When Fergus heard of Conor he exclaimed, “My hand I will not lift against the chiefs of Ulster, who are all my friends; but against Conor will I lift my hand, the wily, bad, supplanting king who stands where I should stand. By all my gods I swear, had I but my own sword, the mighty ‘Hard One’ whose blade is like a beam, or like a rainbow stretched across the sky, I now would ply it upon Conor’s shield. Fetch me my sword!” Then Ailill commanded that the sword of Fergus, called the Calad-cholg, or the ‘Hard-sword,’ brought by Mac Leda out of fairy-land, should be given to him, for he had hidden it, until the time should come. So Fergus’ sword was brought, and Ailill put it into Fergus’ hand; and with a shout of welcome, Fergus grasped his sword, huge-handled, double-bladed, terrible; so that no hand but Fergus’ hand could hold it in its grasp. “Welcome, Calad-cholg; welcome, O Leda’s sword! Woe to the fosterling of war who feels thy edge to-day! On whom now shall we try thy might?”

“Upon the host that rings us round, O Fergus,” said the Queen; “none shall turn back in peace before thy sword, none may it spare, save only some dear friend of other days.”

Then into the battle-field, standing erect within her chariot, with all her champions round her as she rode, went queenly Meave, her golden circlet on her head, her weapons in her hand. On either side, holding aloft their swords, rode Ailill and Fergus, each with his own bodyguard. Terrific was their onset and before their chosen men, rushing like winds of March into the fray, Ulster gave way and fled. Three times they led their men into the very centre of the host, scattering it right and left, till Conor cried: “Who is this foe, who, three times to the North has scattered all mine host?” “Fergus it is and Meave,” they all reply; “furiously they cut their way across the clans, who fly before them as they come.” Now by the rules of Ulster’s warfare, the king might never expose his person in battle, but only, from some post of vantage, watch the onset of his men. But now King Conor said, “Hold you this hill, I will myself go down and rally to their duty the flying hosts of Ulster.” And when they found the king determined to go down, with one mouth his bodyguard replied, “Unless the earth should burst beneath our feet, or the blue sky fall on us from above, we steadfastly will hold this post for you, O King.”

Then round the king a body of his bravest warriors locked their shields, and made a rampart; thus the king went down into the battle with his followers around him, he himself holding his mighty horned shield, the Ochain, in the midst. For they knew that if the king should fall, the men of Ulster would, as one man, take to flight.

Fergus was seeking everywhere throughout the host for the king of Ulster, and when he saw the linked shields of Ulster’s greatest champions he knew that the king was in their midst. He made a mighty onslaught on the rampart of shields, and broke through it, scattering the chiefs to right and left. Then he approached the king, and with his ‘Hard-Sword’ smote three mighty blows on Conor’s shield. And the shield screamed aloud and roared, as was its wont when Conor was in peril or distress; and when the warriors of his host heard the screaming of the shield, all their weapons echoed in reply, and the shields that hung on the walls of Emain Macha fell down flat upon the ground. Far off, where he lay, Cuchulain heard the sound. “Surely,” he cried, “I hear the shield of Conor roar; some deadly peril must beset the king, and I lie here alive and help him not! Set free my bonds, or, on my word, I will break loose from them!” Then with a mighty effort, putting forth all his strength, Cuchulain wrenched his bonds, breaking and scattering them; and when he saw that nothing would avail to hinder him, Laeg cut the cords, and with one cry, the hero sprang upon his feet. “My weapons and my war-chariot,” he cried, and Laeg brought out his chariot, sorely broken as it was after the fight with Ferdia at the ford. In it he fixed the iron spikes and points and nails that strengthened it in time of war, and made men fear to approach too near; into its wheels, on either side, the sweeping scythes were fastened that mowed the enemy like grass as it swept through the host. The Grey of Macha and the Black Steed of the Glen neighed loudly, and came whinnying to Laeg’s call, and slowly Cuchulain’s old strength returned to him again. He sprang into the seat, and with a noise like thunder dashed onward to the place whence came the tumult of King Conor’s shield. Standing erect, it was as though a light streamed from his hair, rising up toward the heavens; while on either hand the sods flew from the chariot-wheels, making the air dark about him as he came. His own corps perceived him coming through the host, and loud their shout of welcome rose, and all the men of Ulster sent forth a cry of exultation and of joy. Even the enemy held his hand awhile, and Fergus himself fell back before the king.

“Away with you, my Master Fergus,” Cuchulain cried, “turn about, and begone; dare not to strike King Conor’s shield.” But Fergus answered not, until a third time Cuchulain cried. And then he said, “Who is this, of Ulster’s host, who dares to address me in strong warrior words?”

“’Tis even I, thy foster-son, Cuchulain, son of Sualtach, loved of the great god Lugh! Dost thou not remember, Fergus, how thou didst promise that what time I should be wounded in the fight thou wouldst turn and make as though to flee before me, so that the host of Erin should follow after thee? The time is come, turn now and flee, or else stand fast and try thy strength with mine.”

“I promised that, indeed,” said he, “and truly I will now fulfil my words. Not fit or strong enough art thou at this time to contend with me. Stand back awhile, and I will make as though I fled before thy onset.”

Then Fergus turned, and fell back three full warrior-paces before Cuchulain, as if he fled before him, trailing his mighty sword behind him on the ground. And when the host of Meave saw Fergus turn, they thought that all was lost, and with one consent they turned about and fled.

Breaking their ranks, in wild disorder they streamed westward o’er the plain, each man making for his home. On every side they cast away their arms, so that the ground was strewn with shields and spears, and vainly Meave and Ailill called on them to turn. Seeing the rout, the men of Ulster followed hard, pressing upon their rear, and cutting off a multitude of men. From noon till twilight’s fall they fled, nor halted till they reached the Shannon’s ford, to pass across it and regain their homes. And, haughtily and undauntedly, Cuchulain pursued the host, making a red rout of the flying men, so that the way was strewn with dying and with dead.

Close at his side, urging on his withered steeds, rode aged Iliach, Ulster’s valiant chief. Old and beyond the fighting-age was he, yet, when the muster of the corps was made, he would not stay behind. “Bring me my chariot and my steeds,” said he. Now many years had passed since last the old man went into the field. Rusted and broken was his chariot, his weapons bent and worn; as to his ancient chariot-steeds, they were but lean and wasted beasts, long since turned out to grass. No cushions had the chariot, nor any seat at all; just as it was the steeds were harnessed to the metal frame, and in his hand he took his blunt and rusty spears. All round him on the chariot-floor were piled up flags and rocks and stones; with these, when his old worn-out weapons broke in twain, he plied and mightily discomfited the enemy.

