CHAPTER IX
One day Mongan and Duv Laca were playing chess in their palace. Mongan had just made a move of skill, and he looked up from the board to see if Duv Laca seemed as discontented as she had a right to be. He saw then over Duv Laca's shoulder a little black-faced, tufty-headed cleric leaning against the door-post inside the room.
"What are you doing there?" said Mongan.
"What are you doing there yourself?" said the little black-faced cleric.
"Indeed, I have a right to be in my own house," said Mongan.
"Indeed I do not agree with you," said the cleric.
"Where ought I to be, then?" said Mongan.
"You ought to be at Dun Fiathac avenging the murder of your father," replied the cleric, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not having done it long ago. You can play chess with your wife when you have won the right to leisure."
"But how can I kill my wife's father?" Mongan exclaimed.
"By starting about it at once," said the cleric.
"Here is a way of talking!" said Mongan.
"I know," the cleric continued," that Duv Laca will
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