CLXVI

Olivier felt the deadly wound, Yet he grasped Hauteclere, with its steel embrowned; He smote on the Algalif's crest of gold,— Gem and flowers to the earth were rolled; Clave his head to the teeth below, And struck him dead with the single blow. "All evil, caitiff, thy soul pursue. Full well our Emperor's loss I knew; But for thee—thou goest not hence to boast To wife or dame on thy natal coast, Of one denier from the Emperor won, Or of scathe to me or to others done." Then Roland's aid he called upon.

CLXVII

Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; The more to vengeance he hasteneth; Knightly as ever his arms he bore, Staves of lances and shields he shore; Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,— Whose eyes soever the sight would greet, How the Saracens all disfigured lie, Corpse upon corpse, each other by, Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget— "Montjoie!" he shouted, shrill and clear; Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, "Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; This day of dolor shall us divide."

CLXVIII

Roland looked Olivier in the face,— Ghastly paleness was there to trace; Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow, And rain in showers to the earth below. "O God!" said Roland, "is this the end Of all thy prowess, my gentle friend? Nor know I whither to bear me now: On earth shall never be such as thou. Ah, gentle France, thou art overthrown, Reft of thy bravest, despoiled and lone; The Emperor's loss is full indeed!" At the word he fainted upon his steed.

CLXIX

See Roland there on his charger swooned, Olivier smitten with his death wound. His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark, Nor mortal, near or far, can mark; And when his comrade beside him pressed, Fiercely he smote on his golden crest; Down to the nasal the helm he shred, But passed no further, nor pierced his head. Roland marvelled at such a blow, And thus bespake him soft and low: "Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly? Roland who loves thee so dear, am I, Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?" Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak, But I see thee not. God seeth thee. Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me." "I am not hurt, O Olivier; And in sight of God, I forgive thee here." Then each to other his head has laid, And in love like this was their parting made.

CLXX

Olivier feeleth his throe begin; His eyes are turning his head within, Sight and hearing alike are gone. He alights and couches the earth upon; His Mea Culpa aloud he cries, And his hands in prayer unto God arise, That he grant him Paradise to share, That he bless King Karl and France the fair, His brother Roland o'er all mankind; Then sank his heart, and his head declined, Stretched at length on the earth he lay,— So passed Sir Olivier away. Roland was left to weep alone: Man so woful hath ne'er been known.

CLXXI

When Roland saw that life had fled, And with face to earth his comrade dead, He thus bewept him, soft and still: "Ah, friend, thy prowess wrought thee ill! So many days and years gone by We lived together, thou and I: And thou hast never done me wrong, Nor I to thee, our lifetime long. Since thou art dead, to live is pain." He swooned on Veillantif again, Yet may not unto earth be cast, His golden stirrups held him fast.

CLXXII

When passed away had Roland's swoon, With sense restored, he saw full soon What ruin lay beneath his view. His Franks have perished all save two— The archbishop and Walter of Hum alone. From the mountain-side hath Walter flown, Where he met in battle the bands of Spain, And the heathen won and his men were slain In his own despite to the vale he came; Called unto Roland, his aid to claim. "Ah, count! brave gentleman, gallant peer! Where art thou? With thee I know not fear. I am Walter, who vanquished Maelgut of yore, Nephew to Drouin, the old and hoar. For knightly deeds I was once thy friend. I fought the Saracen to the end; My lance is shivered, my shield is cleft, Of my broken mail are but fragments left. I bear in my body eight thrusts of spear; I die, but I sold my life right dear." Count Roland heard as he spake the word, Pricked his steed, and anear him spurred.

CLXXIII

"Walter," said Roland, "thou hadst affray With the Saracen foe on the heights to-day. Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be: A thousand horsemen gave I thee; Render them back, for my need is sore." "Alas, thou seest them never more! Stretched they lie on the dolorous ground, Where myriad Saracen swarms we found,— Armenians, Turks, and the giant brood Of Balisa, famous for hardihood, Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet, Such host in battle 'twas ours to meet; Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,— Full sixty thousand on earth lie low. With our brands of steel we avenged us well, But every Frank by the foeman fell. My hauberk plates are riven wide, And I bear such wounds in flank and side, That from every part the bright blood flows, And feebler ever my body grows. I am dying fast, I am well aware: Thy liegeman I, and claim thy care. If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive, And yield me succor while thou dost live." Roland sweated with wrath and pain, Tore the skirts of his vest in twain, Bound Walter's every bleeding vein.

CLXXIV

In Roland's sorrow his wrath arose, Hotly he struck at the heathen foes, Nor left he one of a score alive; Walter slew six, the archbishop five. The heathens cry, "What a felon three! Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee. Dastard is he who confronts them not; Craven, who lets them depart this spot." Their cries and shoutings begin once more, And from every side on the Franks they pour.

CLXXV

Count Roland in sooth is a noble peer; Count Walter, a valorous cavalier; The archbishop, in battle proved and tried, Each struck as if knight there were none beside. From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap, Yet forty thousand their saddles keep; I trow they dare not approach them near, But they hurl against them lance and spear, Pike and javelin, shaft and dart. Walter is slain as the missiles part; The archbishop's shield in pieces shred, Riven his helm, and pierced his head; His corselet of steel they rent and tore, Wounded his body with lances four; His steed beneath him dropped withal: What woe to see the archbishop fall!

CLXXVI

When Turpin felt him flung to ground, And four lance wounds within him found, He swiftly rose, the dauntless man, To Roland looked, and nigh him ran. Spake but, "I am not overthrown— Brave warrior yields with life alone." He drew Almace's burnished steel, A thousand ruthless blows to deal. In after time, the Emperor said He found four hundred round him spread,— Some wounded, others cleft in twain; Some lying headless on the plain. So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells, For whom High God wrought miracles. In Laon cell the scroll he wrote; He little weets who knows it not.

CLXXVII

Count Roland combateth nobly yet, His body burning and bathed in sweat; In his brow a mighty pain, since first, When his horn he sounded, his temple burst; But he yearns of Karl's approach to know, And lifts his horn once more—but oh, How faint and feeble a note to blow! The Emperor listened, and stood full still. "My lords," he said, "we are faring ill. This day is Roland my nephew's last; Like dying man he winds that blast. On! Who would aid, for life must press. Sound every trump our ranks possess." Peal sixty thousand clarions high, The hills re-echo, the vales reply. It is now no jest for the heathen band. "Karl!" they cry, "it is Karl at hand!"

CLXXVIII

They said, "'Tis the Emperor's advance, We hear the trumpets resound of France. If he assail us, hope in vain; If Roland live, 'tis war again, And we lose for aye the land of Spain." Four hundred in arms together drew, The bravest of the heathen crew; With serried power they on him press, And dire in sooth is the count's distress.

CLXXIX

When Roland saw his coming foes, All proud and stern his spirit rose; Alive he shall never be brought to yield: Veillantif spurred he across the field, With golden spurs he pricked him well, To break the ranks of the infidel; Archbishop Turpin by his side. "Let us flee, and save us," the heathen cried; "These are the trumpets of France we hear— It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near."

CLXXX

Count Roland never hath loved the base, Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,— Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,— And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood; "On foot are you, on horseback I; For your love I halt, and stand you by. Together for good and ill we hold; I will not leave you for man of mould. We will pay the heathen their onset back, Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack." "Base," said Turpin, "who spares to smite: When the Emperor comes, he will all requite."

CLXXXI

The heathens said, "We were born to shame. This day for our disaster came: Our lords and leaders in battle lost, And Karl at hand with his marshalled host; We hear the trumpets of France ring out, And the cry 'Montjoie!' their rallying shout. Roland's pride is of such a height, Not to be vanquished by mortal wight; Hurl we our missiles, and hold aloof." And the word they spake, they put in proof,— They flung, with all their strength and craft, Javelin, barb, and plumed shaft. Roland's buckler was torn and frayed, His cuirass broken and disarrayed, Yet entrance none to his flesh they made. From thirty wounds Veillantif bled, Beneath his rider they cast him, dead; Then from the field have the heathen flown: Roland remaineth, on foot, alone.



THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP

CLXXXII

The heathens fly in rage and dread; To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped; Nor can Count Roland make pursuit— Slain is his steed, and he rests afoot; To succor Turpin he turned in haste, The golden helm from his head unlaced, Ungirt the corselet from his breast, In stripes divided his silken vest; The archbishop's wounds hath he staunched and bound, His arms around him softly wound; On the green sward gently his body laid, And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed: "For a little space, let me take farewell; Our dear companions, who round us fell, I go to seek; if I haply find, I will place them at thy feet reclined." "Go," said Turpin; "the field is thine— To God the glory, 'tis thine and mine."

CLXXXIII

Alone seeks Roland the field of fight, He searcheth vale, he searcheth height. Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low, And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux, Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho he found, and Berengier; Samson the duke, and Anseis bold, Gerard of Roussillon, the old. Their bodies, one after one, he bore, And laid them Turpin's feet before. The archbishop saw them stretched arow, Nor can he hinder the tears that flow; In benediction his hands he spread: "Alas! for your doom, my lords," he said, "That God in mercy your souls may give, On the flowers of Paradise to live; Mine own death comes, with anguish sore That I see mine Emperor never more."

CLXXXIV

Once more to the field doth Roland wend, Till he findeth Olivier his friend; The lifeless form to his heart he strained, Bore him back with what strength remained, On a buckler laid him, beside the rest, The archbishop assoiled them all, and blessed. Their dole and pity anew find vent, And Roland maketh his fond lament: "My Olivier, my chosen one, Thou wert the noble Duke Renier's son, Lord of the March unto Rivier vale. To shiver lance and shatter mail, The brave in council to guide and cheer, To smite the miscreant foe with fear,— Was never on earth such cavalier."

CLXXXV

Dead around him his peers to see, And the man he loved so tenderly, Fast the tears of Count Roland ran, His visage discolored became, and wan, He swooned for sorrow beyond control. "Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!"

CLXXXVI

To look on Roland swooning there, Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare; He stretched his hand, the horn he took,— Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,— A draught to Roland he thought to bring; But his steps were feeble and tottering, Spent his strength, from waste of blood,— He struggled on for scarce a rood, When sank his heart, and drooped his frame, And his mortal anguish on him came.

