As for Ferdia, through the first part of the night, he slept heavily, being overcome with the liquor he had taken, and the fatigues of the day; but towards the middle of the night, he awoke from his slumber, and remembered the combat on the morrow, and anxiety and heavy care began to weigh him down; fear of Cuchulain on the one hand, and sorrow that he had promised to do combat with his friend, and fear of losing Finnabar and Meave’s great promises on the other; and he tossed about, and could sleep no longer. So he arose and called his charioteer, and said, “Yoke me my horses, and come with me; I shall sleep better at the ford.” But his charioteer began to dissuade him, “It would be better for you not to go,” said he, “trouble will come of this meeting. It is not a small thing for any warrior in the world to do combat against the Bulwark of Ulster, even against Cuchulain.” “Be silent, my servant,” he said; “though the ravens of carnage croak over the ford, ready to tear my flesh, it is not the part of a valiant man to turn back from his challenge; away with us to the ford before the break of dawn.” So the horses were harnessed and the chariot yoked, and they dashed onwards to the ford. “Take the cushions and skins out of the chariot, good my lad,” said Ferdia, “and spread them under me upon the bank that I may take deep repose and refreshing sleep upon them; little sleep I got this night, on account of the anxiety of the combat that is before me on the morn.” So the servant unharnessed the horses, and spread the skins and chariot-cushions under Ferdia, and yet he could not sleep.
“Look out, lad, and see that Cuchulain is not coming,” he said. “He is not, I am sure,” said the lad. “But look again for certain,” said the warrior. “Cuchulain is not such a little speck that we should not see him if he were there,” replied the lad. “You are right, O boy; Cuchulain has heard that a prime warrior is coming to meet him to-day, and he has thought well to keep away on that account.”
“I should not say bad things about Cuchulain in his absence,” said the lad. “Do you not remember how, when you were fighting in Eastern lands, your sword was wrenched from you, and you would have perished by the hands of your enemies, but that Cuchulain rushed forward to recover it, and he slew a hundred warriors on his path before he got your sword and brought it back to you? Do you remember where we were that night?” “I have forgotten,” Ferdia said. “We were in the house of Scáth’s steward,” said the boy; “and do you not remember how the ugly churl of a cook hit you in the back with a three-pronged meat-spit, and sent you out over the door like a shot? And do you not recollect, how Cuchulain came into the house and gave the rascal a blow with his sword, and chopped him in two to avenge you? If it were only on that account, you should not say that you are a better warrior than Cuchulain.” “Why did you not remind me of all these things before we came here?” said Ferdia; “I doubt whether I should have come if I had remembered all this at first. Pull up the cushions under my head, or I shall never get to sleep. Will you be sure to keep a sharp look-out?” “I will watch so well, that unless men drop out of the clouds to fight with you, no one shall escape me,” said the boy; “and I will sing you to sleep with a lullaby.” Then as Ferdia sank into repose and refreshing slumber, he began to croon this ancient song which Grainne sang over Dermot, when he was hiding from Finn in the forests of the west.
“Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread,Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye,I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes,In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks.Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth.Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe,Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low.Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West,Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest.Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand.Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea,Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den,And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake.In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind,On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.”
“Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread,Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye,I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes,In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks.Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth.Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe,Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low.Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West,Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest.Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand.Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea,Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den,And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake.In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind,On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.”
“Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread,Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.
“Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread,
Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.
Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye,I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.
Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye,
I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.
Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes,In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks.
Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes,
In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks.
Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth.
Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,
When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth.
Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe,Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low.
Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe,
Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low.
Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West,Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest.
Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West,
Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest.
Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand.
Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand.
Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.
Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.
Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.
Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.
Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea,Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.
Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea,
Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.
In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.
In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.
In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den,And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.
In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den,
And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.
On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake.
On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,
With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake.
In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind,On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.
In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind,
On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.
Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.”
Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,
Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.”
On that night before the conflict, Cuchulain also was preparing himself for what lay before him on the morrow. No sooner had Fergus left him, than Laeg his charioteer came to him, and said, “How, my master, will you spend this night?” “I had not thought,” said Cuchulain, “of spending it in any other way than other nights. What would you have me do?”
“I am thinking,” said the charioteer, “that Ferdia will not come alone to the ford to-morrow, but that in such a fight as this, the chief warriors and nobles of Ireland will be present to see the combat. And sure am I that Ferdia will come to the combat washed and bathed, with his hair fresh cut and plaited, in all the magnificence of a battle-champion; but you are fatigued and worn after these combats, unwashed and uncombed, for it has not been possible to adorn yourself in these times of strife and lonely living. Glad should I be, therefore, if you would return to your wife, to Emer of the beautiful hair, where she is awaiting you at Slieve Fuad, and there adorn yourself, so that you may not appear dishevelled and distressed before the men of Erin.” So that night Cuchulain went home to Emer, and gentle and loving was she to him after their separation from each other; and very early in themorning he returned refreshed and comforted to the place where he had been encamped. “Harness our horses for us now, O Laeg, and yoke our war-chariot, for an early-rising champion was Ferdia in the old time. If he is waiting for us at the ford, maybe he is thinking the morning long.”
So the chariot was yoked and Cuchulain sprang into it, and with the speed of a swallow, or of a wild deer flying before the hounds, he set forth to the place of conflict. And round the head of the High Rock and Bulwark of Ulster, even Cuchulain, there gathered the Fairy People of the Glens and the Wild Wizard Folk of the air and mists, and the demon sprites of war and battle, shouting and screaming before the impending conflict; they hovered over him and around him, as it was their wont to do when he went to mortal combat, and the air was filled with their noises and hoarse wailings, rejoicing in the slaughter.
Soon, indeed, the charioteer of Ferdia heard the uproar, and he arose and began to awaken his master, chanting a song in praise of Cuchulain, and calling on Ferdia to arise and meet him. Then Ferdia sprang up.
“How looks Cuchulain this morning?” he cried. “Surely weak and faint he comes to the ford, after a whole winter passed in combating the men of Erin.”