Yet, as he stood erect, his white hair streaming on the wind, so strange and formidable was his look, so flashing was his eye, that all the men of Erin shrank before him as he passed. At length his vigour ebbed, his strength gave out, the handle of his sword dropped useless from his hand. He called upon his charioteer. “My work is done,” he said, “take thou my head from me upon my chariot’s rim; I would not fall into the enemy’s hand. My honour and the honour of my country is avenged. I die content.” Then with his own old sword, upon the side-edge of the chariot his charioteer hewed off his head. Cuchulain turned and saw what had been done. “Bear thou the head to Emain,” said he, “and let his body be buried with all honour near his home. Iliach died as a hero should. So die all Ulster’s heroes, avenging Ulster’s honour on her foes.”

CHAPTER XIX

The Humbling of Queen Meave

Towards the fall of day, Cuchulain reached the ford of the Shannon at the place that is now called Athlone. He saw the army of Meave flying, broken and disbanded, across the river, and weariness and dislike of the rout overtook him, so that he turned aside into a wood close by to rest awhile, for of his chariot there remained but a few bent ribs, and the wheels were loosened from the pole. “I will watch the flying host,” he thought, “until the Ulstermen come up, and together we will smite them and cut off their rear.” As he pushed his way into the wood, he saw before him, in the dimness of the fading light, Queen Meave herself, fallen, forsaken and exhausted, on the ground. So close was she that he could have smitten her from behind, and taken off her head, had he so willed. But it was not the wont of Cuchulain to smite from behind, or ever to hurt a woman. But he stood over her, and sternly spoke.

“What dost thou here, O Meave, O captain of the host of Erin? Behold thy army flies, broken and discomfited, across the stream, seeking its native province, and the army of the men of Ulster presses hard upon their rear. No leader have they to guide their flying bands; why liest thou here alone?”

Then the haughty queen replied sadly, and with all her spirit gone: “Queen as I am, and captain of mine host, yet have I but a woman’s strength; my forces are exhausted, and my power is gone; fain must I lie and rest. Help me, O generous foe, I claim a boon from thee!”

“What boon is this that thou dost crave of me, O Meave, mine enemy?”

“I ask of thee to take myself and all my host under the strong protection of thy arm; keep thou the ford for them; ward off the men of Ulster who press on us from behind; let Connaught’s bands return in peace and safety to their homes. Guard me besides till to my help Ailill and Fergus come, and safe to Cruachan escort me back again. Full many and many a time have I, in folly, bragged about my strength and all the power of my enormous host; now all is come to nought, and I am spent and ill. To thee, my foe, I turn; protect me now.”

“Never shall it be said,” Cuchulain replied, “that I was heedless of a woman’s appeal. Lie there in peace. I will protect the host.”

So while the twilight deepened into night, Cuchulain stood up, dauntless and alone, between the men of Erin and their foes. Safely they crossed the stream, while his own followers Cuchulain held at bay, hindering and staying them from cutting off the rear. Chafing and vexed they stood, yet at Cuchulain’s command they restrained themselves, nor was one man of Erin’s host cut off till all in safety reached the further side.

Late in the evening came Fergus up, looking for Meave to conduct her back to Cruachan. Strange was the sight he saw. In peace and quiet, Meave was taking rest beneath the forest trees; her troops all passed across the ford, save for late stragglers who came safely through the Ulster troops, no one destroying them. There on the brink Cuchulain stood, leaning upon his sword the ‘Little Hard,’ his face lined deep with toil and thought. He seemed to guard the enemy’s troops from his own men. Amazed, and uttering not a sound, Fergus stood still awhile to watch. Then in a mighty laugh that reached the firmament he burst forth: “Verily and indeed,” he cried, “strange is the ending of this day. A woman’s lead we followed in this war, fighting against the bands of our own kith and kin, to gratify a woman’s jealousy. To-day our host is cleared and swept away; it flies without a path, without a lead, caring for nought but safely to reach home. Our queen lies at her ease, and our worst enemy is he who guards and shields our troops. Surely and in truth, ’tis wise and champion-like to follow where a woman leads the way.”

Cuchulain heard that scornful laugh, and looking up, saw Fergus standing contemplating him and them.

“High time thou camest, my foster-father Fergus, to guard and help thy queen. I leave her now to thee; my task is done. Yet that it never may be said that cowardice or weakness made Cuchulain spare the flying troops of Ulster’s foes, one blow I strike in Ulster’s honour here.” Then turning quickly, his ‘Little Hard’ he swung aloft, and on the summit of a hillock near at hand he brought it down, shearing its top clean off. “Between Connaught and Ulster let that hill stand evermore, a witness to our strength and to our gentleness!”

Then once again into his ruined chariot he sprang, and fast as his two steeds would bear him on, he hurried back to Ulster and the king, returning glad and full of victory among his troops to Emain and to Emer once again. And from that time Connaught withheld its hand, nor did Meave venture ever again to dispute or war with Ulster.

Now the Brown Bull had passed over the Shannon westward, accompanied by his fifty heifers. With head in air and bellowing loudly he surveyed the great trackless land that lay before him. The Whitehorned heard his bellowing and came to meet him, and when they saw each other, straightway with terrific force they rushed together.

A paroxysm of exceeding fury came upon them, and up and down they moved, their nostrils distended and with lowered horns, pushing and driving and goring, until the ground was red with blood and the sods torn up and flung on high. Had any ventured near them, he would without doubt have been crushed to death beneath their hoofs; and when night came, no one in all the country dared to sleep, for terror at the bellowing and noise they made. But at length the Whitehorned gave way before the Brown Bull, and by him was chased and gored until no spark of life was left in him, and portions of his flesh were caught upon the Brown Bull’s horns. Then, as he was, all red with blood and fearful to behold, the Brown Bull took his path back to his native home, scattering the people right and left before him, or trampling them into the earth beneath his hoofs. And, at the last, exhausted with his flight, the spirit fled from him, and with a mighty roar and fearful bellowings, the great Brown Bull of Cooley’s raid fell dead.

CHAPTER XX

The Fairy Swan-Maidens

Once a year, in the autumn days, a great gathering was made of the men of Ulster, and from all parts men and women would come to share in the sports and marketing, and to meet their friends, and make merry. The place was joyous and full of gaiety with musicians making music on harps and fiddles, and singers singing, and jugglers plying their feats, and horse-racing in open spaces. The warriors, too, were to be seen exhibiting their trophies of war, and telling tales of their combats and victories, and all were dressed in their best, and feasting and eating was to be found in every part of the assembly.