CLXXXVII

Roland revived from his swoon again; On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain; He looked on high, and he looked below, Till, a space his other companions fro, He beheld the baron, stretched on sward, The archbishop, vicar of God our Lord. Mea Culpa was Turpin's cry, While he raised his hands to heaven on high, Imploring Paradise to gain. So died the soldier of Carlemaine,— With word or weapon, to preach or fight, A champion ever of Christian right, And a deadly foe of the infidel. God's benediction within him dwell!

CLXXXVIII

When Roland saw him stark on earth (His very vitals were bursting forth, And his brain was oozing from out his head), He took the fair white hands outspread, Crossed and clasped them upon his breast, And thus his plaint to the dead addressed,— So did his country's law ordain:— "Ah, gentleman of noble strain, I trust thee unto God the True, Whose service never man shall do With more devoted heart and mind: To guard the faith, to win mankind, From the apostles' days till now, Such prophet never rose as thou. Nor pain or torment thy soul await, But of Paradise the open gate."



THE DEATH OF ROLAND

CLXXIX

Roland feeleth his death is near, His brain is oozing by either ear. For his peers he prayed—God keep them well; Invoked the angel Gabriel. That none reproach him, his horn he clasped; His other hand Durindana grasped; Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent, Across the march of Spain he went, Where, on a mound, two trees between, Four flights of marble steps were seen; Backward he fell, on the field to lie; And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh.

CXC

High were the mountains and high the trees, Bright shone the marble terraces; On the green grass Roland hath swooned away. A Saracen spied him where he lay: Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead, His face and body with blood bespread. To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,— He was fair and strong and of courage tried, In pride and wrath he was overbold,— And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold. "The nephew of Karl is overthrown! To Araby bear I this sword, mine own." He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew, Roland returned to his sense anew.

CXCI

He saw the Saracen seize his sword; His eyes he oped, and he spake one word— "Thou art not one of our band, I trow," And he clutched the horn he would ne'er forego; On the golden crest he smote him full, Shattering steel and bone and skull, Forth from his head his eyes he beat, And cast him lifeless before his feet. "Miscreant, makest thou then so free, As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me? Who hears it will deem thee a madman born; Behold the mouth of mine ivory horn Broken for thee, and the gems and gold Around its rim to earth are rolled."

CXCII

Roland feeleth his eyesight reft, Yet he stands erect with what strength is left; From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled, But his Durindana all bare he held. In front a dark brown rock arose— He smote upon it ten grievous blows. Grated the steel as it struck the flint, Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint. "Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid! Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade, I may no longer thy guardian be! What fields of battle I won with thee! What realms and regions 'twas ours to gain, Now the lordship of Carlemaine! Never shalt thou possessor know Who would turn from face of mortal foe; A gallant vassal so long thee bore, Such as France the free shall know no more."

CXCIII

He smote anew on the marble stair. It grated, but breach nor notch was there. When Roland found that it would not break, Thus began he his plaint to make. "Ah, Durindana, how fair and bright Thou sparklest, flaming against the light! When Karl in Maurienne valley lay, God sent his angel from heaven to say— 'This sword shall a valorous captain's be,' And he girt it, the gentle king, on me. With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine, Provence I conquered and Aquitaine; I conquered Normandy the free, Anjou, and the marches of Brittany; Romagna I won, and Lombardy, Bavaria, Flanders from side to side, And Burgundy, and Poland wide; Constantinople affiance vowed, And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed; Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland's plain, Of England made he his own domain. What mighty regions I won of old, For the hoary-headed Karl to hold! But there presses on me a grievous pain, Lest thou in heathen hands remain. O God our Father, keep France from stain!"

CXCIV

His strokes once more on the brown rock fell, And the steel was bent past words to tell; Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain, Erect it leaped to the sky again. When he failed at the last to break his blade, His lamentation he inly made. "Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword, What relics lie in thy pommel stored! Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil's blood, Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed, Fragment of holy Mary's vest. 'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest; Thee should the hand of a Christian serve One who would never in battle swerve. What regions won I with thee of yore, The empire now of Karl the hoar! Rich and mighty is he therefore."

CXCV

That death was on him he knew full well; Down from his head to his heart it fell. On the grass beneath a pine-tree's shade, With face to earth, his form he laid, Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, And turned his face to the heathen horde. Thus hath he done the sooth to show, That Karl and his warriors all may know, That the gentle count a conqueror died. Mea Culpa full oft he cried; And, for all his sins, unto God above, In sign of penance, he raised his glove.

CXCVI

Roland feeleth his hour at hand; On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land. With one hand beats he upon his breast: "In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed. From my hour of birth, both the great and small, Down to this day, I repent of all." As his glove he raises to God on high, Angels of heaven descend him nigh.

CXCVII

Beneath a pine was his resting-place, To the land of Spain hath he turned his face, On his memory rose full many a thought— Of the lands he won and the fields he fought; Of his gentle France, of his kin and line; Of his nursing father, King Karl benign;— He may not the tear and sob control, Nor yet forgets he his parting soul. To God's compassion he makes his cry: "O Father true, who canst not lie, Who didst Lazarus raise unto life agen, And Daniel shield in the lions' den; Shield my soul from its peril, due For the sins I sinned my lifetime through." He did his right-hand glove uplift— Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift; Then drooped his head upon his breast, And with clasped hands he went to rest. God from on high sent down to him One of his angel Cherubim— Saint Michael of Peril of the sea, Saint Gabriel in company— From heaven they came for that soul of price, And they bore it with them to Paradise.



PART III

THE REPRISALS



THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS



CXCVIII

Dead is Roland; his soul with God. While to Roncesvalles the Emperor rode, Where neither path nor track he found, Nor open space nor rood of ground, But was strewn with Frank or heathen slain, "Where art thou, Roland?" he cried in pain: "The Archbishop where, and Olivier, Gerein and his brother in arms, Gerier? Count Otho where, and Berengier, Ivon and Ivor, so dear to me; And Engelier of Gascony; Samson the duke, and Anseis the bold; Gerard, of Roussillon, the old; My peers, the twelve whom I left behind?" In vain!—No answer may he find. "O God," he cried, "what grief is mine That I was not in front of this battle line!" For very wrath his beard he tore, His knights and barons weeping sore; Aswoon full fifty thousand fall: Duke Naimes hath pity and dole for all.

CXCIX

Nor knight nor baron was there to see But wept full fast, and bitterly; For son and brother their tears descend, For lord and liege, for kin and friend; Aswoon all numberless they fell, But Naimes did gallantly and well. He spake the first to the Emperor— "Look onward, sire, two leagues before, See the dust from the ways arise,— There the strength of the heathen lies. Ride on; avenge you for this dark day." "O God," said Karl, "they are far away! Yet for right and honor, the sooth ye say. Fair France's flower they have torn from me." To Otun and Gebouin beckoned he, To Tybalt of Rheims, and Milo the count. "Guard the battle-field, vale, and mount— Leave the dead as ye see them lie; Watch, that nor lion nor beast come nigh, Nor on them varlet or squire lay hand; None shall touch them, 'tis my command, Till with God's good grace we return again." They answered lowly, in loving strain, "Great lord, fair sire, we will do your hest," And a thousand warriors with them rest.

CC

The Emperor bade his clarions ring, Marched with his host the noble king. They came at last on the heathens' trace, And all together pursued in chase; But the king of the falling eve was ware: He alighted down in a meadow fair, Knelt on the earth unto God to pray That he make the sun in his course delay, Retard the night, and prolong the day. Then his wonted angel who with him spake, Swiftly to Karl did answer make, "Ride on! Light shall not thee forego; God seeth the flower of France laid low; Thy vengeance wreak on the felon crew." The Emperor sprang to his steed anew.

CCI

God wrought for Karl a miracle: In his place in heaven the sun stood still. The heathens fled, the Franks pursued, And in Val Tenebres beside them stood; Towards Saragossa the rout they drave, And deadly were the strokes they gave. They barred against them path and road; In front the water of Ebro flowed: Strong was the current, deep and large, Was neither shallop, nor boat, nor barge. With a cry to their idol Termagaunt, The heathens plunge, but with scanty vaunt. Encumbered with their armor's weight, Sank the most to the bottom, straight; Others floated adown the stream; And the luckiest drank their fill, I deem: All were in marvellous anguish drowned. Cry the Franks, "In Roland your fate ye found."

CCII

As he sees the doom of the heathen host, Slain are some and drowned the most, (Great spoil have won the Christian knights), The gentle king from his steed alights, And kneels, his thanks unto God to pour: The sun had set as he rose once more. "It is time to rest," the Emperor cried, "And to Roncesvalles 'twere late to ride. Our steeds are weary and spent with pain; Strip them of saddle and bridle-rein, Free let them browse on the verdant mead." "Sire," say the Franks, "it were well indeed."

CCIII

The Emperor hath his quarters ta'en, And the Franks alight in the vacant plain; The saddles from their steeds they strip, And the bridle-reins from their heads they slip; They set them free on the green grass fair, Nor can they render them other care. On the ground the weary warriors slept; Watch nor vigil that night they kept.

CCIV

In the mead the Emperor made his bed, With his mighty spear beside his head, Nor will he doff his arms to-night, But lies in his broidered hauberk white. Laced is his helm, with gold inlaid, Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade, Which changes thirty times a day The brightness of its varying ray. Nor may the lance unspoken be Which pierced our Saviour on the tree; Karl hath its point—so God him graced— Within his golden hilt enchased. And for this honor and boon of heaven, The name Joyeuse to the sword was given; The Franks may hold it in memory. Thence came "Montjoie," their battle-cry, And thence no race with them may vie.

CCV

Clear was the night, and the fair moon shone. But grief weighed heavy King Karl upon; He thought of Roland and Olivier, Of his Franks and every gallant peer, Whom he left to perish in Roncesvale, Nor can he stint but to weep and wail, Imploring God their souls to bless,— Till, overcome with long distress, He slumbers at last for heaviness. The Franks are sleeping throughout the meads; Nor rest on foot can the weary steeds— They crop the herb as they stretch them prone.— Much hath he learned who hath sorrow known.