“Not with signs of weakness or of faintness advances the warrior towards us,” the charioteer replied, “but with clangour of arms and clatter of wheels and the trampling of horses equal to a king’s, this warrior draweth nigh. The clanking of the missile-shields I hear, and the hiss of spears, the roll of the chariot with the beautiful silver yoke. Heroic the champion who urges on the steeds, a noble hawk of battle, a martialhero, a Hound of Combat. A year agone I knew that he would come, the stay of Emain, Ulster’s watchful Hound. Over Bray Rossa I perceive him come, skirting the hamlet of the Ancient Tree, along the broad highway; the Hound, the Hound of Ulster in his might.”
“O come, fellow, have done with this belauding of our enemy; methinks a bribe has passed from him to you, to bid you sing his praises. He has slept sound, no doubt, for he is late. I tire of waiting here to kill him. Let us get ready now at once to meet him.”
Then Cuchulain drew up on the borders of the ford. And on his way he had appealed to his charioteer, instructing him that should he grow weak in the fight, or seem to be giving way before Ferdia, he was to taunt him with cowardice, and fling reproaches and bad names at him, so that his anger would arise and he would fight more valiantly than before; but if he were doing well, his charioteer was to stand upon the brink and praise him, to keep his spirits up. And Laeg laughed and said, “Is it on this wise that I must taunt thee? ‘Arise, Cuchulain, a yearling babe would fight better than thou; that man Ferdia overthrows thee as easily as a cat waves her tail; like foam dancing on the water, he blows thee along; he pulls thee about as a mother might play with her little boy!’ How will that do?”
“That will do very well,” said Cuchulain, laughing also; “surely I shall fight better after that.” And with that they came to the ford, and Cuchulain drew up upon the north side, and Ferdia on the south side of the stream.
“What has brought thee hither, O Cua?” said Ferdia. Now Cua means “squint-eyed,” and Ferdia called him by this scoffing name, because he wished to appear bold and unconcerned, though in his heart hefeared and was ashamed; yet he liked not to show his fear. “Welcome thy coming, O squint-eyed one.”
But Cuchulain answered seriously, “Up to to-day, O Ferdia, no greeting would have been more welcome than greeting of thine, for I should have esteemed it the welcome of a friend. To-day, however, I do not count it such. And indeed, Ferdia, more fitting would it have been that I should offer welcome to thee, than that thou shouldst offer it to me, seeing that it is thou who hast intruded into my province and not I into thine. It was for me to challenge thee to fight, and not for thee to challenge me.”
“What induced thee to come to this combat at all, O Cuchulain,” replied Ferdia, “as though thou wert mine equal? Dost thou not remember, that in the old days when we were with Scáth, thou wast in attendance on me as my pupil, and thy place it was to tie up my javelins for me, and to make my couch?”
“That indeed is true,” Cuchulain answered gravely; “for I was in those years thy junior in age and standing, in feats and in renown. I did then but my duty. But to-day it is no longer so; there is not now in the world any champion to whom I am not equal, or whom I would refuse to fight. O Ferdia, my friend, it was not well for thee that thou didst listen to the enticements of Ailill and of Meave, urging thee to come out and fight with me. When we were with Scáth it was side by side that we went to every battle and every battle-field, to conflicts and to feats of war. Together we wandered through strange unknown lands, together we encountered dangers and difficulty; in all things we stood side by side, aiding and supporting one another.
“We were heart’s companionsComrades in assemblies,Brothers, who togetherSlept the dreamless sleep.In all paths of peril,In all days of danger,Each of us, as brothers,Would his brother keep.”
“We were heart’s companionsComrades in assemblies,Brothers, who togetherSlept the dreamless sleep.In all paths of peril,In all days of danger,Each of us, as brothers,Would his brother keep.”
“We were heart’s companions
Comrades in assemblies,
Brothers, who together
Slept the dreamless sleep.
In all paths of peril,
In all days of danger,
Each of us, as brothers,
Would his brother keep.”
“O Cuchulain of the beautiful feats,” Ferdia replied, “though together we have learned the secrets of knowledge, and though I have listened now to thy recital of our bonds of fellowship, it is from me that thy first wounds shall come; think not upon our old comradeship, O Hound, for it shall not profit thee; O Hound, it shall not profit thee. We lose our time in this wise; let us choose our weapons and begin. What arms shall we use to-day, O Cuchulain?”
“It is thine to choose our arms to-day, for it was thou who first didst reach the ford.”
“Dost thou remember,” said Ferdia, “the missile weapons we used to practise with Scáth?” “Full well I remember them,” said Cuchulain.
“If thou dost remember them, let us have recourse to them now,” said Ferdia.
So they took in their hands their two great protecting shields, engraved with emblematic devices, to cover their bodies, and their eight small sharp-edged shields to throw horizontally, and their eight light javelins, and their eight dirks with ivory handles, and their eight little darts for the fight. Backward and forward flew the weapons between them like bees on the wing on a sunny day. From the dim light of early dawn until midday they continued to throw those weapons, yetalthough their aim was so good that not one of them missed its mark, so skilful also was the defence, that not a drop of blood was drawn on either side; all the missiles being caught full on their protecting shields.
“Let us drop these feats now, O Cuchulain,” said his adversary, “for it is not by them that our contest will be decided.”
“Let us drop them, indeed, if the time be come.” Then they ceased from casting, and threw their weapons into the hands of their charioteers.
“What weapons shall we resort to next, O Cuchulain?” said Ferdia.
“With thee is the choice of weapons to-day,” said Cuchulain again.
“Let us then take our straight, polished, hardened spears,” said Ferdia, “with their flaxen strings to cast them with.” So they took their great protecting shields in their hands, and their well-trimmed spears, and they continued to shoot and harass each other from the full middle of the day till eventide. And although the defence was not less careful than before, yet was the casting so good, that each of them drew blood and inflicted wounds upon the other that afternoon.
“Let us now stop casting for the present, O Cuchulain,” said his adversary. “Let us stop, indeed, for the evening has come.”