One day during an autumn feast, in the calm and quiet evening, Cuchulain and Emer his wife and a band of the brave men of Ulster who accompanied Cuchulain, and of the gently bred women who were Emer’s companions, were amusing themselves strolling and sitting beside a lake, apart from the people who were making merry, when they saw coming from a distance a flock of white, very beautiful swans, which settled down upon the lake, and began to swim out two and two. “How I wish,” Emer said, “that I could have two of those birds, one on each of my shoulders.” “All of us are longing for those birds,” cried her companions, and one woman said, “If only my husband were here”; and another woman said, “If only my husband were here, he would fetch me the birds.”

And Emer looked at Cuchulain, and said, “I think if anyone should have the birds, it is I who ought to have them first.”

But Cuchulain seemed to take no notice of what they were saying. And Emer was afraid to ask him, so she went to Laeg, his charioteer, and said, “Come thou and tell Cuchulain that the women are asking for the birds.” So Laeg spoke to Cuchulain: “The women wish that you should go and hunt the swans for them to-day.”

But Cuchulain looked angry. “Can the women of Ulster find no better occupation for me,” he said, “than to set me catching birds for their amusement? Let them set their own husbands to this business, for it is not a fitting sport for me.” “This is their fête-day,” said the charioteer, “and they would like a gift from you.”

“Bring me my chariot, then,” Cuchulain said; “a fine heroic deed it is to be taking birds for women, and worthy of a champion’s valour.”

Angrily he went to the water’s edge, and pursued the swans in his chariot, bringing down a number of them with his sword and with stones, so that they fell, flapping their wings against the water. And he picked them up, and threw them down before the women, and returned to Emer, but to her he gave not any birds at all.

“Are you angry?” he said to her. “Certainly I am not,” said she; “you gave the birds to the women, and this was the same as though I myself had given them; right glad I am that you did this to please the women.” Then Cuchulain’s brow cleared, and he said, “Whenever birds come again on our plain, the two most beautiful of all I will bring down for you.”

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, than slowly sailing out of the far distance and bearing down towards them, they saw two noble swans, larger and more splendid than any of those that had been on the lake before. The birds were chanting a gentle, mystic song, that soothed all who listened to it to sleep; and they were linked together with a golden chain. White and soft was their plumage, and they seemed to have human reason, for they moved together, with one mind, towards Cuchulain and his wife.

“There are your birds, O Emer,” said Cuchulain, and he rose up to pursue them and fetch them down for her. But Emer was afraid. “Go not against those birds,” she said, “you shall get birds for me another day; there is some magic power in those birds, and you may come to harm.”

“I am not afraid of birds,” Cuchulain said, and laughed; “place a stone in my sling, O Laeg.”

So he took the sling and made a very careful aim, but for the first time in his life he missed his aim, and the stone went past the birds. “On my word,” said Cuchulain, “this is a strange thing; from the day on which I first assumed arms till now, never have I missed a mark. Give me another stone.”

Then he aimed again, more carefully than before, but again the stone went past them, and they sailed along unheeding. Then Cuchulain was angry, and he seized his spear, and flung it at the birds. And the aim was so good that it seemed as though the spear went through the swans, but for all that they flew away unhurt, save that the wing of one of them was broken. But when Cuchulain saw that the swans were taking flight, he flung off his mantle and ran after them, Laeg following hard behind. The swans flew slowly round the bend of the lake, and disappeared beneath the water; and when Cuchulain came after them round the point of land, he saw them no more, and though he gazed far out upon the water, and up to the passing clouds of heaven, he could not tell whither the birds were gone.

He looked about him, but he did not recognise the place in which he was, although he was on the Plain of Murthemne, in his own country.

“Where are the birds gone, and where are we, O Laeg?” said Cuchulain, for he was sore perplexed. And a strange weariness overtook him, and he leaned his back against a pillar stone that was hard by, and drowsiness fell upon him. But Laeg seemed to be asleep, for he gave no answer.

Then in a vision Cuchulain saw two graceful women approach him, clad in fairy mantles of green and purple, and they had little switches of osier in their hands, and they began to strike him gently with the rods, first one and then the other, as though they played a game with him, and it seemed to Cuchulain that all his strength departed from him while they touched him with their rods.

Then he said, but his voice sounded to himself but far away and strange, “Who are ye, fair ladies, and what do ye want with me?” “We are come,” said the first, “out of Moy Mell, the Land of all Delight, the radiant Honey-Plain beyond the waves, to seek thy friendship. Liban am I, wife of Labra the Swift, the Wielder of the Sword, the monarch of that land. I come to bid thee welcome, if thou wilt succour him against his foes; for Senach the Spectral has challenged him to battle, and alone he is not strong enough to meet him and his gruesome phantom host. Come therefore to his help. Never until this day has monarch out of Fairy-land called for the help of any mortal man, but on the Plain of all Delights thy fame and thy renown are known; Cuchulain of the hundred feats is known.”

“We come,” said the second lady, “upon another quest. With Labra, called the Swift, the Wielder of the Sword, dwells beauteous Fand, betrothed to old Manannan of the Waves. Above the splendour of all women of this earthly world shines out the noble loveliness of Fand, Manannan’s chosen wife. Like the pure crystal clearness of a tear is the fairness of her face, and for that reason is she named Fand, that is, ‘a tear.’ Now tales of thy renown have come to Fand, the praise of young Cuchulain, Champion of Murthemne’s plain, and sore she longeth with her own eyes to look on thee, and see thy warlike, comely form. Therefore we come, that if thou wilt, we may conduct thee to the Honey-plain, the Land of all Delights. We are the swans that swam upon the lake, and see, with thy rough spear, how thou hast torn and hurt my hand.”

“I am in no fit state to-day to contend with men or demon hosts,” Cuchulain said; “let Laeg go with you, and let him come again and tell me of your land. I am not strong or well to-day, and over and above all this, never would I, with any man or host do battle on the asking of a woman.”

“Come thou, then, Laeg,” she said; “I will take care of thee, and bring thee safely back. But it is woe and alas that thy master will not come.”

“Indeed,” said Laeg, “never in all my life until to-day have I been put under a woman’s guard. This kind of woman’s rule, I vow, pleaseth me not at all.”