CCVI

The Emperor slumbered like man forespent, While God his angel Gabriel sent The couch of Carlemaine to guard. All night the angel kept watch and ward, And in a vision to Karl presaged A coming battle against him waged. 'Twas shown in fearful augury; The king looked upward to the sky— There saw he lightning, and hail, and storm, Wind and tempest in fearful form. A dread apparel of fire and flame, Down at once on his host they came. Their ashen lances the flames enfold, And their bucklers in to the knobs of gold; Grated the steel of helm and mail. Yet other perils the Franks assail, And his cavaliers are in deadly strait. Bears and lions to rend them wait, Wiverns, snakes and fiends of fire, More than a thousand griffins dire; Enfuried at the host they fly. "Help us, Karl!" was the Franks' outcry, Ruth and sorrow the king beset; Fain would he aid, but was sternly let. A lion came from the forest path, Proud and daring, and fierce in wrath; Forward sprang he the king to grasp, And each seized other with deadly clasp; But who shall conquer or who shall fall, None knoweth. Nor woke the king withal.

CCVII

Another vision came him o'er: He was in France, his land, once more; In Aix, upon his palace stair, And held in double chain a bear. When thirty more from Arden ran, Each spake with voice of living man: "Release him, sire!" aloud they call; "Our kinsman shall not rest in thrall. To succor him our arms are bound." Then from the palace leaped a hound, On the mightiest of the bears he pressed, Upon the sward, before the rest. The wondrous fight King Karl may see, But knows not who shall victor be. These did the angel to Karl display; But the Emperor slept till dawning day.

CCVIII

At morning-tide when day-dawn broke, The Emperor from his slumber woke. His holy guardian, Gabriel, With hand uplifted sained him well. The king aside his armor laid, And his warriors all were disarrayed. Then mount they, and in haste they ride, Through lengthening path and highway wide Until they see the doleful sight In Roncesvalles, the field of fight.

CCIX

Unto Roncesvalles King Karl hath sped, And his tears are falling above the dead; "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace,— I will go before, a little space, For my nephew's sake, whom I fain would find. It was once in Aix, I recall to mind, When we met at the yearly festal-tide,— My cavaliers in vaunting vied Of stricken fields and joustings proud,— I heard my Roland declare aloud, In foreign land would he never fall But in front of his peers and his warriors all, He would lie with head to the foeman's shore, And make his end like a conqueror." Then far as man a staff might fling, Clomb to a rising knoll the king.

CCX

As the king in quest of Roland speeds, The flowers and grass throughout the meads He sees all red with our baron's blood, And his tears of pity break forth in flood. He upward climbs, till, beneath two trees, The dints upon the rock he sees. Of Roland's corse he was then aware; Stretched it lay on the green grass bare. No marvel sorrow the king oppressed; He alighted down, and in haste he pressed, Took the body his arms between, And fainted: dire his grief I ween.

CCXI

As did reviving sense begin, Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin, The noble Geoffrey of Anjou, And his brother Henry nigh him drew. They made a pine-tree's trunk his stay; But he looked to earth where his nephew lay, And thus all gently made his dole: "My friend, my Roland, God guard thy soul! Never on earth such knight hath been, Fields of battle to fight and win. My pride and glory, alas, are gone!" He endured no longer; he swooned anon.

CCXII

As Karl the king revived once more, His hands were held by barons four. He saw his nephew, cold and wan; Stark his frame, but his hue was gone; His eyes turned inward, dark and dim; And Karl in love lamented him: "Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest In Paradise, amongst His blest! In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: No day shall dawn but sees my pain, And me of strength and pride bereft. No champion of mine honor left; Without a friend beneath the sky; And though my kindred still be nigh, Is none like thee their ranks among." With both his hands his beard he wrung. The Franks bewailed in unison; A hundred thousand wept like one.

CCXIII

"Dear Roland, I return again To Laon, to mine own domain; Where men will come from many a land, And seek Count Roland at my hand. A bitter tale must I unfold— 'In Spanish earth he lieth cold,' A joyless realm henceforth I hold, And weep with daily tears untold."

CCXIV

"Dear Roland, beautiful and brave, All men of me will tidings crave, When I return to La Chapelle. Oh, what a tale is mine to tell! That low my glorious nephew lies. Now will the Saxon foeman rise; Bulgar and Hun in arms will come, Apulia's power, the might of Rome, Palermitan and Afric bands, And men from fierce and distant lands. To sorrow sorrow must succeed; My hosts to battle who shall lead, When the mighty captain is overthrown?' Ah! France deserted now, and lone. Come, death, before such grief I bear." Once more his beard and hoary hair Began he with his hands to tear; A hundred thousand fainted there.

CCXV

"Dear Roland, and was this thy fate? May Paradise thy soul await. Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane: I cannot live, so deep my pain. For me my kindred lie undone; And would to Holy Mary's Son, Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight, My soul may take its parting flight: My spirit would with theirs abide; My body rest their dust beside." With sobs his hoary beard he tore. "Alas!" said Naimes, "for the Emperor."

CCXVI

"Sir Emperor," Geoffrey of Anjou said, "Be not by sorrow so sore misled. Let us seek our comrades throughout the plain, Who fell by the hands of the men of Spain; And let their bodies on biers be borne." "Yea," said the Emperor. "Sound your horn."

CCXVII

Now doth Count Geoffrey his bugle sound, And the Franks from their steeds alight to ground As they their dead companions find, They lay them low on biers reclined; Nor prayers of bishop or abbot ceased, Of monk or canon, or tonsured priest. The dead they blessed in God's great name, Set myrrh and frankincense aflame. Their incense to the dead they gave, Then laid them, as beseemed the brave— What could they more?—in honored grave.

CCXVIII

But the king kept watch o'er Roland's bier O'er Turpin and Sir Olivier. He bade their bodies opened be, Took the hearts of the barons three, Swathed them in silken cerements light, Laid them in urns of the marble white. Their bodies did the Franks enfold In skins of deer, around them rolled; Laved them with spices and with wine, Till the king to Milo gave his sign, To Tybalt, Otun, and Gebouin; Their bodies three on biers they set, Each in its silken coverlet.

* * * * *

CCXIX

To Saragossa did Marsil flee. He alighted beneath an olive tree, And sadly to his serfs he gave His helm, his cuirass, and his glaive, Then flung him on the herbage green; Came nigh him Bramimonde his queen. Shorn from his wrist was his right hand good; He swooned for pain and waste of blood. The queen, in anguish, wept and cried, With twenty thousand by her side. King Karl and gentle France they cursed; Then on their gods their anger burst. Unto Apollin's crypt they ran, And with revilings thus began: "Ah, evil-hearted god, to bring Such dark dishonor on our king. Thy servants ill dost thou repay." His crown and wand they wrench away, They bind him to a pillar fast, And then his form to earth they cast, His limbs with staves they bruise and break: From Termagaunt his gem they take: Mohammed to a trench they bear, For dogs and boars to tread and tear.

CCXX

Within his vaulted hall they bore King Marsil, when his swoon was o'er; The hall with colored writings stained. And loud the queen in anguish plained, The while she tore her streaming hair, "Ah, Saragossa, reft and bare, Thou seest thy noble king o'erthrown! Such felony our gods have shown, Who failed in fight his aids to be. The Emir comes—a dastard he, Unless he will that race essay, Who proudly fling their lives away. Their Emperor of the hoary beard, In valor's desperation reared, Will never fly for mortal foe. Till he be slain, how deep my woe[2]!"

[Footnote 2: Here intervenes the episode of the great battle fought between Charlemagne and Baligant, Emir of Babylon, who had come, with a mighty army, to the succor of King Marsil his vassal. This episode has been suspected of being a later interpolation. The translation is resumed at the end of the battle, after the Emir had been slain by Charlemagne's own hand, and when the Franks enter Saragossa in pursuit of the Saracens.]

* * * * *

CCXXI

Fierce is the heat and thick the dust. The Franks the flying Arabs thrust. To Saragossa speeds their flight. The queen ascends a turret's height. The clerks and canons on her wait, Of that false law God holds in hate. Order or tonsure have they none. And when she thus beheld undone The Arab power, all disarrayed, Aloud she cried, "Mahound us aid! My king! defeated is our race, The Emir slain in foul disgrace." King Marsil turns him to the wall, And weeps—his visage darkened all. He dies for grief—in sin he dies, His wretched soul the demon's prize.

CCXXII

Dead lay the heathens, or turned to flight, And Karl was victor in the fight. Down Saragossa's wall he brake— Defence he knew was none to make. And as the city lay subdued, The hoary king all proudly stood, There rested his victorious powers. The queen hath yielded up the towers— Ten great towers and fifty small. Well strives he whom God aids withal.

CCXXIII

Day passed; the shades of night drew on, And moon and stars refulgent shone. Now Karl is Saragossa's lord, And a thousand Franks, by the king's award, Roam the city, to search and see Where mosque or synagogue may be. With axe and mallet of steel in hand, They let nor idol nor image stand; The shrines of sorcery down they hew, For Karl hath faith in God the True, And will Him righteous service do. The bishops have the water blessed, The heathen to the font are pressed. If any Karl's command gainsay, He has him hanged or burned straightway. So a hundred thousand to Christ are won; But Bramimonde the queen alone Shall unto France be captive brought, And in love be her conversion wrought.

CCXXIV

Night passed, and came the daylight hours, Karl garrisoned the city's towers; He left a thousand valiant knights, To sentinel their Emperor's rights. Then all his Franks ascend their steeds, While Bramimonde in bonds he leads, To work her good his sole intent. And so, in pride and strength, they went; They passed Narbonne in gallant show, And reached thy stately walls, Bordeaux. There, on Saint Severin's altar high, Karl placed Count Roland's horn to lie, With mangons filled, and coins of gold, As pilgrims to this hour behold. Across Garonne he bent his way, In ships within the stream that lay, And brought his nephew unto Blaye, With his noble comrade, Olivier, And Turpin sage, the gallant peer. Of the marble white their tombs were made; In Saint Roman's shrine are the baron's laid, Whom the Franks to God and his saints commend And Karl by hill and vale doth wend, Nor stays till Aix is reached, and there Alighteth on his marble stair. When sits he in his palace hall, He sends around to his judges all, From Frisia, Saxony, Loraine, From Burgundy and Allemaine, From Normandy, Brittaine, Poitou: The realm of France he searches through, And summons every sagest man. The plea of Ganelon then began.