They ceased, and threw their weapons into their charioteers’ hands, and they ran towards each other, and each put his hands round his comrade’s neck, and they gave three loving kisses of old-time friendship to each other before they separated for the night. That night their horses were stabled in the same paddock, and their charioteers lay beside the same fire; and for the twocombatants their charioteers spread beds of green rushes, with pillows such as are needed for wounded men. And the wise physicians and men of healing came to heal and tend them, and they applied salves made from plants, such as wise men know, to their hurts and gashes, and soothing herbs to their wounds; and of every herb and soothing salve that was applied to the wounds of Cuchulain, he sent an equal portion over the ford to Ferdia, so that no man among the host of Meave should be able to say, if Ferdia fell by him, that it was because Cuchulain had better means of healing than he. Also of every kind of food and of pleasant delicious drink that the men of Erin sent to Ferdia, he would send a fair half over the ford northward to Cuchulain, because Cuchulain had few to attend to his wants, whereas all the people of Meave’s host were ready to help Ferdia.
So for that night they rested, but early the next morning they arose and came forward to the ford of combat. “What weapons shall we use to-day, O Ferdia?” said Cuchulain. “Thine is the choice to-day,” said Ferdia, “because I chose yesterday.”
“Let us then take our broad-bladed heavy spears to-day, for more grave will be the fight between us from the thrusting of our massive spears, than from the shooting of our light casting weapons yesterday, and let our chariots be yoked and our horses harnessed, that we may fight to-day from our chariots.” “Let us do so,” said the other.
Then the two warriors took their great protecting shields in their hands, and their broad-bladed spears, and they continued to thrust at, to wound and pierce each other from the dim light of early morning till the close of day.
Great and gaping cuts and wounds were upon both of them before the evening-tide. Even their horses were exhausted, and the heroes themselves were fatigued and worn out and dispirited. At length Cuchulain said, “O Ferdia, let us now cease from this, for even our very horses are fatigued, and our charioteers are exhausted. We are not like the Fomors, the giants of the sea, who must be for ever combating against each other; let the clamour of battle now cease between us, and let us be friends once more.”
And Ferdia said, “Let us be at peace, indeed, if the time has come.”
Then they ceased fighting, and threw their arms into the hands of their charioteers, and they ran to each other, and each of them put his arms about the neck of the other, and gave him three loving kisses of old friendship.
Their horses were again in the same paddock that night, and their charioteers slept by the same fire; and beds of green rushes were made for the warriors, with pillows to ease their wounds; for their injuries that night were so terrible, that the men of healing and the physicians could do nothing for them except to try to stanch the blood that flowed from them with charms and incantations.
And of all the charms and healing salves that were applied to sooth Cuchulain, he bade them take the same to Ferdia, and of every sort of dainty food and of pleasant satisfying drink that Ferdia received, he sent a good half to Cuchulain.
That night they rested as well as they could for their wounds, but early in the morning they arose and repaired to the ford of combat. Cuchulain saw an evil look and a dark lowering brow upon the face of Ferdiathat day. “Ill dost thou look to-day, O Ferdia,” said Cuchulain. “Thy hair seems to have become darkened, or is it clots of blood I see? Thine eye is dimmed, and thy own bright face and form have gone from thee. A deep disgrace it is in thee to have come out to fight with thy fellow-pupil; not Finnabar’s beauty, nor the praises of Meave or Ailill, nor all the wealth of the world, would have brought me out to fight with thee, my comrade and my friend. Turn now back from this fight to-day, for a fight to death it must be between us, and I have not the heart to fight against thee; my strength fails me when I think of the evil that will befall thee; turn back, turn back, O friend, for false are the promises of Finnabar and Meave.”
“O Cuchulain, gentle Hound, O valiant man, O true champion, bid me not return till the fight be done. Ill would it become me to return to Ailill and to Meave until my task be done. It is not thou who dost work me ill, O Cu of gentle ways; take the victory and fame that are thine by right, for thou art not in fault. Meave it is who is my undoing; but for all that I shrink not from the contest. My honour, at least, will be avenged; no fear of death afflicts me. There is a fate that brings each one of us to the place of our final rest in death, a fate none may resist. Reproach me not, O gentle friend and comrade, but let us fight the combat out to-day, as becomes two valiant men and warriors.”
“If it must be so, what weapons shall we use?”
“Let us to-day take to our heavy smiting swords; for sooner shall we attain the end of our conflict by hewing with our swords, than by the thrusting of our spears yesterday.” “Let it be so,” said Cuchulain. So all that day they hewed and hacked each other with theirlong, two-edged, heavy swords, and at evening they were wounded and torn from head to foot, so that it was hard to see a whole place on either of them.
“Let us cease now, O Cuchulain,” said Ferdia. “Let us cease, indeed, if the time be come,” he said.
They threw their arms into the hands of their charioteers, and, though pleasant and cheerful had been the first meeting of those two, it was in sadness and misery that they parted that night.
That evening their horses were not placed in the same paddock, nor did their charioteers sleep beside the same fire, but the charioteer of Cuchulain slept with his master on the north of the ford, and the charioteer of Ferdia slept on the south side of the ford.
Next morning Ferdia went forth alone to the ford of battle, for he knew that on that day the combat would be decided; that then and in that place one of them or both of them would fall.
On that day both heroes put on their full fighting array, their kilts of striped silk next their skin, and a thick apron of brown leather above that to protect the lower part of the body. And they put on their crested battle-helmets, with jewels of rubies and carbuncles and crystals blazing in the front, gems that had been brought from the East to Ireland. And they took their huge shields which covered the whole body, with great bosses in the centre of each shield, and their swords in their right hands, and thus they came forward to the battle. And as they went they displayed the many noble, quick-changing feats that Scáth had taught them, and it was difficult to tell which of them exceeded the other in the performance of those skilful weapon-feats.
Thus they came to the ford. And Cuchulain said:“What weapons shall we choose this day, O Ferdia?” “Thine is the choice to-day,” said he. Then Cuchulain said, “Let us then practise the Feat of the Ford.”
“We will do so,” said Ferdia; but though he said that, sorrowful was he in saying it, for he knew that no warrior ever escaped alive from Cuchulain when they practised the Feat of the Ford.
Terrible and mighty were the deeds that were done that day by those two heroes, the Champions of the West, the pillars of valour of the Gael. Quietly they used their weapons in the early morning, parrying and casting with skill and warily, and neither did great harm to the other; but about midday, their anger grew hot, and they drew nearer to each other, and Cuchulain sprang upon his adversary, and made as though he would cut off his head over the rim of his shield. But Ferdia gave the shield a stroke upward with his left knee, and cast Cuchulain from him like a little child, and he fell down on the brink of the ford. Now Cuchulain’s charioteer, who was watching the combat from the bank, saw this, and he began to reproach Cuchulain as his master had bade him do, if he should give way in the fight.