“Nevertheless, O master Laeg,” she said, “it is only under my guidance that thou canst reach Moy Mell. Haste then, and come, for Labra waits for us.” Still Laeg protested, and would not have gone, but that Cuchulain urged him; and at the last forward they went, Laeg and the women, walking together a long while, till they perceived an island in the lake, and on the near side lay a skiff of bronze, burnished and very light, waiting, it seemed, to carry them across. It had no oar or sail or men to guide or ferry it along, but as they touched it with their feet, swiftly it moved outward from the bank, and with straight aim across the lake it bore them to the door of the palace that was in the island.

About the palace-gate they beheld a troop of warriors, coming out to meet them. “Where is Labra the Swift-handed?” demanded Liban. “He returns from gathering his troops and armies for the conflict on the morrow,” they replied; and even as they spoke, the rattle of a chariot was heard approaching. “He comes, make way,” they cried; “Labra Swift-handed, Wielder of the Sword, returns from the battle-field.”

Then drew near a dark, stern warrior, whose horses out-stripped the March wind in their swiftness. In his right hand he held his upright long-shafted spear, and at his side hung a terrible two-handled sword, double-bladed, strong. Rugged and full of care was that warrior’s face, and gloom sat on his brow. And Liban said, “The spirit of Labra is depressed to-day; I will go out and greet him.” She went forward to bid him welcome, and when he saw her, his face cleared, and he exclaimed, “Has the Hound of Ulster come?” “The Hound of Ulster cometh not to-day,” she said, “but Laeg is here, and surely he himself will come to-morrow. Fear nothing, Labra, Wielder of the massive sword, King of the Honey-plain, the hosts shall be hewn down before thee, and women shall weep their dead, when once Cuchulain comes.”

Then Labra called Laeg and said, “Welcome, O Laeg; for the sake of him from whom thou comest, for the sake of the lady with whom thou comest, thrice welcome to this land. But now return to thine own home, O Laeg, and set my message before thy master, before the Victorious Hound, and bid him come and help me, for the Plain of Honey is changed to a plain of slaughter and red war, and hosts are gathering to destroy us; seest thou yonder how they come?”

Then Laeg looked, and far off on the plain he saw armies coming up like hosts of demon men, obscure and silently; in bands and troops they ranged themselves across the plain. Afar and farther yet he saw them crowding on, while over them their dusky pennons flew, and their great spears pointed aloft. Yet though so great a host was assembling, never a sound was heard; but like an army of the dead they moved, noiseless and swift; only upon the air there came a sound, low and soft and still, like wailing of the wind in forest trees, and then Laeg knew that they were playing the Dord Fiansa upon the points of their great spears.

“To-morrow will the battle be joined,” said Labra, “and though our warriors are good, we cannot stand before this host. Pray therefore thy most valiant lord without loss of time to come and succour us.”

And Laeg said, “Surely he will come,” and with that he set out to return again.

Now when Laeg left his master at the pillar-stone, Cuchulain lay for a long while in a trance; and there Fergus and the men of Ulster found him, and they were perplexed to guess what had happened to him or whither Laeg had gone. At length Cuchulain sat partly up, but all his strength was gone from him. And he said, “Carry me to the Speckled House of the Red Branch Champions of Ulster, and lay me there among the weapons.” For the Champions of Ulster were called ‘Champions of the Red Branch,’ and they had three halls set apart for them in the palace of the King at Emain Macha. In the speckled house they hung their weapons and stored their trophies; it was called the Speckled House because of the bright spots of light made by the flickering of the sun as it danced on the weapons round the wall.

So they carried Cuchulain to the Speckled House and laid him there upon a bed with his own weapons hung above his head; and Fergus and Conall the Victorious, and the other warriors who were his friends took turns to watch him as he lay. For a whole year he lay thus in trance and no word did he speak all that time. For a year with mortal men is but a day in fairy-land.

At the end of the year Laeg returned, and he found his master thus asleep and speechless, but he knew not that he had been away more than a single day. Greatly was Laeg disturbed at the condition of his master, for he knew that Labra awaited his coming on the morrow. Then, as he pondered how he should awaken him, there came amongst them, silently and unannounced, a noble youth of princely mien, who stood at the foot of the bed and looked down on Cuchulain as he lay. They knew not how he had come in, for the doors were shut, and no man had seen him enter. Fergus and Conall the Victorious sprang to their feet and laid their hands on their swords to protect Cuchulain. But the stranger said, “I am Angus, god of youth, come out of fairy-land to heal Cuchulain; if the man who lies there sick were but in health, he would be a protection to me against all Ulster. Although he now lies ill, he still is my protector, and so much the more than if he were in health, for sure am I that none would hurt me, while he is unfit to take my part.”

“None here will hurt or injure you,” said all; “welcome art thou for the sake of him for whom thou hast come.”

Then the stranger stood up and sang to Cuchulain a mystic strain, which none of those who stood by could understand; but in truth, he was calling Cuchulain to Fairy-land, the Plain of all Delight, for Fand it was who sent him to invite Cuchulain thither. And as he sang, lo! Cuchulain sat upright in his bed, and his vision went from him, and he felt his natural strength returning to him again. But when they looked, Angus was gone, and they knew not whither or how he went.

But Fergus and Conall greeted Cuchulain lovingly and said, “Tell us now what happened unto thee.” And Cuchulain told them all that had come to him, and of the fairy women with their wands of osier who had met him, and how his strength departed when they touched him with the wands.

Then Cuchulain called Laeg, and said, “Go to Emer of the beautiful hair, who is sorrowing for me in my own home, in Dun Dalgan, and say to her that the fairy women have taken my strength from me, and that I am not able to come to her; but tell her that it goeth better with me from hour to hour, and that I would have her come to me to comfort me.”

And Laeg took that message to Emer, and he found her weeping in Dun Dalgan. And she said, “It is strange to me, O Laeg, that though for a whole year your master has been lying ill, not one of you has sought to heal or succour him. Well known is it that you possess the power to go away to fairy-land, where all herbs of healing are to be found, yet never have you sought a fairy herb to cure your master. Surely some warrior or wise man of Ulster might have done some heroic deed to bring him back from the sore sickness in which he lies! Had Fergus or Conall been sick or wounded, or had they lost their sleep, or had King Conor been bound down in enchanted slumber as now Cuchulain is, short would have been the time till Cuchulain would have done some mighty deed or have sought some magic means of healing them. Certain it is he would have gone into the fairy mounds, or through the solid earth itself; the great wide world he would have searched from end to end, until he found some plant of healing that would have saved and wakened them. But as for me, for a whole year have I not found one night of sweet repose, since he, the Hound of Ulster, lay bound down with magic chains. Sore is my heart and sick; bright music nor the voice of pleasant friendship strikes my ear; blood presses on my heart since Cuchulain lay in fairy toils.”