CCXXV

From Spain the Emperor made retreat, To Aix in France, his kingly seat; And thither, to his halls, there came, Alda, the fair and gentle dame. "Where is my Roland, sire," she cried, "Who vowed to take me for his bride?" O'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept; He tore his beard and loud he wept. "Dear sister, gentle friend," he said, "Thou seekest one who lieth dead: I plight to thee my son instead,— Louis, who lord of my realm shall be." "Strange," she said, "seems this to me. God and his angels forbid that I Should live on earth if Roland die." Pale grew her cheek—she sank amain, Down at the feet of Carlemaine. So died she. God receive her soul! The Franks bewail her in grief and dole.

CCXXVI

So to her death went Alda fair. The king but deemed she fainted there. While dropped his tears of pity warm, He took her hands and raised her form. Upon his shoulder drooped her head, And Karl was ware that she was dead. When thus he saw that life was o'er, He summoned noble ladies four. Within a cloister was she borne; They watched beside her until morn; Beneath a shrine her limbs were laid;— Such honor Karl to Alda paid.

CCXXVII

The Emperor sitteth in Aix again, With Gan, the felon, in iron chain, The very palace walls beside, By serfs unto a stake was tied. They bound his hands with leathern thong, Beat him with staves and cordage strong; Nor hath he earned a better fee. And there in pain awaits his plea.

CCXXVIII

'Tis written in the ancient geste, How Karl hath summoned east and west. At La Chapelle assembled they; High was the feast and great the day— Saint Sylvester's, the legend ran. The plea and judgment then began Of Ganelon, who the treason wrought, Now face to face with his Emperor brought.

CCXXIX

"Lords, my barons," said Karl the king, "On Gan be righteous reckoning: He followed in my host to Spain; Through him ten thousand Franks lie slain And slain was he, my sister's son, Whom never more ye look upon, With Olivier the sage and bold, And all my peers, betrayed for gold." "Shame befall me," said Gan, "if I Now or ever the deed deny; Foully he wronged me in wealth and land, And I his death and ruin planned: Therein, I say, was treason none." They said, "We will advise thereon."

CCXXX

Count Gan to the Emperor's presence came, Fresh of hue and lithe of frame, With a baron's mien, were his heart but true. On his judges round his glance he threw, And on thirty kinsmen by his side, And thus, with mighty voice, he cried: "Hear me, barons, for love of God. In the Emperor's host was I abroad— Well I served him, and loyally, But his nephew, Roland, hated me: He doomed my doom of death and woe, That I to Marsil's court should go. My craft, the danger put aside, But Roland loudly I defied, With Olivier, and all their crew, As Karl, and these his barons, knew. Vengeance, not treason, have I wrought." "Thereon," they answered, "take we thought."

CCXXXI

When Ganelon saw the plea begin, He mustered thirty of his kin, With one revered by all the rest— Pinabel of Sorrence's crest. Well can his tongue his cause unfold, And a vassal brave his arms to hold. "Thine aid," said Ganelon, "I claim; To rescue me from death and shame." Said Pinabel, "Rescued shalt thou be. Let any Frank thy death decree, And, wheresoe'er the king deems meet, I will him body to body greet, Give him the lie with my brand of steel." Ganelon sank at his feet to kneel.

CCXXXII

Come Frank and Norman to council in, Bavarian, Saxon, and Poitevin, With all the barons of Teuton blood; But the men of Auvergne are mild of mood— Their hearts are swayed unto Pinabel. Saith each to other, "Pause we well. Let us leave this plea, and the king implore To set Count Ganelon free once more. Henceforth to serve him in love and faith: Count Roland lieth cold in death: Not all the gold beneath the sky Can give him back to mortal eye; Such battle would but madness be." They all applauded his decree, Save Thierry—Geoffrey's brother he.

CCXXXIII

The barons came the king before. "Fair Sire, we all thy grace implore, That Gan be suffered free to go, His faith and love henceforth to show. Oh, let him live—a noble he. Your Roland you shall never see: No wealth of gold may him recall." Karl answered, "Ye are felons all."

CCXXXIV

When Karl saw all forsake him now, Dark grew his face and drooped his brow. He said, "Of men most wretched I!" Stepped forth Thierry speedily, Duke Geoffrey's brother, a noble knight, Spare of body, and lithe and light, Dark his hair and his hue withal, Nor low of stature, nor over tall: To Karl, in courteous wise, he said, "Fair Sire, be not disheartened. I have served you truly, and, in the name Of my lineage, I this quarrel claim. If Roland wronged Sir Gan in aught, Your service had his safeguard wrought. Ganelon bore him like caitiff base, A perjured traitor before your face. I adjudge him to die on the gallows tree; Flung to the hounds let his carcase be, The doom of treason and felony. Let kin of his but say I lie, And with this girded sword will I My plighted word in fight maintain." "Well spoken," cry the Franks amain.

CCXXXV

Sir Pinabel stood before Karl in place, Vast of body and swift of pace,— Small hope hath he whom his sword may smite. "Sire, it is yours to decide the right, Bid this clamor around to pause. Thierry hath dared to adjudge the cause; He lieth. Battle thereon I do." And forth his right-hand glove he drew. But the Emperor said, "In bail to me Shall thirty of his kinsmen be; I yield him pledges on my side: Be they guarded well till the right be tried." When Thierry saw the fight shall be, To Karl his right glove reacheth he; The Emperor gave his pledges o'er. And set in place were benches four— Thereon the champions take their seat, And all is ranged in order meet,— The preparations Ogier speeds,— And both demand their arms and steeds.

CCXXXVI

But yet, ere lay they lance in rest, They make their shrift, are sained and blessed; They hear the Mass, the Host receive, Great gifts to church and cloister leave. They stand before the Emperor's face; The spurs upon their feet they lace; Gird on their corselets, strong and light; Close on their heads the helmets bright. The golden hilts at belt are hung; Their quartered shields from shoulder swung. In hand the mighty spears they lift, Then spring they on their chargers swift. A hundred thousand cavaliers The while for Thierry drop their tears; They pity him for Roland's sake. God knows what end the strife will take.

CCXXXVII

At Aix is a wide and grassy plain, Where met in battle the barons twain. Both of valorous knighthood are, Their chargers swift and apt for war. They prick them hard with slackened rein; Drive each at other with might and main. Their bucklers are in fragments flung, Their hauberks rent, their girths unstrung; With saddles turned, they earthward rolled. A hundred thousand in tears behold.

CCXXXVIII

Both cavaliers to earth are gone, Both rise and leap on foot anon. Strong is Pinabel, swift and light; Each striketh other, unhorsed they fight; With golden-hilted swords, they deal Fiery strokes on the helms of steel. Trenchant and fierce is their every blow. The Franks look on in wondrous woe. "O God," saith Karl, "Thy judgment show."

CCXXXIX

"Yield thee, Thierry," said Pinabel. "In love and faith will I serve thee well, And all my wealth to thy feet will bring, Win Ganelon's pardon from the king." "Never," Thierry in scorn replied, "Shall thought so base in my bosom bide! God betwixt us this day decide."

CCXL

"Ah, Pinabel!" so Thierry spake, "Thou art a baron of stalwart make, Thy knighthood known to every peer,— Come, let us cease this battle here. With Karl thy concord shall be won, But on Ganelon be justice done; Of him henceforth let speech be none." "No," said Pinabel; "God forefend! My kinsman I to the last defend; Nor will I blench for mortal face,— Far better death than such disgrace." Began they with their glaves anew The gold-encrusted helms to hew; Towards heaven the fiery sparkles flew. They shall not be disjoined again, Nor end the strife till one be slain.

CCXLI

Pinabel, lord of Sorrence's keep, Smote Thierry's helm with stroke so deep The very fire that from it came Hath set the prairie round in flame; The edge of steel did his forehead trace Adown the middle of his face; His hauberk to the centre clave. God deigned Thierry from death to save.

CCXLII

When Thierry felt him wounded so, For his bright blood flowed on the grass below, He smote on Pinabel's helmet brown, Cut and clave to the nasal down; Dashed his brains from forth his head, And, with stroke of prowess, cast him dead. Thus, at a blow, was the battle won: "God," say the Franks, "hath this marvel done."

CCXLIII

When Thierry thus was conqueror, He came the Emperor Karl before. Full fifty barons were in his train, Duke Naimes, and Ogier the noble Dane, Geoffrey of Anjou and William of Blaye. Karl clasped him in his arms straightway With skin of sable he wiped his face; Then cast it from him, and, in its place, Bade him in fresh attire be drest. His armor gently the knights divest; On an Arab mule they make him ride: So returns he, in joy and pride. To the open plain of Aix they come, Where the kin of Ganelon wait their doom.

CCXLIV

Karl his dukes and his counts addressed: "Say, what of those who in bondage rest— Who came Count Ganelon's plea to aid, And for Pinabel were bailsmen made?" "One and all let them die the death." And the king to Basbrun, his provost, saith "Go, hang them all on the gallows tree. By my beard I swear, so white to see, If one escape, thou shalt surely die." "Mine be the task," he made reply. A hundred men-at-arms are there: The thirty to their doom they bear. The traitor shall his guilt atone, With blood of others and his own.

CCXLV

The men of Bavaria and Allemaine, Norman and Breton return again, And with all the Franks aloud they cry, That Gan a traitor's death shall die. They bade be brought four stallions fleet; Bound to them Ganelon, hands and feet: Wild and swift was each savage steed, And a mare was standing within the mead; Four grooms impelled the coursers on,— A fearful ending for Ganelon. His every nerve was stretched and torn, And the limbs of his body apart were borne; The bright blood, springing from every vein, Left on the herbage green its stain. He died a felon and recreant: Never shall traitor his treason vaunt.

CCXLVI

Now was the Emperor's vengeance done, And he called to the bishops of France anon With those of Bavaria and Allemaine. "A noble captive is in my train. She hath hearkened to sermon and homily, And a true believer in Christ will be; Baptize her so that her soul have grace." They say, "Let ladies of noble race, At her christening, be her sponsors vowed." And so there gathered a mighty crowd. At the baths of Aix was the wondrous scene— There baptized they the Spanish queen; Julienne they have named her name. In faith and truth unto Christ she came.

CCXLVII

When the Emperor's justice was satisfied, His mighty wrath did awhile subside. Queen Bramimonde was a Christian made, The day passed on into night's dark shade; As the king in his vaulted chamber lay, Saint Gabriel came from God to say, "Karl, thou shalt summon thine empire's host, And march in haste to Bira's coast; Unto Impha city relief to bring, And succor Vivian, the Christian king. The heathens in siege have the town essayed And the shattered Christians invoke thine aid." Fain would Karl such task decline. "God! what a life of toil is mine!" He wept; his hoary beard he wrung.