“Ah, indeed,” said Laeg, “this warrior can cast the Hound of Ulster from him as a woman tosses up her child; he flings thee up like the foam on a stream; he smites thee as the woodman’s axe fells an oak; he darts on thee as a hungry hawk pounces on little birds. Henceforth thou hast no claim to be called brave or valorous as long as thy life shall last, thou little fairy phantom!”
When Cuchulain heard these scoffing words, up he sprang with the swiftness of the wind, with the fierceness of a dragon, and with the strength of a lion, and his countenance was changed, and he became mighty andterrible in appearance, towering like a Giant or like a Fomor of the sea above Ferdia. A fearsome fight they made together, gripping and striking each other from middle day to fall of eve; and their charioteers and the men of Erin who stood by shivered as they watched the conflict. So close was the fight they made that their heads met above and their feet below, and their arms around the middle of their mighty shields. So close was the fight they made, that their shields were loosened at their centres, and the bosses that were on them started out. So close was the fight they made, that their spears and swords were bent and shivered in their hands. The fairy people of the glens and the wild demon folk of the winds, and the sprites of the valleys of the air, screamed from the rims of their shields and from the points of their spears and from the hafts of their swords. So closely were they locked together in that deadly strife, that the river was cast out of its bed, and it was dried up beneath them, so that a king or a queen might have made a couch in the middle of its course without a drop of water falling on them, though drops of blood might have fallen on them from the bodies of the two champions contending in the hollow of the stream. Such was the terror of the fight they made, that the horses of the Gaels broke away from their paddocks, bursting their bonds and rushing madly in their fright into the woods, and the women and young people and camp followers fled away southwards out of the camp.
Just at that time Ferdia caught Cuchulain in an unguarded moment, and he smote him with a stroke of his straight-edged sword, and buried it in his body, so that his blood streamed down to his girdle, and all the bottomof the ford became crimsoned with his blood. So rapid were the strokes of Ferdia, blow after blow, and cut after cut, that Cuchulain could abide it no longer. And he turned to Laeg, and asked him to give him the Gae Bolga. Now, when the Gae Bolga was laid upon the water, it would move forward of itself to seek its enemy, and no one could stand before its deadly dart. So when Ferdia heard Cu ask for the Gae Bolga, he made a downward stroke of his shield to protect his body. But when Cuchulain saw that, he flung his spear above the shield and it entered the hero’s chest; and as he fell, the Gae Bolga struck him and entered his body from below. “It is all over now, I fall by that,” said Ferdia. “But alas that I fall by thy hand. It is not right that I should die by thee, O Hound.”
Ferdia falls by the Hand of Cuchulain
Ferdia falls by the Hand of Cuchulain
But Cuchulain ran towards him, and clasped him in his two arms, and carried him in his fighting array across the ford to the Northern side of the stream and laid him down there. And over Cuchulain himself there came a weakness and faintness when he saw Ferdia lying dying at his feet, and he heeded not the warnings of his charioteer telling him that the men of Erin were gathering across the ford to do battle with him and to avenge the death of their champion. For Cuchulain said, “What availeth me to arise, now that my friend is fallen by my hand? For when we were with Scáth, Mother of great gifts, we vowed to each other that for ever and for ever we should do no ill to each other. And now alas! by my hand hast thou fallen, my comrade, through the treachery of the men of Erin, who sent thee to thy fate. And oh! Ferdia, ruddy, well-built son of Daman, until the world’s end will thy like not be found among the men of Erin; would that I had died instead of thee, forthen I should not now be alive to mourn thy death. Brief and sorrowful will be my life after thee.
“Dear was to me thy comely form,Dear was thy youthful body warm,Dear was thy clear-blue dancing eye,Dear thy wise speech when I was by.
“Dear was to me thy comely form,Dear was thy youthful body warm,Dear was thy clear-blue dancing eye,Dear thy wise speech when I was by.
“Dear was to me thy comely form,
Dear was thy youthful body warm,
Dear was thy clear-blue dancing eye,
Dear thy wise speech when I was by.
“Let me see, now, O Laeg, the brooch that was given to Ferdia by Meave; the brooch for which he lost his life, and did combat with his friend.” Then Laeg loosened the brooch from the mantle of Ferdia, and Cuchulain took it in his hand and looked upon it, and tears such as strong warriors weep poured from his eyes, and he lamented over Ferdia, and over the brooch for which he had given his life.
“And now,” said Cuchulain, “we will leave the ford, O Laeg; but every other fight that I have made till now when I came to fight and combat with Ferdia, has been but play and sport to me compared with this combat that we have made together, Ferdia and I.” And as he moved away he sang this lay:—
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our student life,One in strife of school our place,One our gentle teacher’s grace,Loved o’er all and each.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our wonted ways,One the praise for feat of fields,Scáthach gave two victor shieldsEqual prize to each.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Dear that pillar of pure goldWho fell cold beside the fordHosts of heroes felt his swordFirst in battle-breach.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Lion fiery, fierce, and bright,Wave whose might no thing withstands,Sweeping, with the shrinking sands,Horror o’er the beach.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Loved Ferdia, dear to me;I shall dree his death for ayeYesterday a Mountain he,—But a shade to-day.”[4]
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our student life,One in strife of school our place,One our gentle teacher’s grace,Loved o’er all and each.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our wonted ways,One the praise for feat of fields,Scáthach gave two victor shieldsEqual prize to each.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Dear that pillar of pure goldWho fell cold beside the fordHosts of heroes felt his swordFirst in battle-breach.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Lion fiery, fierce, and bright,Wave whose might no thing withstands,Sweeping, with the shrinking sands,Horror o’er the beach.“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Loved Ferdia, dear to me;I shall dree his death for ayeYesterday a Mountain he,—But a shade to-day.”[4]
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our student life,One in strife of school our place,One our gentle teacher’s grace,Loved o’er all and each.
“Play was each, pleasure each,
Till Ferdia faced the beach;
One had been our student life,
One in strife of school our place,
One our gentle teacher’s grace,
Loved o’er all and each.