Then to the Speckled House she went in haste, and stayed not until she entered the hall where Cuchulain lay, weak and prostrate upon his bed.

She seated herself at the side of the bed and touched Cuchulain’s hand, and kissed him, and she called on him to come back from fairy-land. “Awake, awake, O champion of Ulster, shake off this fairy sickness; not fit is it that a chariot-warrior should lie upon his bed. Lo! Ulster calls upon her Hound of Battle. Lo! friends and comrades call. Lo! I, thy wife, am at thy side. Awake! awake! O Hound!”

At that, Cuchulain stood up and opened wide his eyes, and he saw Emer of the beautiful hair seated at his side. Then he passed his hand across his face, and his heaviness and weariness passed away from him, and he arose and embraced his friends and his own and only wife; and he felt his strength returning to him, and his old vigour coming to him again.

And he said to Emer, “For one day, O wife, spare me yet; for there is a deed of battle-valour that I must perform to-day, and after that I will come home to you. Go before me to Dun Dalgan, and prepare a feast and call my comrades and my friends together. I will but go and come again.” Then Emer set out for Dun Dalgan to prepare the feast, but for a whole year she waited for Cuchulain, watching day by day, and yet he came not.

CHAPTER XXI

How Cuchulain went to Fairy-Land

When Cuchulain left Emer, he went forward to the fairy-rath where he had seen Liban, and he found her waiting for him to take him to Labra’s Isle.

It seemed to him that the way they took was long, for they passed over the Plain of Speech, and beyond the Tree of Triumphs, and over the festal plain of Emain, and the festal plain of Fidga, until they came to the place where the bronze skiff awaited them, to take them to the Isle of all Delights. A noble and right hospitable welcome was prepared for Cuchulain in that Isle, but he would not rest for that, but bade Labra conduct him without delay to the Plain of Combat. So Labra bade him mount his chariot and together they passed on to the Plain of Combat, where the armies of the phantom hosts were assembled for the fight upon the morrow. On one side were the hosts of Labra, very few, but picked and chosen men in splendid garb, with arms of the best in their hands; but on the side of Senach the Spectral, as far as eye could reach on every side, rose lines of black and gloomy tents, with black pennons flying from their poles. Gaunt heroes clothed in black moved about amongst the tents, and all the horses that they rode were red as blood with fiery manes. And over the whole there hung a mist, heavy and lowering, so that Cuchulain could not see how far the host extended for the gloom of that heavy mist.

And sounds rose on the air, like the muttering of a demon host, quarrelling and wrangling, so that a man might well shiver before such a sound. But when he saw the demon host, the spirit of Cuchulain revived within him, and he felt his old force and courage and his strength returning to him, and all his weakness passed away.

And he said to Labra, “I would fain drive round the host and number them.” In ever-widening circles he began to drive round the tents. But, as he drove, on every side they sprang up before him innumerable as the blades of grass on a meadow-field, or as the stars on a brilliant summer’s night, or like the grains of sand upon the ocean’s shore. Black and gloomy they stood on every hand, and grim and gaunt the warriors who moved about amongst them, and terrible their blood-red steeds. It seemed to Cuchulain that the smell of blood was already in the air, and all the plain was dark and dim with mist, so that he could not count or number them, or see the end of them at all.

But the spirit of Cuchulain faltered not, and he returned to Labra, and said to him, “Leave me now alone with this great army and take away with you the champions you have brought. This battle I will fight alone.”

So Labra and his men departed and Cuchulain remained alone facing the phantom host. Then two ravens, the birds of knowledge and destiny, with whom are the secrets of the druids, came between Cuchulain and the host, and all that night they made a dismal croaking, so that the demon men grew sore afraid.

“One would think,” they said, “that the Madman of Emain Macha were close at hand, from the croaking of those ravens;” for it was thus they spoke among themselves of Cuchulain, because he changed his aspect in time of combat, and a wild and strange appearance came upon him. And they chased away the ravens, and left no place of rest for them in all that land.

All that night Cuchulain stood with his hand upon his spear, watching the demon host. Very early in the morning, he saw one of their chief leaders going forth out of his tent, to bathe his hands at the spring; and his tunic fell back and left his shoulder bare. At once, with a cast of his spear, Cuchulain transfixed him through his shoulder to the earth.

When the demon host saw their captain fall, they arose, and in swarms and close battalions they came down upon Cuchulain. Then his war-fury came upon him, and wildly and terribly he attacked them, scattering them to right and left; and so furious was he and so deadly were his blows, that they feared to come nigh him. It filled them with awe to see one single man fighting with a host; but as the shining of the sun drives the mist before it on a dewy morn of early spring, so did the radiance of the face of Cuchulain disperse and drive away the army of the demons, for they could not stand before the splendour and the shining of his countenance. Then Senach the Spectral attacked him, and furious was the contest fought between them, but in the end Cuchulain prevailed and slew him; and all the host, when they saw that, turned and fled.

At length Cuchulain returned, his sword dripping with blood; and the heat of his body after the fight was such that water had to be thrown over him, before he could be touched; and the men of Labra feared that his wrath would turn against themselves. They brought him into the house and bathed him and changed his raiment, and slowly his own appearance came back upon him; and after that, they led him to Fand, who awaited his return with her fifty maidens round her. Very beautiful was the house in which Fand and Labra awaited Cuchulain. Couches of copper with pillars of fine gold were ranged around the hall, and soft pillows and cushions of coloured silk were piled on each of them; the flashing of the jewels from the golden pillars giving light to all who were in the house. Noble youths in glossy garments of smooth silk offered drink in golden goblets, and as they drank, the harpers and musicians gave forth sweet music, and the story-tellers recited their tales. Laughter and merriment were heard throughout the house, while from the eaves the fairy-birds warbled in harmony with the music of the harps. Fifty youths of stately mien, and fifty maidens with twisted hair bedecked with golden coronals waited on Fand, on Labra and his spouse. Near the house to westward, where the sun went down, stood dappled steeds, pawing the ground and ready for their riders. On the east of the house stood three bright apple-trees, dropping ruddy fruit, and in front of the door a tree that gave forth sweetest harmony, such as would sooth wounded men to sleep, or bring health to women in their sickness. Above the well another tree, with silver leaves that reddened in the sunlight, dropped fragrant food, pleasant to all who tasted it. Ever on the gentle breeze the tops of the tree swayed together, and ever they swung wide; and as they met food fell down sufficient for thrice three hundred men. A vat stood in the hall, full to the top of mead and sparkling ale, and all the porch, above its silver posts, was thatched with wings of birds, in stripes of brown and red.