* * * * *

So ends the lay Turoldus sung.



THE DESTRUCTION OF DA DERGA'S HOSTEL

TRANSLATED BY

WHITLEY STOKES, D.C.L.



INTRODUCTORY NOTE

_The vast and interesting epic literature of Ireland remained practically inaccessible to English readers till within the last sixty years. In 1853, Nicholas O'Kearney published the Irish text and an English translation of "The Battle of Gabra," and since that date the volume of printed texts and English versions has steadily increased, until now there lies open to the ordinary reader a very considerable mass of material illustrating the imaginative life of medieval Ireland.

Of these Irish epic tales, "The Destruction of Da Derga's Hostel" is a specimen of remarkable beauty and power. The primitive nature of the story is shown by the fact that the plot turns upon the disasters that follow on the violation of tabus or prohibitions often with a supernatural sanction, by the monstrous nature of many of the warriors, and by the utter absence of any attempt to rationalise or explain the beliefs implied or the marvels related in it. The powers and achievements of the heroes are fantastic and extraordinary beyond description, and the natural and extra-natural constantly mingle; yet nowhere, does the narrator express surprise. The technical method of the tale, too, is curiously and almost mechanically symmetrical, after the manner of savage art; and both description and narration are marked by a high degree of freshness and vividness.

The following translation is, with slight modification, that of Dr. Whitley Stokes, from a text constructed by him on the basis of eight manuscripts, the oldest going back to about 1100 A.D. The story itself is, without doubt, several centuries earlier, and belongs to the oldest group of extant Irish sagas._



THE DESTRUCTION OF DA DERGA'S HOSTEL

There was a famous and noble king over Erin, named Eochaid Feidlech. Once upon a time he came over the fairgreen of Bri Leith, and he saw at the edge of a well a woman with a bright comb of silver adorned with gold, washing in a silver basin wherein were four golden birds and little, bright gems of purple carbuncle in the rims of the basin. A mantle she had, curly and purple, a beautiful cloak, and in the mantle silvery fringes arranged, and a brooch of fairest gold. A kirtle she wore, long, hooded, hard-smooth, of green silk, with red embroidery of gold. Marvellous clasps of gold and silver in the kirtle on her breasts and her shoulders and spaulds on every side. The sun kept shining upon her, so that the glistening of the gold against the sun from the green silk was manifest to men. On her head were two golden-yellow tresses, in each of which was a plait of four locks, with a bead at the point of each lock. The hue of that hair seemed to them like the flower of the iris in summer, or like red gold after the burnishing thereof.

There she was, undoing her hair to wash it, with her arms out through the sleeve-holes of her smock. White as the snow of one night were the two hands, soft and even, and red as foxglove were the two clear-beautiful cheeks. Dark as the back of a stag-beetle the two eyebrows. Like a shower of pearls were the teeth in her head. Blue as a hyacinth were the eyes. Red as rowan-berries the lips. Very high, smooth and soft-white the shoulders. Clear-white and lengthy the fingers. Long were the hands. White as the foam of a wave was the flank, slender, long, tender, smooth, soft as wool. Polished and warm, sleek and white were the two thighs. Round and small, hard and white the two knees. Short and white and rulestraight the two shins. Justly straight and beautiful the two heels. If a measure were put on the feet it would hardly have found them unequal, unless the flesh of the coverings should grow upon them. The bright radiance of the moon was in her noble face: the loftiness of pride in her smooth eyebrows: the light of wooing in each of her regal eyes. A dimple of delight in each of her cheeks, with a dappling (?) in them at one time, of purple spots with redness of a calf's blood, and at another with the bright lustre of snow. Soft womanly dignity in her voice; a step steady and slow she had: a queenly gait was hers. Verily, of the world's women 'twas she was the dearest and loveliest and justest that the eyes of men had ever beheld. It seemed to King Eochaid and his followers that she was from the elfmounds. Of her was said: "Shapely are all till compared with Etain," "Dear are all till compared with Etain."

A longing for her straightway seized the king; so he sent forward a man of his people to detain her. The king asked tidings of her and said, while announcing himself: "Shall I have an hour of dalliance with thee?"

"'Tis for that we have come hither under thy safeguard," quoth she.

"Query, whence art thou and whence hast thou come?" says Eochaid.

"Easy to say," quoth she. "Etain am I, daughter of Etar, king of the cavalcade from the elfmounds. I have been here for twenty years since I was born in an elfmound. The men of the elfmound, both kings and nobles, have been wooing me; but nought was gotten from me, because ever since I was able to speak, I have loved thee and given thee a child's love for the high tales about thee and thy splendour. And though I had never seen thee, I knew thee at once from thy description: it is thou, then, I have reached."

"No 'seeking of an ill friend afar' shall be thine," says Eochaid. "Thou shalt have welcome, and for thee every other woman shall be left by me, and with thee alone will I live so long as thou hast honour."

"My proper bride-price to me!" she says, "and afterwards my desire."

"Thou shalt have both," says Eochaid.

Seven cumals[3] are given to her.

[Footnote 3: I.e., twenty-one cows.]

Then the king, even Eochaid Feidlech, dies, leaving one daughter named, like her mother, Etain, and wedded to Cormac, king of Ulaid.

After the end of a time Cormac, king of Ulaid, "the man of the three gifts," forsakes Eochaid's daughter, because she was barren save for one daughter that she had borne to Cormac after the making of the pottage which her mother—the woman from the elfmounds—gave her. Then she said to her mother: "Bad is what thou hast given me: it will be a daughter that I shall bear."

"That will not be good," says her mother; "a king's pursuit will be on her."

Then Cormac weds again his wife, even Etain, and this was his desire, that the daughter of the woman who had before been abandoned [i.e. his own daughter] should be killed. So Cormac would not leave the girl to her mother to be nursed. Then his two thralls take her to a pit, and she smiles a laughing smile at them as they were putting her into it. Then their kindly nature came to them. They carry her into the calfshed of the cowherds of Etirscel, great-grandson of Iar, king of Tara, and they fostered her till she became a good embroideress; and there was not in Ireland a king's daughter dearer than she.

A fenced house of wickerwork was made by the thralls for her, without any door, but only a window and a skylight. King Eterscel's folk espy that house and suppose that it was food that the cowherds kept there. But one of them went and looked through the skylight, and he saw in the house the dearest, beautifullest maiden! This is told to the king, and straightway he sends his people to break the house and carry her off without asking the cowherds. For the king was childless, and it had been prophesied to him by his wizards that a woman of unknown race would bear him a son.

Then said the king: "This is the woman that has been prophesied to me!"

Now while she was there next morning she saw a Bird on the skylight coming to her, and he leaves his birdskin on the floor of the house, and went to her and possessed her, and said: "They are coming to thee from the king to wreck thy house and to bring thee to him perforce. And thou wilt be pregnant by me, and bear a son, and that son must not kill birds[4]. And 'Conaire, son of Mess Buachalla' shall be his name," for hers was Mess Buachalla, "the Cowherds' fosterchild."

[Footnote 4: This passage indicates the existence in Ireland of totems, and of the rule that the person to whom a totem belongs must not kill the totem-animal.—W.S.]

And then she was brought to the king, and with her went her fosterers, and she was betrothed to the king, and he gave her seven cumals and to her fosterers seven other cumals. And afterwards they were made chieftains, so that they all became legitimate, whence are the two Fedlimthi Rechtaidi. And then she bore a son to the king, even Conaire son of Mess Buachalla, and these were her three urgent prayers to the king, to wit, the nursing of her son among three households, that is, the fosterers who had nurtured her, and the two Honeyworded Maines, and she herself is the third; and she said that such of the men of Erin as should wish to do aught for this boy should give to those three households for the boy's protection.

So in that wise he was reared, and the men of Erin straightway knew this boy on the day he was born. And other boys were fostered with him, to wit, Fer Le and Fer Gar and Fer Rogein, three great-grandsons of Donn Desa the champion, an army-man of the army from Muc-lesi.

Now Conaire possessed three gifts, to wit, the gift of hearing and the gift of eyesight and the gift of judgment; and of those three gifts he taught one to each of his three fosterbrothers. And whatever meal was prepared for him, the four of them would go to it. Even though three meals were prepared for him each of them would go to his meal. The same raiment and armour and colour of horses had the four.

Then the king, even Eterscele, died. A bull-feast is gathered by the men of Erin, in order to determine their future king; that is, a bull used to be killed by them and thereof one man would eat his fill and drink its broth, and a spell of truth was chanted over him in his bed. Whosoever he would see in his sleep would be king, and the sleeper would perish if he uttered a falsehood.

Four men in chariots were on the Plain of Liffey at their game, Conaire himself and his three fosterbrothers. Then his fosterers went to him that he might repair to the bull-feast. The bull-feaster, then in his sleep, at the end of the night beheld a man stark-naked, passing along the road of Tara, with a stone in his sling.

"I will go in the morning after you," quoth he.

He left his fosterbrothers at their game, and turned his chariot and his charioteer until he was in Dublin. There he saw great, white-speckled birds, of unusual size and colour and beauty. He pursues then until his horses were tired. The birds would go a spearcast before him, and would not go any further. He alighted, and takes his sling for them out of the chariot. He goes after them until he was at the sea. The birds betake themselves to the wave. He went to them and overcame them. The birds quit their birdskins, and turn upon him with spears and swords. One of them protects him, and addressed him, saying: "I am Nemglan, king of thy father's birds; and thou hast been forbidden to cast at birds, for here there is no one that should not be dear to thee because of his father or mother."

"Till to-day," says Conaire, "I knew not this."

"Go to Tara tonight," says Nemglan; "'tis fittest for thee. A bull-feast is there, and through it thou shalt be king. A man stark-naked, who shall go at the end of the night along one of the roads of Tara, having a stone and a sling—'tis he that shall be king."

So in this wise Conaire fared forth; and on each of the four roads whereby men go to Tara there were three kings awaiting him, and they had raiment for him, since it had been foretold that he would come stark-naked. Then he was seen from the road on which his fosterers were, and they put royal raiment about him, and placed him in a chariot, and he bound his pledges.