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;One had been our wonted ways,One the praise for feat of fields,Scáthach gave two victor shieldsEqual prize to each.
“Play was each, pleasure each,
Till Ferdia faced the beach;
One had been our wonted ways,
One the praise for feat of fields,
Scáthach gave two victor shields
Equal prize to each.
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Dear that pillar of pure goldWho fell cold beside the fordHosts of heroes felt his swordFirst in battle-breach.
“Play was each, pleasure each,
Till Ferdia faced the beach;
Dear that pillar of pure gold
Who fell cold beside the ford
Hosts of heroes felt his sword
First in battle-breach.
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Lion fiery, fierce, and bright,Wave whose might no thing withstands,Sweeping, with the shrinking sands,Horror o’er the beach.
“Play was each, pleasure each,
Till Ferdia faced the beach;
Lion fiery, fierce, and bright,
Wave whose might no thing withstands,
Sweeping, with the shrinking sands,
Horror o’er the beach.
“Play was each, pleasure each,Till Ferdia faced the beach;Loved Ferdia, dear to me;I shall dree his death for ayeYesterday a Mountain he,—But a shade to-day.”[4]
“Play was each, pleasure each,
Till Ferdia faced the beach;
Loved Ferdia, dear to me;
I shall dree his death for aye
Yesterday a Mountain he,—
But a shade to-day.”[4]
After the combat with Ferdia weariness and great weakness fell upon Cuchulain. From the beginning of winter to early spring he had watched and safe-guarded the frontier of Ulster, alone and single-handed, and all that time he had never slept a whole night through. Saving only a brief snatch at midday, he often did not sleep at all, and even what he had was taken sitting, with his spear ready in his hand, and his head resting upon the shaft, as it stood between his knees.
The host of Meave was encamped on the plain of Murthemne, in Cuchulain’s district, but the Brown Bull and the cattle they had sent away northward for safety into the hill passes of eastern Ulster.
Beside the grave of Lerga, overlooking the camp of the men of Erin, Cuchulain lay beside a fire that Laeg had kindled. Now, as the shades of evening fell, the hero looked abroad, slowly and with pain raising himself upon his elbow, and on every hand he saw the glint and gleam of the weapons of the men of Erin, caught by the light of the setting sun. Before him lay the great expanse of tents, and the multitude of the host, and he would have rushed upon them then and there, but all his body was riddled with wounds, and his strength was utterly gone from him. In his anger and despair he brandishedhis sword and waved his shield and uttered forth his hero’s shout. So horrible was that shout that the goblins and sprites and daft people of the air and of the glens answered it, and many of the men of Erin died of pure terror at the sound. Then across the camp of the enemy Laeg descried a figure, as of a tall and stately champion advancing calmly towards them. Straight through the tents of Erin he passed on, but no man seemed to see; no head was turned as he went by, nor did the sentries bar his way, yet in his hand he carried a drawn sword.
Astonishment and awe fell upon Laeg as, from his seat beside his master, he beheld the warrior draw near.
“It seems to me, O little Hound,” he said, “as though a visitant fromfairy-land drewnear. Like one in high authority is this young man, and like the sun at junction of the day and night the gentle radiance of his lofty brow; methinks that in its midday glow no mortal eyes could bear the shining of its wondrous light. The armour of Manannan clothes him round, and none can pierce or wound him through its joints; the sword of Manannan is in his hand, from which no enemy returns alive, while on his head the jewelled helmet of Manannan gleams.”
“’Tis true, indeed,” replied the wounded man, “Lugh the Long-handed, mightiest of the gods, is come to succour me. Bright as the sun rising at early dawn out of the glowing east the hero’s face, giver of light and warmth to human-kind; with his long arms stretching across the sky he floods the world with light. In his right hand he bears the sword of day, though now in shades of night his face is veiled. No human eye, save his whose inward mind has pierced the realms of fairy mysteries, can see the god, when in Manannan’s helmetof invisibility he comes to earth. To comfort and to solace me he comes, for well he knows my plight. My comrades of the fairy-folk have pity on my pain and my despair.”
The warrior stood close beside Cuchulain’s bed and gazed upon his wounds, and noble pity stood within his eyes. “A manly fight, I see, you made, my son, and worthy are those wounds.”
“I think not much about the wounds, O Lugh, but this is troubling me; behold, below, yon host of mighty men who threaten Ulster’s land, and here I lie, as weary as a child, and cannot rise to wreak my wrath on them. Were but my strength returned and my wounds healed, I would not long be lying here in grief, idle and cast away. But if, O Father Lugh, for this one night you would keep watch and ward for me the while I sleep, then could I for a space take peaceful rest.”
“I come for that,” said Lugh, “from fairy land. Sleep then, O Ulster’s Hound, and by the grave of Lerga deeply rest; no harm shall come to Ulster while you sleep, for I will watch and battle with the host.” Then in deep peace and slumber Cuchulain took his rest, and for three days and nights he stirred not once, but slept a dreamless, torpid sleep. And fairy-folk brought magic herbs to put into his wounds, to soothe and heal him while he slept, and all the while Lugh sat at his right hand, guarding his rest, save when some feat of slaughter was to do upon the men of Erin.
But Sualtach, father of Cuchulain, heard of the distressed condition of his son, and well he knew that unless the warriors of Ulster woke from their magic sleep, and gathered to his help, the hero must give way before his foes. Now Sualtach was no battle-champion or warriorof renown, but just a passable good fighting-man; he had no thought or wish to stand by his son when he fought single-handed with the choicest of Meave’s host; nor had he gone to help him even when he heard that between life and death he lay, covered with gaping wounds. Yet still the news stirred some increase of courage in him, and though he would not fight in an uneven war, he now resolved to arm himself and ride to Emain’s gates and call the sleeping Ulstermen to rise and hurry down to aid Cuchulain, before it was too late. He caught the Grey of Macha, Cuchulain’s horse, and mounted him, and, spear and shield in hand, he rode straight up within the gates of Emain Macha. Silent and still as death was all the kingly fort. No sentinel looked forth to guard the door, no warrior strode round the deserted walls, and all within was silent as the grave, save for the weeping women and the little children’s play, and lowing of the untended cows wandering between the outer and the inner raths. Within, in Emain’s halls, each warrior sat apart sunk deep in sleep, his head upon his hands, his arms clasping his knees, or stretched in slumber full-length upon the floor; and round them lay their weapons, idle and rusting from long want of use, dropped from their nerveless hands. Mighty they looked, well-built and good men all, but no more strength had they than little babes but newly come to birth. Even when the women shook them, thy looked up but for one moment with lack-lustre eyes, and straightway sank to sleep again. Young children played about and over them, as though they had been statues made of stone, and yet they heeded not. Beside them, at their feet, lay crouched their noble hounds, loose from the leash, stretched out asleep, each one his muzzle lyingon his paws. From time to time, the war-dogs turned and growled, as though they dreamed bad dreams; the warriors moaned as if they were in pain, but no one moved or rose.
