, two
at a time, one up each nose, and his head nearly fell off the way he
sneezed.

"You are doing that on purpose," said a savage whisper from the foot of
the tree.

But Fionn was not doing it on purpose. He tucked himself into a fork the
way he had been taught, and he passed the crawliest, tickliest night he
had ever known. After a while he did not want to sneeze, he wanted to
scream: and in particular he wanted to come down from the tree. But he
did not scream, nor did he leave the tree. His word was passed, and he
stayed in his tree as silent as a mouse and as watchful, until he fell
out of it.

In the morning a band of travelling poets were passing, and the
women handed Fionn over to them. This time they could not prevent him
overhearing.

"The sons of Morna!" they said.

And Fionn's heart might have swelled with rage, but that it was already
swollen with adventure. And also the expected was happening. Behind
every hour of their day and every moment of their lives lay the sons of
Morna. Fionn had run after them as deer: he jumped after them as hares:
he dived after them as fish. They lived in the house with him: they
sat at the table and ate his meat. One dreamed of them, and they were
expected in the morning as the sun is. They knew only too well that the
son of Uail was living, and they knew that their own sons would know
no ease while that son lived; for they believed in those days that like
breeds like, and that the son of Uail would be Uail with additions.

His guardians knew that their hiding-place must at last be discovered,
and that, when it was found, the sons of Morna would come. They had
no doubt of that, and every action of their lives was based on that
certainty. For no secret can remain secret. Some broken soldier tramping
home to his people will find it out; a herd seeking his strayed cattle
or a band of travelling musicians will get the wind of it. How many
people will move through even the remotest wood in a year! The crows
will tell a secret if no one else does; and under a bush, behind a clump
of bracken, what eyes may there not be! But if your secret is legged
like a young goat! If it is tongued like a wolf! One can hide a baby,
but you cannot hide a boy. He will rove unless you tie him to a post,
and he will whistle then.

The sons of Morna came, but there were only two grim women living in a
lonely hut to greet them. We may be sure they were well greeted. One can
imagine Goll's merr