The folk of Tara said to him: "It seems to us that our bull-feast and our spell of truth are a failure, if it be only a young, beardless lad that we have visioned therein."

"That is of no moment," quoth he. "For a young, generous king like me to be in the kingship is no disgrace, since the binding of Tara's pledges is mine by right of father and grandsire."

"Excellent! excellent!" says the host. They set the kingship of Erin upon him. And he said: "I will enquire of wise men that I myself may be wise."

Then he uttered all this as he had been taught by the man at the wave, who said this to him: "Thy reign will be subject to a restriction, but the bird-reign will be noble, and this shall be thy restriction, i.e. thy tabu.

"Thou shalt not go righthandwise round Tara and lefthandwise round Bregia.

"The evil-beasts of Cerna must not be hunted by thee.

"And thou shalt not go out every ninth night beyond Tara.

"Thou shalt not sleep in a house from which firelight is manifest outside, after sunset, and in which light is manifest from without.

"And three Reds shall not go before thee to Red's house.

"And no rapine shall be wrought in thy reign.

"And after sunset a company of one woman or one man shall not enter the house in which thou art.

"And thou shalt not settle the quarrel of thy two thralls.

Now there were in his reign great bounties, to wit, seven ships in every June in every year arriving at Inver Colptha[5], and oakmast up to the knees in every autumn, and plenty of fish in the rivers Bush and Boyne in the June of each year, and such abundance of good will that no one slew another in Erin during his reign. And to every one in Erin his fellow's voice seemed as sweet as the strings of lutes. From mid-spring to mid-autumn no wind disturbed a cow's tail. His reign was neither thunderous nor stormy.

[Footnote 5: The mouth of the river Boyne.—W.S.]

Now his fosterbrothers murmured at the taking from them of their father's and their grandsire's gifts, namely Theft and Robbery and Slaughter of men and Rapine. They thieved the three thefts from the same man, to wit, a swine and an ox and a cow, every year, that they might see what punishment therefor the king would inflict upon them, and what damage the theft in his reign would cause to the king.

Now every year the farmer would come to the king to complain, and the king would say to him. "Go thou and address Donn Desa's three great-grandsons, for 'tis they that have taken the beasts." Whenever he went to speak to Donn Desa's descendants they would almost kill him, and he would not return to the king lest Conaire should attend his hurt.

Since, then, pride and wilfulness possessed them, they took to marauding, surrounded by the sons of the lords of the men of Erin. Thrice fifty men had they as pupils when they (the pupils) were were-wolfing in the province of Connaught, until Maine Milscothach's swineherd saw them, and he had never seen that before. He went in flight. When they heard him they pursued him. The swineherd shouted, and the people of the two Maines came to him, and the thrice fifty men were arrested, along with their auxiliaries, and taken to Tara. They consulted the king concerning the matter, and he said: "Let each (father) slay his son, but let my fosterlings be spared."

"Leave, leave!" says every one: "it shall be done for thee."

"Nay indeed," quoth he; "no 'cast of life' by me is the doom I have delivered. The men shall not be hung; but let veterans go with them that they may wreak their rapine on the men of Alba."

This they do. Thence they put to sea and met the son of the king of Britain, even Ingcel the One-eyed, grandson of Conmac: thrice fifty men and their veterans they met upon the sea.

They make an alliance, and go with Ingcel and wrought rapine with him.

This is the destruction which his own impulse gave him. That was the night that his mother and his father and his seven brothers had been bidden to the house of the king of his district. All of them were destroyed by Ingcel in a single night. Then the Irish pirates put out to sea to the land of Erin to seek a destruction as payment for that to which Ingcel had been entitled from them.

In Conaire's reign there was perfect peace in Erin, save that in Thomond there was a joining of battle between the two Carbres. Two fosterbrothers of his were they. And until Conaire came it was impossible to make peace between them. 'Twas a tabu of his to go to separate them before they had repaired to him. He went, however, although to do so was one of his tabus, and he made peace between them. He remained five nights with each of the two. That also was a tabu of his.

After settling the two quarrels, he was travelling to Tara. This is the way they took to Tara, past Usnech of Meath; and they saw the raiding from east and west, and from south and north, and they saw the warbands and the hosts and the men stark-naked; and the land of the southern O'Neills was a cloud of fire around him.

"What is this?" asked Conaire. "Easy to say," his people answer. "Easy to know that the king's law has broken down therein, since the country has begun to burn."

"Whither shall we betake ourselves?" says Conaire.

"To the Northeast," says his people.

So then they went righthandwise round Tara, and lefthandwise round Bregia, and the evil beasts of Cerna were hunted by him. But he saw it not till the chase had ended.

They that made of the world that smoky mist of magic were elves, and they did so because Conaire's tabus had been violated.

Great fear then fell on Conaire because they had no way to wend save upon the Road of Midluachair and the Road of Cualu.

So they took their way by the coast of Ireland southward.

Then said Conaire on the Road of Cualu: "whither shall we go tonight?"

"May I succeed in telling thee! my fosterling Conaire," says Mac cecht, son of Snade Teiched, the champion of Conaire, son of Eterscel. "Oftener have the men of Erin been contending for thee every night than thou hast been wandering about for a guesthouse."

"Judgment goes with good times," says Conaire. "I had a friend in this country, if only we knew the way to his house!"

"What is his name?" asked Mac cecht.

"Da Derga of Leinster," answered Conaire. "He came unto me to seek a gift from me, and he did not come with a refusal. I gave him a hundred kine of the drove. I gave him a hundred fatted swine. I gave him a hundred mantles made of close cloth. I gave him a hundred blue-coloured weapons of battle. I gave him ten red, gilded brooches. I gave him ten vats good and brown. I gave him ten thralls. I gave him ten querns. I gave him thrice nine hounds all-white in their silvern chains. I gave him a hundred racehorses in the herds of deer. There would be no abatement in his case though he should come again. He would make return. It is strange if he is surly to me tonight when reaching his abode."

"When I was acquainted with his house," says Mac cecht, "the road whereon thou art going towards him was the boundary of his abode. It continues till it enters his house, for through the house passes the road. There are seven doorways into the house, and seven bedrooms between every two doorways; but there is only one door-valve on it, and that valve is turned to every doorway to which the wind blows."

"With all that thou hast here," says Conaire, "thou shalt go in thy great multitude until thou alight in the midst of the house."

"If so be," answers Mac cecht, "that thou goest thither, I go on that I may strike fire there ahead of thee."

When Conaire after this was journeying along the Road of Cualu, he marked before him three horsemen riding towards the house. Three red frocks had they, and three red mantles: three red bucklers they bore, and three red spears were in their hands: three red steeds they bestrode, and three red heads of hair were on them. Red were they all, both body and hair and raiment, both steeds and men.

"Who is it that fares before us?" asked Conaire. "It was a tabu of mine for those Three to go before me—the three Reds to the house of Red. Who will follow them and tell them to come towards me in my track?"

"I will follow them," says Le fri flaith, Conaire's son.

He goes after them, lashing his horse, and overtook them not. There was the length of a spearcast between them: but they did not gain upon him and he did not gain upon them.

He told them not to go before the king. He overtook them not; but one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder:

"Lo, my son, great the news, news from a hostel.... Lo my son!"

They go away from him then: he could not detain them.

The boy waited for the host. He told his father what was said to him. Conaire liked it not. "After them, thou!" says Conaire, "and offer them three oxen and three bacon-pigs, and so long as they shall be in my household, no one shall be among them from fire to wall."

So the lad goes after them, and offers them that, and overtook them not. But one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder:

"Lo, my son, great the news! A generous king's great ardour whets thee, burns thee. Through ancient men's enchantments a company of nine yields. Lo, my son!"

The boy turns back and repeated the lay to Conaire.

"Go after them," says Conaire, "and offer them six oxen and six bacon-pigs, and my leavings, and gifts tomorrow, and so long as they shall be in my household no one to be among them from fire to wall."

The lad then went after them, and overtook them not; but one of the three men answered and said:

"Lo, my son, great the news. Weary are the steeds we ride. We ride the steeds of Donn Tetscorach from the elfmounds. Though we are alive we are dead. Great are the signs; destruction of life: sating of ravens: feeding of crows, strife of slaughter: wetting of sword-edge, shields with broken bosses in hours after sundown. Lo, my son!"

Then they go from him.

"I see that thou hast not detained the men," says Conaire.

"Indeed it is not I that betrayed it," says Le fri flaith.

He recited the last answer that they gave him. Conaire and his retainers were not blithe thereat: and afterwards evil forebodings of terror were on them.

"All my tabus have seized me tonight," says Conaire, "since those Three Reds are the banished folks[6]."

[Footnote 6: They had been banished from the elfmounds, and for them to precede was to violate one of his tabus.—W.S.]

They went forward to the house and took their seats therein, and fastened their red steeds to the door of the house.

That is the Forefaring of the Three Reds in the Bruden Da Derga.

This is the way that Conaire took with his troops, to Dublin.

'Tis then the man of the black, cropt hair, with his one hand and one eye and one foot, overtook them. Rough cropt hair upon him. Though a sackful of wild apples were flung on his crown, not an apple would fall on the ground, but each of them would stick on his hair. Though his snout were flung on a branch they would remain together. Long and thick as an outer yoke was each of his two shins. Each of his buttocks was the size of a cheese on a withe. A forked pole of iron black-pointed was in his hand. A swine, black-bristled, singed, was on his back, squealing continually, and a woman big-mouthed, huge, dark, sorry, hideous, was behind him. Though her snout were flung on a branch, the branch would support it. Her lower lip would reach her knee.

He starts forward to meet Conaire, and made him welcome. "Welcome to thee, O master Conaire! Long hath thy coming hither been known."

"Who gives the welcome?" asks Conaire.

"Fer Caille here, with his black swine for thee to consume that thou be not fasting tonight, for 'tis thou art the best king that has come into the world!"

"What is thy wife's name?" says Conaire.

"Cichuil," he answers.

"Any other night," says Conaire, "that pleases you, I will come to you,—and leave us alone to night."

"Nay," say the churl, "for we will go to thee to the place wherein thou wilt be tonight, O fair little master Conaire!"

So he goes towards the house, with his great, big-mouthed wife behind him, and his swine short-bristled, black, singed, squealing continually, on his back. That was one of Conaire's tabus, and that plunder should be taken in Ireland during his reign was another tabu of his.