Within the inner fort King Conor lay, surrounded by his chiefs, sunk deep in coward slumber each upon his couch; for Macha’s hand lay heavy on them all, and her revenge was come.
But in the playing-fields outside, the Boy-corps still kept up their sports, and played at mimic warfare as of yore, though all their chiefs and teachers were asleep; and still their laughter, shrill and bright, rang through the silent halls, as one boy caught the hurley ball a good swing with his club, or threw his fellow in their feats of strength. The little son of Conor, Follaman, had made himself their leader, and willingly they mustered under him.
Then up rode Sualtach upon the Grey, and three times over he gave forth his cry. The first shout went up from the playing-fields, the second from the rampart wall, the third he gave standing aloft upon the summit of the mound where lay imprisoned the hostages of Ulster chained in their hut beside the kingly fort.
“Your men are being slain,” he cried, “your cattle driven away, your women fall as captives to the men of Erin. In wild Murthemne’s plain Cuchulain all alone still held the foemen back until the fight with Ferdia robbed him of his strength. Wounded in every joint Cuchulain lies, his gaping sores stuffed in with sops and bits of grass, his clothes held on with spikes of hazel twigs. On Emain Macha press the enemy, all eastern Ulster is in their hands; Ailill and Meave have harried all your coasts. Ulster, Arise, arise!”
Three times he gave the shout, ringing and clear upon the silent air, but still no watchman’s voice gave forth reply.
Now in the kingly fort a rule of courtesy forbad that any man should speak before the King, save only his three Druids, who were his counsellors. After a while, as for the third time the voice of Sualtach came floating through the hall, one of the Druids stirred and said, “Who is the fellow brawling in the court? Fitting it were to take his head from him.” “Fitting it were, indeed,” replied the King, “and yet I think the thing he says is true.” And all the warriors muttered in their sleep, “Fitting it were, indeed.”
When Sualtach found that no man answered him, in violent anger he turned back again. In his fierce wrath he dragged the bridle-rein, so that the Grey of Macha reared, and stumbled on a sleeping man, and swerved aside, flinging Sualtach forward on its neck. His head struck on the sharp edge of his missile-shield, so that it sheared it off, and the shield fell from his hand, his head within it, at the horse’s feet, the body hanging yet upon its back. At that the Grey turned round, and made its way into the inner court and onward to the hall, the lifeless body still upon its neck, dragging the head along upon the shield, whose strap had caught into its feet. And all the way they went, passing the outer and the inner courts into the very presence of the King, the voice of Sualtach from the dissevered head still called aloud, as though he were alive, “Your men are being slain, your cattle driven away; your women fall as captives to the men of Erin. In wild Murthemne’s plain Cuchulain all alone still holds the foemen back. Ulster, Arise, arise!”
“Too noisy is that head,” King Conor said, moving again and stirring in his sleep; “put it upon the pillar of the house that it may go to rest.” Then one of the warriors, hearing his King’s voice, bestirred himself, and lifted up the head and set it on a pillar; but again, and even louder than before, the head cried out: “Your men are being slain, your cattle driven away, your women fall as captives. Ulster, Arise, arise!” So noisy was the head, that one warrior and then another rose upon his elbow and looked up at it, and bade it hold its peace, but when they spoke the head but called out louder than before. Then, looking round, they saw the mighty horse standing, gaunt and stock-still, within the very centre of the hall, the headless rider sitting on its back. And when they saw the horse bearing the headless rider in their midst, and heard the head still calling from the pillar top, as though it were alive, a shout of laughter, as of olden days, went up from one and all, and the King bestirred himself at the unwonted sound. Then all the chiefs, seeing the King arise, shook themselves lightly and began to stand or sit up where they slept. They stooped to pick their weapons from the ground, to try the edges of their swords, to rub the rust that dulled their scabbards and the fine points of their spears. For memory and the love of life and war began to stir in them, and wonder at their own long idleness. And at the last the King stood up and cried, “True is the message that the head has brought. Ulster lies bound before her enemies, while we rust here in sleep. By all the gods my nation loves, I swear, unless the stars of heaven shall fall upon our heads, or the strong solid earth give way beneath our feet, I and my chiefs will restore each captive woman to her childand home, each cow to her own meadow, and each stolen piece of land to its own lords, so that in shame with heavy loss the foes of Ulster shall return to their own country.”
Then a great shout went up from the men of Ulster, and their warrior spirit began to revive in them. And to each in turn the King applied, bidding him go forth and summon his clan and followers to meet him that day week upon the Hill of Slane in Meath, for he himself would call a muster there.
Gladly and eagerly the chiefs issued forth, for they heard the sounds of stirring men and the welcome bark of the hounds without.
As for the King himself, his mind was so confused with the magic sleep in which he had lain, that he remembered not the dead from the living, but stood, calling on the dead to come to his aid, as though they had been yet alive.
Throughout all the land he sent heralds to call together his men-at-arms; and with one heart and mind the men of Ulster responded to his call. Troop on troop they flocked to Emain, from North and West and East, each mighty leader surrounded by his host clad in the kilt and colours of his clan. As for the clans that were south of Emain, they tarried not to assemble at the kingly fort, but made their way, each by his own route, straight forward to the Hill of Slane.
For after their long rest and weakness their hands itched to be upon their swords again.