Now Fand sat on a daïs, waiting for Cuchulain. And when he came before her, clothed as a king, his noble manly form bathed and refreshed, his golden hair gathered above his brow round an apple of bright gold, and all his face aflame with the vigour of the fight, she thought that she had never looked upon a man so brilliant as he.

And he, when he looked on her, knew that never in his life had he seen woman half so fair as Fand. “Art thou he, Cuchulain of Murthemne, the Hound of Ulster?” she asked, and even as she spoke the whole band of youths and maidens rose to their feet, and sang a chant of welcome to Cuchulain.

Then Fand placed Cuchulain at her right hand, and happy and gladsome were they together, and for a while Cuchulain forgot Ulster, and his place at Conor’s hand, and all the cares and troubles of the other life; nay, he forgot Emer his own wife and the feast she was preparing for him, and the days passed quickly and joyously in the company of Liban and Labra and Fand. And it seemed to him as though Erin were but a dark unquiet land beside the clearness of Moy Mell, the Fairy-land of all Delights.

At length one night he could not sleep; not all the warbling of the fairy-birds from the branches of the tree and from the eaves, nor yet the sound of minstrel’s strains could soothe him into slumber. For he remembered Ulster and his duty to his king, and Emer and the feast she was to make for him, and all his warrior deeds which were departing from him, and he felt he must needs forsake the Land of all Delights and go back to his work in Erin once again.

In the morning he called Fand, and told her he must go that day, for he knew not what troubles might be happening to Ulster while he was away, or what was become of Emer, his wife. But Labra and Fand besought him to stay yet awhile, and they called the musicians and bid them chase away the sudden gloom of Cuchulain, and they brought out the playing-games, hurley and chess, and raced the horses to please him, and they harnessed the steeds of the chariots for his delight. But even for all this Cuchulain would not stay. For he said, “My warrior-strength is passing from me as I rest in idleness, my vigour is decaying. Let me then go, for I am not as the little dogs that play about their mistresses’ feet; I am a Hound of war and conflicts to stand before the foe, and do battle for my country and my king.”

And Cuchulain sang this lay:

Then when Fand saw that nothing would content him, she bade him a gentle kind farewell; and all the youths and maidens came about him, sorrowing that he was so soon weary of their land. But Labra thanked him kindly and heartily for his help against the demon host and he bade Liban take Cuchulain safely back across the lake to Erin once again.

But, before he went, Fand lifted up her lovely witching face, and said, “Tell me some place where, at the end of a year from now, I may see your face once more. Never till now have I ventured forth from fairy-land; but, for your sake, for one brief hour I will come to the land of troubled mortal men. Give me a tryst.”

Cuchulain was fain to deny her this, for he thought on Emer, and he dreaded her anger against Fand, if she should be aware of it. But when he saw the crystal-fair, witching face of Fand, and her ruby lips and eyes bright as stars on a summer’s night, he could not say her nay; and he made a tryst with her on the Strand of the Yew-tree’s Head, for a year and a day from then. And after that, they bade one another farewell.

So Cuchulain came home again, and Emer and Laeg and his friends greeted him right lovingly, and he told them that he had been in fairy-land, and of all its splendours and beauty he told them freely, but to Emer he said not anything of Fand.

Now when a year and a day were past, Cuchulain came to the place of tryst at the Strand of the Yew-tree’s Head, and he and Laeg sat beneath the ancient yew-tree playing chess, while waiting for the coming of Fand. It chanced that, as Emer walked that way with her fifty maidens to take the air beside the shore, she beheld approaching a dignified lady, radiant as the clearness of a day in June, who came with a troop of maidens towards Cuchulain. Very swiftly and softly they moved across the plain, as though they hardly touched the sod, and all the land was filled with their brightness.

It appeared to Emer that they had come across the lake, yet no sign of skiff or boat was to be seen, and the unknown queen came where Cuchulain sat, and he rose up and made a glad gentle greeting before her, and she sat down by him, and they talked pleasantly and lovingly together.

When Emer saw this, she was filled with jealousy and anger against the fairy-woman, and to herself she said, “This, then, O Cuchulain, was the cause that kept thee so long in fairy-land, when I made that feast to which thou earnest not.”

And anger and dark revenge filled Emer’s heart, and she turned to her maidens and said, “Bring me here sharp-bladed knives, for I myself will go softly behind them and I will kill the woman who talks with Cuchulain.”

Then they went and fetched thin gleaming knives, and they hid them beneath their mantles, and went stealthily behind the place where Cuchulain sat. Now Cuchulain saw not what was going forward, but Fand knew, for she sat over against Cuchulain, facing the way that Emer came. She said to Cuchulain, “Emer thy wife comes here, with fifty maidens, and there are sharp knives hidden beneath their cloaks.”

But he said, “Fear nothing, lady, I myself will speak to Emer, my own wife, and do thou wait here till my return.”

But Emer came close to Cuchulain and cried, “Why dost thou do me this dishonour, O Cuchulain, to leave me for a fairy maid? The women of Ulster will contemn me if they think that Cuchulain loves another woman better than his wife; and what have I done to displease thee, that thou shouldst need to talk with her? Never have I left thee for any other, and well and truly have I loved thee from the day thou earnest in thy chariot to the fort of Forgall the Wily, my father, till to-day; and for ever shall I love thee, and none other but thee alone.”

Then Cuchulain said, “You wrong me, Emer, and you wrong this fairy-maid. No thought at all of harm have we, nor can any other be to me what thou hast been. Fair and pure is this maiden, and a worthy mate for any monarch in the world. Her race is noble, her mind is firm and gentle and full of lofty thoughts, no harm or evil will be found in her or me. Moreover, she is betrothed to a noble spouse, Manannan of the Ocean Waves.”

“In very truth,” said Emer, bitterly, for her heart was sore within her on account of the greatness of the love she bore Cuchulain, “it is ever so with men! All that is new is fair, and all that is old is of little worth; white is the last they see, and the others are but grey or black. Sweet is the thing they have not, but sour the fruit they hold within their hands! Once in peace and love we dwelled together and no one came between us, and in peace and honour we might dwell together again, O Youth, if but I were as dear to thee as once I was!” And great tears rolled down Emer’s cheeks, and her grief weighed heavily upon her.

