long in turning it over, and that there was a small, tiny
blister on the soft outer skin. Well, Finn was in a mighty panic,
remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose
heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down.
Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot,
so Finn's thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it,
in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment--hubbuboo!--became imbued
with all the wisdom of the world.'

_Myself_. Stop, Murtagh! stop!

_Murtagh_. All the witchcraft, Shorsha.

_Myself_. How wonderful!

_Murtagh_. Was it not, Shorsha? The salmon, do you see, was a fairy
salmon.

_Myself_. What a strange coincidence.

_Murtagh_. A what, Shorsha!

_Myself_. Why that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul,
which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane.

'What thief was that, Shorsha?'

'Thief! 'Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir. Sigurd was the hero
of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great Hero of Ireland. He,
too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in
a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards
found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom
from a burn. According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling
of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his
mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of
the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and what not. I have
heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old,
but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now.
It is true, when I knew you of old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd,
and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as
soon as you told me again about Finn's burning his finger, the
coincidence struck me. I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the
Danes--.'

'Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody
bating and plundering, which they never paid them back. Och, Shorsha!
you, e