Hardly had the King arisen from his sleep, than he remembered the Boy-corps. “Go,” said he to one of his heralds, “and see how the Boy-corps fares. Tell the youths that we depart hence within a while to battle on the Hill of Slane in Meath, but that before we set forth on our march, we fain would see them once again at play. Bid Follaman and bid them all prepare.” So the herald went out to warn the Boy-corps, but the playing-field was silent and deserted, nor was there any sign of Follaman or of the boys. “What is become of the corps?” he asked, alarmed, for among the boys were the sons of the bravest chiefs of Ulster and the King’s own son besides. But none could give him a reply. In one corner of the playing-field he espied a little lad, the youngest of the corps, who sat alone, crying by himself. The herald asked him what it was that ailed him, and where were all the others, his companions. “The boys are gone to help Cuchulain, their comrade, who is sorely wounded,” said the child; “they heard the words of Sualtach, calling on the Ulstermen to rise and come to Cuchulain’s help against the men of Erin. But all the champions were asleep and heard not; only they, the Boy-corps, heard. And Follaman their leader said, ‘Cuchulain, our comrade, is in sore distress, and none are ready to goto his aid; therefore we ourselves will go.’ And all the Boy-corps said that they would follow him, and protect the coasts of Ulster while Cuchulain was asleep, and do combat for him with the enemy. But me they left behind,” the child continued, weeping, “because they said I was too young to go; but I would have handled my little sword as well as any of them. I heard Follaman say that he would never return to Emain unless he brought with him Ailill’s head, with its coronet of gold, to lay at Conor’s feet.”
When the herald heard this tale, he went hurriedly to the palace and told the King what the child had said. A great cry arose in the palace when it was known that the boys had gone to do battle with grown warriors of Erin; for each chief and each champion had a son, or two or three sons, among the corps, and the King himself had Follaman, his youngest and his darling. Then the King sent out word that before one hour should be past, he and his troops would take the road to Slane; if so perchance they might arrive in time to save the Boy-corps from its fate. For all his strength and vigour returned to Conor when he heard of the peril which beset the Boy-corps, and bitterly did he rue the inaction in which he and his warriors had lain, when the children had gone forth to fight.
Now at the end of his three days’ sleep, Cuchulain had awakened from his trance; he passed his hand across his face, and opened his eyes and saw Lugh sitting beside him. From head to foot he blushed a rosy red, for he felt shame that a champion like himself should be found sleeping before his foes. “Warrior, how long have I been sleeping here?” said he. “Three days and three nights,” said Lugh, “and no shame to thee thatthou shouldst sleep, for even yet thou art not fit to rise.” “That indeed is true,” replied Cuchulain, for he tried to sit up on his couch, and fell back again. “Though my wounds are closed and healing, my strength has not returned; and all this time the hosts of Erin have been unmolested.”
“Nay, nay, indeed,” cried Lugh, “no step forward have they made; my hand hath held them back. Moreover,” but here his voice grew grave and stern, “the Boy-corps from Emain were here last night.” “The Boy-corps from Emain,” Cuchulain cried; “what did they here? No games or child’s play have we here suited to their age, but grim and deadly deeds of war. I trust no hurt or damage came to them.” “Alas, alas,” said Lugh, “they came at night; I knew not they were here. Straight to the tent of Ailill and of Meave marched on the boys, clad in their mimic armour, with all their pennons flying in the wind. Follaman, Conor’s son, was at their head, a brave and dauntless lad; and on them all, although they were but growing boys, men say was seen the dignity of heroes, and the fearlessness ofseasoned warriors. Follaman demanded combat with Ailill himself, he being a King’s son, and thus, he said, unfit to fight with common men.
“With jeers and taunts they drove the brave lads back out of the camp and downward to the ford; but there at last the Boy-corps took its stand. ‘Here wait we,’ cried the lads, ‘here stand we to the death; the honour of Cuchulain and of Ulster is in our hands. Come out and fight!’ Alas, alas,” said Lugh again, “this morning when I walked beside the ford, to guard the banks from any man of Meave’s, all up and down the strand fair bodies lay, mangled and cut and hewn by cruel hands,and on the stream bright hair was tossing from fair severed heads. Follaman lay prone on the farther side, his cold hand grasping still a warrior’s hair, his arms locked tightly in that warrior’s arms, dragged down together and o’erwhelmed beneath the wave. And all around a bloody fight had been. Many a good warrior had gone down before those hero boys; many a strong arm by them was stilled in death. Brave lads! the pride of Ulster and of Ulster’s chiefs!”
“The Boy-corps dead!” Cuchulain cried, “dead to retrieve my honour and the darkened fame of Ulster’s chiefs! Ill is the deed that thou hast done me, O my Father Lugh; had I been roused from sleep the Boy-corps had not perished thus. Follaman, Conor’s son, would not have fallen, and this shame would not have been added to Ulster’s other shames. Alas, and thrice alas! And now, my Father Lugh, hark to my prayer; stay but one night beside me, and together we will avenge the fall of the Boy-corps. Before the arm of Lugh the Long-handed and the might of Ulster’s Hound, no foe could stand; let us then do a glorious deed, that Ulster’s honour be by us avenged.”
“Nay, not so,” said Lugh, “for thine own strength is not come back to thee, and I must back to fairy-land again. My work is done, the gods await me there. The wrong will be avenged, as is most meet, by Ulster’s champions, the fathers of the boys. See, even now over the Hill of Slane their pennons wave.”
Most true it was; Cuchulain looked and saw, right in the north and passing out beyond him to the west, the gathering of a mighty host. Far as the eye could reach they came with swinging gait, battalion on battalion, up the hill; their tents on every side they pitched,and martial strains and trampling of men’s feet resounded through the plain. Beneath their heavy tread the very earth seemed quivering as they moved; the trees of the forest crashed their branches, and their tops swung together in the violence of the wind they made in passing up the glen. In the dim mist of early morn their spearpoints glittered like sparks of fire, caught by the first beams of the rising sun; the thunder of their chariots, the clatter of their arms and horses’ hoofs, so terrified the wild things of the woodlands, that they fled panting before them to the open plain.