“By my word and truly,” cried Cuchulain, “never wast thou more dear to me than thou art to-day, and dear shalt thou be to me for all my life.”

“I think,” said Fand, “that I had better go away, and return to my own country, for I am troubling you all here.” “Nay, nay,” cried Emer, smitten with reproach when she saw the nobleness that was in the fairy woman, “go not away, ’twere better I should go.”

But Fand said, “Not so, indeed, from my own land they call me to return. Take to thee thy man, O noble Emer, no harm or hurt hath happened him with me. Though in the Land of all Delights warriors and great men sought my friendship, better to me than the affection of them all was the friendship of thy glorious spouse. Need is there, now, that I should go my way, and leave my friend to thee; but though bright and dazzling is the country of Moy Mell, some shadow hath fallen on it since Cuchulain went away.”

Then she lifted up her lovely face, and Emer saw that tears like drops of crystal stood within her eyes.

Long years ago had Fand been betrothed to Manannan, Lord of the Ocean and the Waves, a great and hoary god. Ancient was he, for no man knew his age, and wild and grey his hair, and all his brow rugged and lined with storms. Very kingly and majestic was his tread, but men feared him, because of his strange, tempestuous moods, and his shape-shifting, and his little care for human life. For Manannan was ever restless, wandering in distant lands, moving now this way, now that, and visiting in turn all countries; and years ago, as mortal men count time, he had gone away and returned not, nor did Fand even know where he was to be found. So she thought he had forsaken her, and, when Cuchulain came to fairy-land and she saw his youth and beauty, her mind went out to him, for never had she seen before a noble human man.

But Manannan knew within himself that Fand was in sore grief, and he arose in haste to go and help her. For, although he had tarried long in distant lands, daily he had news of Fand, and he learned all she was doing and when she needed him. So now he saw her trouble, for he it was who sent Cuchulain to fairy-land that he might test her love for himself; and swiftly over the waves he sped to go and save her. Invisible was he to mortal men, and he rode the white sea-foam as though it were a horse, for no need had he of any vessel, or of sail or oar; and as he passed by Fand, she felt his presence and looked up at him as he passed by. But for a moment she knew not that this was Manannan of the Waves, for his look of hoary age had gone from him, and the man she saw was young and strong, with a noble gentleness upon his face, like the sea on a calm summer’s day.

For Manannan was a shape-shifter, and at one time he was terrible and cruel to behold, but at another he showed a kindly face, for he looked into the minds of men, and as he saw them, even so his own face reflected the thing he saw. Then Manannan said to Fand, “O Lady, what wilt thou now do? Wilt thou depart with me or abide here with Cuchulain, if he comes for thee?”

“By my troth,” said Fand, “either of you two were a fitting spouse for me, and a worthy friend to stay with; and in neither of you do I see any one thing greater or better than is in the other; yet, O thou princely One, it is with thee that I will go, for I have been promised to thee for thy wife; thou hast no consort of worth equal to thine own, while Cuchulain has a noble spouse; therefore take me with thee, for Cuchulain needs me not.”

Then Manannan stretched his arms to Fand, and drew her with him, and she followed him. And Cuchulain perceived her drawing away from him, but he knew not whither she went, nor could he see who was talking to her. And he cried out to Laeg, his charioteer, who had knowledge of fairy-land, “What meaneth this, Laeg, that I see? Whither goeth Fand?”

“She goeth with Manannan of the Sea,” replied Laeg. “He is drawing her back to the Land of all Delights, but she is weeping as she goes.”

Then Cuchulain uttered three sharp cries of sorrow and of grief, and he fled away from men into desert places, and would take no meat or drink, and he slept in the open rush-land beside the high-road to Tara.

Emer went then to Emain, and sought King Conor, and told him all that had happened, and that Cuchulain was out of his senses because Fand had gone away; and she prayed him of his love for Cuchulain, and because of her love for him, to send to him men of skill and Druids who might bring him back to health. The king did so willingly, but when they came, Cuchulain fled from them, or sought to slay them, until at length he felt within himself a terrible thirst, and he craved of them a drink. In the drink they mingled herbs of forgetfulness, so that the memory of Fand slowly faded from him, and the remembrance of the time he had spent in fairy-land, and he came to his own mind again.

They gave soothing drinks to Emer also, for she was troubled, too, and stricken, and her natural joyousness had gone from her. But when Manannan heard in fairy-land of the trouble of Emer and Cuchulain, he came unseen of any man, and shook his cloak of forgetfulness between Fand and Cuchulain, so that from both of them the memory passed away, as though it had been a dream, and they thought of it no more.

CHAPTER XXII

Deirdre of Contentions

Years passed away, and the memory of their old feuds died down between Fergus mac Roy and King Conor mac Nessa. Fergus in his old age wearied for his home and country, and for the comrades of his youth. The private wars of Meave had little interest for him, and the tidings that came from time to time from his own province stirred in him a longing to be back. So at length he bade farewell to Meave, and with the most part of his followers he returned to Ulster, and settled in his own fort again. In order to keep his allegiance, King Conor gave him a position next himself, and in all outward things showed him honour, but all the while he watched him jealously, and Fergus knew well that the King would be glad to find a good excuse to shut him up in bonds or to put him to death. Conor feared his power with the people, and their pride and affection for him who once had been their king, and in his mind Conor knew well that he sat in Fergus’ seat, and that many of the older chiefs would willingly have seen their rightful prince once more upon the throne. As old age came on him, Conor grew more wily and suspicious year by year, so that some men dreaded and some hated him, and few felt for him affection or true reverence. Yet among the youthful generation growing up, the reign of Fergus and his mighty deeds were but a tale told by their fathers of their own youthful days; and though they looked with awe upon his mighty stature and his massive form, Fergus seemed to them more like a giant of the ancient time, or like a hoary god, than like a being of human kind as they were, feeling the needs and passions of a man.

Ulster was now at peace, and quietly the days rolled by. Once more the sound of laughter rang out from the playing-fields. New boys, grown out of babyhood, played the old sports, lads brave and manly as those of other days; but older men, passing, would shake their heads and wipe away a tear, for still the shadow of the tragedy that met the boy-corps at the ford hung over them. And many a mother wept at night remembering a bright boy, her pride and darling, swept away contending for Cuchulain and for Ulster against the warriors of Meave.

From time to time, in days of peace, the chiefs of Ulster, each in his turn, made a feast for Conor and the nobles in his company, the famous Champions of the Red Branch. In his turn, Felim, son of Doll, the chief of the King’s story-tellers and his close friend, made such a feast for Conor.