Now plunder was taken by the sons of Donn Desa, and five hundred there were in the body of their marauders, besides what underlings were with them. This, too, was a tabu of Conaire's. There was a good warrior in the north country, "Wain over withered sticks," this was his name. Why he was so called was because he used to go over his opponent even as a wain would go over withered sticks. Now plunder was taken by him, and there were five hundred in the body of their marauders alone, besides underlings.

There was after that a troop of still haughtier heroes, namely, the seven sons of Ailill and Medb, each of whom was called "Mane." And each Mane had a nickname, to wit, Mane Fatherlike and Mane Motherlike, and Mane otherlike, and Mane Gentle-pious, Mane Very-pious, Mane Unslow, and Mane Honeyworded, Mane Grasp-them-all, and Mane the Loquacious. Rapine was wrought by them. As to Mane Motherlike and Mane Unslow there were fourteen score in the body of their marauders. Mane Fatherlike had three hundred and fifty. Mane Honeyworded had five hundred. Mane Grasp-them-all had seven hundred. Mane the Loquacious had seven hundred. Each of the others had five hundred in the body of his marauders.

There was a valiant trio of the men of Cualu of Leinster, namely, the three Red Hounds of Cualu, called Cethach and Clothach and Conall. Now rapine was wrought by them, and twelve score were in the body of their marauders, and they had a troop of madmen. In Conaire's reign a third of the men of Ireland were reavers. He was of sufficient strength and power to drive them out of the land of Erin so as to transfer their marauding to the other side (Great Britain), but after this transfer they returned to their country.

When they had reached the shoulder of the sea, they meet Ingcel the One-eyed and Eiccel and Tulchinne, three great-grandsons of Conmac of Britain, on the raging of the sea. A man ungentle, huge, fearful, uncouth was Ingcel. A single eye in his head, as broad as an oxhide, as black as a chafer, with three pupils therein. Thirteen hundred were in the body of his marauders. The marauders of the men of Erin were more numerous then they.

They go for a sea-encounter on the main. "Ye should not do this," says Ingcel: "do not break the truth of men (fair play) upon us, for ye are more in number than I."

"Nought but a combat on equal terms shall befall thee," say the reavers of Erin.

"There is somewhat better for you," quoth Ingcel. "Let us make peace since ye have been cast out of the land of Erin, and we have been cast out of the land of Alba and Britain. Let us make an agreement between us. Come ye and wreak your rapine in my country, and I will go with you and wreak my rapine in your country."

They follow this counsel, and they gave pledges therefor from this side and from that. There are the sureties that were given to Ingcel by the men of Erin, namely, Fer gair and Gabur (or Fer lee) and Fer rogain, for the destruction that Ingcel should choose to cause in Ireland and for the destruction that the sons of Donn Desa should choose in Alba and Britain.

A lot was cast upon them to see with which of them they should go first. It fell that they should go with Ingcel to his country. So they made for Britain, and there his father and mother and his seven brothers were slain, as we have said before. Thereafter they made for Alba, and there they wrought the destruction, and then they returned to Erin.

'Tis then, now, that Conaire son of Eterscel went towards the Hostel along the Road of Cualu.

'Tis then that the reavers came till they were in the sea off the coast of Bregia overagainst Howth.

Then said the reavers: "Strike the sails, and make one band of you on the sea that ye may not be sighted from land; and let some lightfoot be found from among you to go on shore to see if we could save our honors with Ingcel. A destruction for the destruction he has given us."

"Who will go on shore to listen? Let some one go," says Ingcel, "who should have there the three gifts, namely gift of hearing, gift of far sight, and gift of judgment."

"I," says Mane Honeyworded, "have the gift of hearing."

"And I," says Mane Unslow, "have the gift of far sight and of judgment."

"'Tis well for you to go thus," say the reavers: "good is that wise."

Then nine men go on till they were on the Hill of Howth, to know what they might hear and see.

"Be still a while!" says Mane Honeyworded.

"What is that?" asks Mane Unslow.

"The sound of a good king's cavalcade I hear."

"By the gift of far sight, I see," quoth his comrade.

"What seest thou here?"

"I see there," quoth he, "cavalcades splendid, lofty, beautiful, warlike, foreign, somewhat slender, weary, active, keen, whetted, vehement, a good course that shakes a great covering of land. They fare to many heights, with wondrous waters and invers[7]."

[Footnote 7: Mouths of rivers.]

"What are the waters and heights and invers that they traverse?"

"Easy to say: Indeoin, Cult, Cuilten, Mafat, Ammat, Iarmafat, Finne, Goiste, Guistine. Gray spears over chariots: ivory-hilted swords on thighs: silvery shields above their elbows. Half red and half white. Garments of every color about them.

"Thereafter I see before them special cattle specially keen, to wit, thrice fifty dark-gray steeds. Small-headed are they, red-nosed, pointed, broad-hoofed, big-nosed, red-chested, fat, easily-stopt, easily-yoked, foray-nimble, keen, whetted, vehement, with their thrice fifty bridles of red enamel upon them."

"I swear by what my tribe swears," says the man of the long sight, "these are the cattle of some good lord. This is my judgment thereof: it is Conaire, son of Eterscel, with multitudes of the men of Erin around him, who has travelled the road."

Back then they go that they may tell it to the reavers. "This," they say, "is what we have heard and seen."

Of this host, then, there was a multitude, both on this side and on that, namely, thrice fifty boats, with five thousand in them, and ten hundred in every thousand. Then they hoisted the sails on the boats, and steer them thence to shore, till they landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe.

When the boats reached land, then was Mac cecht a-striking fire in Da Derga's Hostel. At the sound of the spark the thrice fifty boats were hurled out, so that they were on the shoulders of the sea.

"Be silent a while!" said Ingcel. "Liken thou that, O Fer rogain."

"I know not," answers Fer rogain, "unless it is Luchdonn the satirist in Emain Macha, who makes this hand-smiting when his food is taken from him perforce: or the scream of Luchdonn in Temair Luachra: or Mac cecht's striking a spark, when he kindles a fire before a king of Erin where he sleeps. Every spark and every shower which his fire would let fall on the floor would broil a hundred calves and two half-pigs."

"May God not bring that man (even Conaire) there to-night!" say Donn Desa's sons. "Sad that he is under the hurt of foes!"

"Meseems," says Ingcel, "it should be no sadder for me than the destruction I gave you. This were my feast that Conaire should chance to come there."

Their fleet is steered to land. The noise that the thrice fifty vessels made in running ashore shook Da Derga's Hostel so that no spear nor shield remained on rack therein, but the weapons uttered a cry and fell all on the floor of the house.

"Liken thou that, O Conaire," says every one: "what is this noise?"

"I know nothing like it unless it be the earth that has broken, or the Leviathan that surrounds the globe and strikes with its tail to overturn the world, or the barque of the sons of Donn Desa that has reached the shore. Alas that it should not be they who are there! Beloved foster-brothers of our own were they! Dear were the champions. We should not have feared them tonight."

Then came Conaire, so that he was on the green of the Hostel.

When Mac cecht heard the tumultuous noise, it seemed to him that warriors had attacked his people. Thereat he leapt on to his armour to help them. Vast as the thunder-feat of three hundred did they deem his game in leaping to his weapons. Thereof there was no profit.

Now in the bow of the ship wherein were Donn Desa's sons was the champion, greatly-accoutred, wrathful, the lion hard and awful, Ingcel the One-eyed, great-grandson of Conmac. Wide as an oxhide was the single eye protruding from his forehead, with seven pupils therein, which were black as a chafer. Each of his knees as big as a stripper's caldron; each of his two fists was the size of a reaping-basket: his buttocks as big as a cheese on a withe: each of his shins as long as an outer yoke.

So after that, the thrice fifty boats, and those five thousands—with ten hundred in every thousand,—landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe.

Then Conaire with his people entered the Hostel, and each took his seat within, both tabu and non-tabu. And the three Reds took their seats, and Fer caille with his swine took his seat.

Thereafter Da Derga came to them, with thrice fifty warriors, each of them having a long head of hair to the hollow of his polls, and a short cloak to their buttocks. Speckled-green drawers they wore, and in their hands were thrice fifty great clubs of thorn with bands of iron.

"Welcome, O master Conaire!" quoth he. "Though the bulk of the men of Erin were to come with thee, they themselves would have a welcome."

When they were there they saw a lone woman coming to the door of the Hostel, after sunset, and seeking to be let in. As long as a weaver's beam was each of her two shins, and they were as dark as the back of a stag-beetle. A greyish, wooly mantle she wore. Her lower hair used to reach as far as her knee. Her lips were on one side of her head.

She came and put one of her shoulders against the doorpost of the house, casting the evil eye on the king and the youths who surrounded him in the Hostel. He himself addressed her from within.

"Well, O woman," says Conaire, "if thou art a wizard, what seest thou for us?"

"Truly I see for thee," she answers, "that neither fell nor flesh of thine shall escape from the place into which thou hast come, save what birds will bear away in their claws."

"It was not an evil omen we foreboded, O woman," saith he: "it is not thou that always augurs for us. What is thy name, O woman?"

"Cailb," she answers.

"That is not much of a name," says Conaire.

"Lo, many are my names besides."

"Which be they?" asks Conaire.

"Easy to say," quoth she. "Samon, Sinand, Seisclend, Sodb, Caill, Coll, Dichoem, Dichiuil, Dithim, Dichuimne, Dichruidne, Dairne, Darine, Deruaine, Egem, Agam, Ethamne, Gnim, Cluiche, Cethardam, Nith, Nemain, Noennen, Badb, Blosc, B[l]oar, Huae, oe Aife la Sruth, Mache, Mede, Mod."

On one foot, and holding up one hand, and breathing one breath she sang all that to them from the door of the house.

"I swear by the gods whom I adore," says Conaire, "that I will call thee by none of these names whether I shall be here a long or a short time."

"What dost thou desire?" says Conaire.

"That which thou, too, desirest," she answered.

"'Tis a tabu of mine," says Conaire, "to receive the company of one woman after sunset."

"Though it be a tabu," she replied, "I will not go until my guesting come at once this very night."

"Tell her," says Conaire, "that an ox and a bacon-pig shall be taken out to her, and my leavings: provided that she stays tonight in some other place."