“Carry me where I can mark the clans as they come up, O Laeg,” Cuchulain said. Laeg lifted up the wounded hero in his arms, and laid him on the north side of a rising mound whence he could see the path by which the armies came. He marked the Druids marching on in front, scanning the sky for portents and muttering their spells. Then came the bards, pouring forth rhapsodies, and singing battle-chants, and near them were the bright-faced men of healing, carrying salves and medicines in their bags, to succour wounded men.
Right well Cuchulain recognized them all, the corps of Laery, named Triumphant, marching in impetuous style; the clan of Conall the Victorious, his early friend, all young and hardy men; the clan of Conor’s son, he whom men called “The Stutterer,” because he stammered in his speech. These latter were so eager for the fray, that, fearing to spring forth before the time, they knelt upon the ground, their chins resting on the rims of their enormous shields. All day they came, from morn to fall of night, till the whole hill and wide surrounding plain were covered with their tents. But in the midstCuchulain saw his own corps swinging up the hill, brilliant in their flying plaids, all mighty men and strong. They only, among all the host, marched mournfully and sadly to their camp; no sound of music, no martial warrior-chant, rose from their lips, for they as orphans marched without a father, or as a body left without a head. Now when Cuchulain marked his own corps coming up, no words of Laeg could stay him, nor could his bands and shackles tie him down. Violently and with tremendous force he sought to rise, to greet his own battalion. So vigorous were the efforts that he made, that even Meave and Fergus heard. “Surely it is Cuchulain trying to arise and join his own battalion!” Fergus said; “well is it for us that he is lying ill! Happy the men who have the aid of Cuchulain’s corps, and woe to those whom they oppose! Were but their chief amongst them at this time, no other clan had need to be called out against the men of Erin.”
“I fear them not,” said Meave; “we have good men and brave to answer them.”
“I swear by Ulster’s gods,” Fergus replied, “that when once Ulster is aroused, no host on earth can answer them.”
“Send satirists and men of evil nature from us to Cuchulain,” said Meave to her attendants, “and let them jeer him in his weakness, saying to him that Conor will be routed, Ulster put to shame, and Fergus slain while he is lying on his couch in idleness. Let him not think that it is we who send, but his own people jeering at his wounds. Tell him his own corps call on Ulster’s Hound, but, like a pet-dog in a lady’s lap, he lies down to be fondled and caressed. Send womenmourners to weep over him false noisy tears, and tear their hair, and keen, as though he even now were dead. Thus will he fall into despair and do himself some harm, and so our victory will be assured. Away, and spare him not.”
So keening women and hired mourning men went to the mound whereon Cuchulain lay, exhausted with his effort to arise; for Laeg had bound the hero fast with cords, so that he might not struggle to get up. For much he feared that he might inflict some injury on himself in trying to rejoin his corps. But Cuchulain thought not on his wounds at all, for all his mind was bent in following Laeg’s account of what was passing in the camp; and when the messengers of Meave came close, and began to weep and wail, and hurl at him abuse and scornful words, he neither saw nor heard them, so that at length they ceased, disheartened and ashamed.
Eagerly Cuchulain addressed himself to Laeg. “Tell me, O Laeg, how stands our host together, and what do they now?”
“So close stand now the serried ranks, that though Conall’s charioteer and mine tried side by side to force our way across the clustered spearpoints of the host, no smallest object from our chariots dropped among the men could find its way between them to the ground. I see King Conor’s chosen men-at-arms coming toward the hill, where Conor’s tent is pitched, higher and far more spacious than the rest. I see Meave’s warriors withstanding them; they make a hollow circle, hoping, I think, to take the King alive. But, as though they hardly saw the opposing band, the King and his brave followers stride on. I see them now entering the hollowmass of fighting men; alas, they will be caught and fall. But no! I see, I see them soon emerge again, unharmed and safe. Right through the enemy they have forced their way, to join the main contingent of the troops. The clans of Ulster rise on every side as Conor gains his tent upon the utmost summit of the hill, and in a mighty shout, rending the clouds of heaven, the men of Ulster now acclaim their King.”
“There is the stuff for a great battle among those hosts,” Cuchulain cried; “bloody the deeds that will be wrought at sunrise on the morrow’s morn. Let nothing pass you; tell me all you see.”
“So far as I can mark, you shall know all,” replied the charioteer; “but shades of evening fall apace on us, and hard it is to distinguish friend from foe. The warriors all betake them to their rest. Watchfires are lighted, and around their blaze they sit in peace and eat their evening meal. Far in the west, I see a little herd emerge upon the plain, a great Bull at its head, and all around a troop of cows and heifers, fifty or more, their heads held well in air. A band of youths are trying to restrain them and turn them back into the camp of Meave; but still they advance, careering o’er the plain, as though to join the hosts of Ulster’s King. The youths of Ulster are battling with those other youths, trying to gain possession of the Bull.” “And so indeed they may,” Cuchulain said, “the Dun of Cooley is that Bull you see, for whom this war is fought. How are the youths of Ulster bearing themselves in this fray?” “They fight like men,” said Laeg, “but now I see the Bull has broken from them all. Away he goes, toward the west, making as though for Connaught.” “He feels in him the call of war,” replied the wounded man; “he seeks the Whitehorned, left in Cruachan. No man, nor any band of men can stay the Dun, when once the time is come for his great onset on the Connaught Bull. Fearful will be the war between those twain. All Ireland will hear their furious charge, and tremble at their fall.”
Before the dawn of the ensuing day, Sencha the Druid seated himself upon the summit of the Hill of Slane, beside the tent of Conor, to watch for the first ray of light arising in the east. The Druids had foretold that if the men of Ulster went into battle before the break of day, they must fall before their enemies, but if they waited till the early dawn flooded the hills and vales of Ireland, then it was they who would come off victorious.
So eager were the warriors for the fight, that it was hard to hold them till the night was past. On every side, long ere the dawn had broken, they pushed aside their tent-doors and came forth. Nay, many of the host there were, who would not wait their turn to issue from the doors; but all unclothed, their weapons in their hands, they rushed out from their tents, forcing their way through every side at once.
King Conor gave command, “Bid them to halt until the word be given.” And all the host stood silent where they were, gazing toward the summit of the hill whereon the bearded Druid stood erect.
At length in the dim east the sun arose, its first rays shooting up along the sky. Then to his full height Sencha arose and raised his arms on high, his snowy garments waving in the wind.