For a whole year had Felim been preparing for the coming of the King. He built a noble banqueting hall close to his house, and sleeping rooms for the King’s followers, and stables for their steeds. From all the country round the farmers brought butter and cream, fresh curds and cheeses, cakes and wheaten bread. Cattle and sheep and swine worthy of the royal banquet were brought in, and fruits and onions, honey and strong ale were stored in plenty in Felim’s vats and store-houses.

He gathered together singing men and singing women, musicians who played upon the fiddle and the harp, and the best tellers of stories that were to be found in all the country-side.

On the day appointed, the King set out in state from Emain, with the Champions of the Red Branch in his train.

Fair was the day and bright when Conor and his followers set out, each in his chariot drawn by two spirited steeds, each decked in his festal array, in mantles of rich crimson, blue or purple, fastened with massive brooches of pure gold, wondrously chased and set with stones of price brought out of distant lands. Upon their heads their helmets of bright bronze shone in the sun, and on their spear-points the sunlight danced so that they seemed to move along beneath a flashing line of gold.

But as they neared the hall the sky grew overcast and black with clouds, and at the fall of night a wind arose and blew up clouds of heavy dust that dimmed their brilliancy, so that they reached the mansion of Felim besmirched and blown about and very weary.

Hardly had the chariot of the King drawn up within the court, than a roll of thunder, loud and terrible, resounded overhead, while floods of rain poured down, and a fierce tempest seemed to shake the building to its foundations. “An awful night is this,” said Felim; “close to the doors and bid the singing men and women make bright cheerful music in the hall.” But all in vain they tried to cheer the guests. Louder the tempest roared, and peal on peal of thunder, such as none of them had ever heard before, made all hearts quail. “No common storm is this,” the monarch said, “I have forebodings that some ill will fall upon the province from this night.” But Felim busied himself to push on the feast, and when all were seated at the board, with servers carving the great joints and wine poured out, a lull came in the storm, and Felim thought that all was well at last. But scarcely had the King begun to eat, when a swift messenger came running in. “O King,” he proclaimed, “a child is born to Felim, a fine fair-fashioned girl; let Felim come and see his wife and child.” But Felim said, “Be silent now, let not the feast be broken by your news. When once the feast is done and the King served, I’ll come and see the child.”

Beside the King sat Caffa, the first Druid of the province, an aged man. He heard the message, and up-rose. “A child is born to our host, O King, while we are present here. I will go forth and by the stars find out her destiny, whether to Felim and his wife comes joy or woe with this girl’s birth.” “Go forth,” the King replied, “not less than this is due to our good host. Fair be the fate that will befall to him and all his house because this child is born.”

Then Caffa went far out beyond the house, and at the outer rath he stood awhile, trying behind the drifting clouds to read the stars. The quarter of the moon he calculated carefully, and in what constellations the wandering stars, the planets, lay. In his old books and tablets, carried within the folds of his wide flowing robes, was gathered all the ancient wizard’s lore, the wisdom of his craft. Closely he scanned the lines, and with unusual care he drew the horoscope. And now and then he started, as though things surprising to himself were found therein.

So long he lingered, that, when at length he closed his tablets made of soft wood and written o’er with runes, and turned him to the house, the King and all his company had quite forgot the child, and loud uproarious laughter rang throughout the hall, and sallies of keen wit and merry song as the full horns of mead and ale passed round from hand to hand. So at the door a moment Caffa stood; and in his face was dreadful warning, and a look so strange, that all the laughter died away, and silence, sudden and complete, fell on the company.

“Well,” said the King, and laughed, though fear smote on his mind, “we hope the omens prophesy good luck; we drink a horn of mead to the maid’s good health; may she thrive, grow fair and marry well, and to her parents bring no harm or ill.”

“Not to her parents will this child bring ill, but to the province, and to Ulster’s king and chiefs. Fair she will be, so fair that queens will soon grow jealous of her beauty, and kings will wage red war to gain her hand. I see her, tall and stately as a swan or as the sapling of the mountain-side; her cheek the ruddy foxglove puts to shame, her skin is white as winter’s driven snow. Like the soft hyacinth is the deep, liquid blue of her sweet eyes, and teeth, like pearls, gleam between crimson lips. Like to a crown of gold her clustering hair, gathered in rolls about her shapely head. She walks apart, alone, like a fair flower hidden within a dell, yet all around her and where’er she comes are tumults and the sounds of rolling war, and broken friendships and black treachery. I see that she is destined to a king, but something comes between her and her fate. Beware, O King; this maid is born for ill to Ulster, and the downfall of the Red Branch and its noble Champions.”

Up-sprang the Heroes of the Red Branch then, and one and all cried out that if upon the province ill must fall because of this one babe, ’twere better far to put the child to death while she was young, and rid the land of her. But the King held them back. “Bring the babe hither,” he said, “and let us see this harbinger of ill.”

Then came the babe all swathed in white and lying, soft and fair, within her nurse’s arms. And when the infant saw the lights and heard the sounds of singing, she was pleased, and puckered up her baby face and looked up at the King and crowed and smiled. At this the King was moved to gentleness; he rose up from his seat and took the babe out of her nurse’s arms and loudly he proclaimed before them all: “The prophecies and omens of the seers I do most strictly honour and believe. No man can fly from fate, nor can man set aside his destiny. The mandates of the gods of earth and air and fire, the Unchanging Elements, must be fulfilled. Yet will I not believe that any good can come of an ignoble act. No man or hero of a noble mind for his own good would slay a helpless babe, neither then for the good of Ulster shall this foul, cowardly deed be done. The child shall live, and if she prove as fair as Caffa says, one part at least of his grim prophecy shall be fulfilled, for I will take the girl as my own wife when she is come to marriageable age, and so she shall be wedded to a king. And here I do declare to one and all, I take this child under my special charge and make myself responsible for her. I bring her up in my own way, and he who lifts his hand against the child must after reckon with the king himself.”

Then Fergus, Conall Cernach, and the rest arose and said: “The King’s protection is a circling wall through which no man may break. We, the Champions of the Red Branch and thy own chiefs, do well observe and will fulfil your will. Even though trouble happen through her life, the child shall live.” So said they all. Then Caffa said: “Alas! Alas! O King, you and your chiefs will live to rue this day. Great woes are bound up with the destiny before this little maid, and all the world will hear of them and weep. A child of sorrow is this child, and ‘Deirdre of Contentions’ is her name.” “So be it,” said the King, “I like the name; when Deirdre is of age to foster with a nurse, bring her to me.”