“That's true,” said Grig, “and if Njuclas Croanj gave me that I wouldn't be lying here.”
Morrocha asked if they had any food in the house, and Njuclas Croanj said they had,—that Theegerje was just after coming from the mill, and that he had three pecks of oatmeal. And Morrocha bade them give him a peck of meal, and she gave him that. And he asked if there was any butter in the house, and she said there was. “Bring me down a crock of fresh butter,” said he. And she brought that to him, and Morrocha mixed the meal and the butter up together, and he asked for a spoon, and he thrust the spoon into the dish.
“Do you see that?” said he.
“I see,” said Grig.
“You won't get it,” said Morrocha, “till you tell me what was the horde of people from whom you came.”
“I will tell you that,” said Grig. “I am Grig, son of Stubborn, son of Very-evil, Shanrach, son of Canrain, son of the Soldier, who made people loathe him greatly.”
“The death-bands on you,” said Morrocha. “Weren't they ugly names they had?”
“The death-bands on you,” said Grig. “Isn't it you that are ugly? They were prosperous, blessed.”
“I give in that they were,” said Morrocha.