"If in sooth," she says, "it has befallen the king not to have room in his house for the meal and bed of a solitary woman, they will be gotten apart from him from some one possessing generosity—if the hospitality of the Prince in the Hostel has departed."

"Savage is the answer!" says Conaire. "Let her in, though it is a tabu of mine."

Great loathing they felt after that from the woman's converse, and ill-foreboding; but they knew not the cause thereof.

The reavers afterwards landed, and fared forth till they were at Lecca cinn slebe. Ever open was the Hostel. Why it was called a Bruden was because it resembles the lips of a man blowing a fire.

Great was the fire which was kindled by Conaire every night, to wit, a "Boar of the Wood." Seven outlets it had. When a log was cut out of its side every flame that used to come forth at each outlet was as big as the blaze of a burning oratory. There were seventeen of Conaire's chariots at every door of the house, and by those that were looking from the vessels that great light was clearly seen through the wheels of the chariots.

"Canst thou say, O Fer rogain, what that great light yonder resembles?"

"I cannot liken it to aught," answers Fer rogain, "unless it be the fire of a king. May God not bring that man there tonight! 'Tis a pity to destroy him!"

"What then deemest thou," says Ingcel, "of that man's reign in the land of Erin?"

"Good is his reign," replied Fer rogain. "Since he assumed the kingship, no cloud has veiled the sun for the space of a day from the middle of spring to the middle of autumn. And not a dewdrop fell from grass till midday, and wind would not touch a beast's tail until nones. And in his reign, from year's end to year's end, no wolf has attacked aught save one bullcalf of each byre; and to maintain this rule there are seven wolves in hostageship at the sidewall in his house, and behind this a further security, even Maclocc, and 'tis he that pleads for them in Conaire's house. In Conaire's reign are the three crowns on Erin, namely, crown of corn-ears, and crown of flowers, and crown of oak mast. In his reign, too, each man deems the other's voice as melodious as the strings of lutes, because of the excellence of the law and the peace and the goodwill prevailing throughout Erin. May God not bring that man there tonight! 'Tis sad to destroy him. 'Tis 'a branch through its blossom,' 'Tis a swine that falls before mast. 'Tis an infant in age. Sad is the shortness of his life!"

"This was my luck," says Ingcel, "that he should be there, and there should be one Destruction for another. It were not more grievous to me than my father and my mother and my seven brothers, and the king of my country, whom I gave up to you before coming on the transfer of the rapine."

"'Tis true, 'tis true!" say the evildoers who were along with the reavers.

The reavers make a start from the Strand of Fuirbthe, and bring a stone for each man to make a cairn; for this was the distinction which at first the Fians made between a "Destruction" and a "Rout." A pillar-stone they used to plant when there would be a Rout. A cairn, however, they used to make when there would be a Destruction. At this time, then, they made a cairn, for it was a Destruction. Far from the house was this, that they might not be heard or seen therefrom.

For two causes they built their cairn, namely, first, since this was a custom in marauding, and, secondly, that they might find out their losses at the Hostel. Every one that would come safe from it would take his stone from the cairn: thus the stones of those that were slain would be left, and thence they would know their losses. And this is what men skilled in story recount, that for every stone in Carn leca there was one of the reavers killed at the Hostel. From that cairn Leca in Hui Cellaig is so called.

A "boar of a fire" is kindled by the sons of Donn Desa to give warning to Conaire. So that is the first warning-beacon that has been made in Erin, and from it to this day every warning-beacon is kindled.

This is what others recount: that it was on the eve of samain (All-Saints-day) the destruction of the Hostel was wrought, and that from yonder beacon the beacon of samain is followed from that to this, and stones (are placed) in the samain-fire.

Then the reavers framed a counsel at the place where they had put the cairn.

"Well, then," says Ingcel to the guides, "what is nearest to us here?"

"Easy to say: the Hostel of Hua Derga, chief-hospitaller of Erin."

"Good men indeed," says Ingcel, "were likely to seek their fellows at that Hostel to-night."

This, then, was the counsel of the reavers, to send one of them to see how things were there.

"Who will go there to espy the house?" say everyone.

"Who should go," says Ingcel, "but I, for 'tis I that am entitled to dues."

Ingcel went to reconnoitre the Hostel with one of the seven pupils of the single eye which stood out of his forehead, to fit his eye into the house in order to destroy the king and the youths who were around him therein. And Ingcel saw them through the wheels of the chariots.

Then Ingcel was perceived from the house. He made a start from it after being perceived.

He went till he reached the reavers in the stead wherein they were. Each circle of them was set around another to hear the tidings—the chiefs of the reavers being in the very centre of the circles. There were Fer ger and Fer gel and Fer rogel and Fer rogain and Lomna the Buffoon, and Ingcel the One-eyed—six in the centre of the circles. And Fer rogain went to question Ingcel.

"How is that, O Ingcel?" asks Fer rogain.

"However it be," answers Ingcel, "royal is the custom, hostful is the tumult: kingly is the noise thereof. Whether a king be there or not, I will take the house for what I have a right to. Thence my turn of rapine cometh."

"We have left it in thy hand, O Ingcel!" say Conaire's fosterbrothers. "But we should not wreak the Destruction till we know who may be therein."

"Question, hast thou seen the house well, O Ingcel?" asks Fer rogain.

"Mine eye cast a rapid glance around it, and I will accept it for my dues as it stands."

"Thou mayest well accept it, O Ingcel," saith Fer rogain: "the foster father of us all is there, Erin's overking, Conaire, son of Eterscel."

"Question, what sawest thou in the champion's high seat of the house, facing the King, on the opposite side?"

THE ROOM OF CORMAC CONDLONGAS

"I saw there," says Ingcel, "a man of noble countenance, large, with a clear and sparkling eye, an even set of teeth, a face narrow below, broad above. Fair, flaxen, golden hair upon him, and a proper fillet around it. A brooch of silver in his mantle, and in his hand a gold-hilted sword. A shield with five golden circles upon it: a five-barbed javelin in his hand. A visage just, fair, ruddy he hath: he is also beardless. Modest-minded is that man!"

"And after that, whom sawest thou there?"

THE ROOM OF CORMAC'S NINE COMRADES

"There I saw three men to the west of Cormac, and three to the east of him, and three in front of the same man. Thou wouldst deem that the nine of them had one mother and one father. They are of the same age, equally goodly, equally beautiful, all alike. Thin rods of gold in their mantles. Bent shields of bronze they bear. Ribbed javelins above them. An ivory-hilted sword in the hand of each. An unique feat they have, to wit, each of them takes his sword's point between his two fingers, and they twirl the swords round their fingers, and the swords afterwards extend themselves by themselves. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain," says Ingcel.

"Easy," says Fer rogain, "for me to liken them. It is Conchobar's son, Cormac Condlongas, the best hero behind a shield in the land of Erin. Of modest mind is that boy! Evil is what he dreads tonight. He is a champion of valour for feats of arms; he is an hospitaller for householding. These are yon nine who surround him, the three Dungusses, and the three Doelgusses, and the three Dangusses, the nine comrades of Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar. They have never slain men on account of their misery, and they never spared them on account of their prosperity. Good is the hero who is among them, even Cormac Condlongas. I swear what my tribe swears, nine times ten will fall by Cormac in his first onset, and nine times ten will fall by his people, besides a man for each of their weapons, and a man for each of themselves. And Cormac will share prowess with any man before the Hostel, and he will boast of victory over a king or crown-prince or noble of the reavers; and he himself will chance to escape, though all his people be wounded."

"Woe to him who shall wreak this Destruction!" says Lomna Druth, "even because of that one man, Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar." "I swear what my tribe swears," says Lomna son of Donn Desa, "if I could fulfil my counsel, the Destruction would not be attempted were it only because of that one man, and because of the hero's beauty and goodness!"

"It is not feasible to prevent it," says Ingcel: "clouds of weakness come to you. A keen ordeal which will endanger two cheeks of a goat will be opposed by the oath of Fer rogain, who will run. Thy voice, O Lomna," says Ingcel, "hath taken breaking upon thee: thou art a worthless warrior, and I know thee. Clouds of weakness come to you...."

Neither old men nor historians shall declare that I quitted the Destruction, until I shall wreak it."

"Reproach not our honour, O Ingcel," say Ger and Gabur and Fer rogain. "The Destruction shall be wrought unless the earth break under it, until all of us are slain thereby."

"Truly, then, thou hast reason, O Ingcel," says Lomna Druth son of Donn Desa. "Not to thee is the loss caused by the Destruction. Thou wilt carry off the head of the king of a foreign country, with thy slaughter of another; and thou and thy brothers will escape from the Destruction, even Ingcel and Ecell and the Yearling of the Rapine."

"Harder, however, it is for me," says Lomna Druth: "woe is me before every one! woe is me after every one! 'Tis my head that will be first tossed about there to-night after an hour among the chariot-shafts, where devilish foes will meet. It will be flung into the Hostel thrice, and thrice will it be flung forth. Woe to him that comes! woe to him with whom one goes! woe to him to whom one goes! wretches are they that go! wretches are they to whom they go!"

"There is nothing that will come to me," says Ingcel, "in place of my mother and my father and my seven brothers, and the king of my district, whom ye destroyed with me. There is nothing that I shall not endure henceforward."

"Though a ... should go through them," say Ger and Gabur and Fer rogain, "the Destruction will be wrought by thee to-night."

"Woe to him who shall put them under the hands of foes!" says Lomna. "And whom sawest thou afterwards?"

THE ROOM OF THE PICTS, THIS

"I saw another room there, with a huge trio in it: three brown, big men: three round heads of hair on them, even, equally long at nape and forehead. Three short black cowls about them reaching to their elbows: long hoods were on the cowls. Three black, huge swords they had, and three black shields they bore, with three dark broad-green javelins above them. Thick as the spit of a caldron was the shaft of each. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!"

"Hard it is for me to find their like. I know not in Erin that trio, unless it be yon trio of Pictland, who went into exile from their country, and are now in Conaire's household. These are their names: Dublonges son of Trebuat, and Trebuat son of Hua-Lonsce, and Curnach son of Hua Faich. The three who are best in Pictland at taking arms are that trio. Nine decads will fall at their hands in their first encounter, and a man will fall for each of their weapons, besides one for each of themselves. And they will share prowess with every trio in the Hostel. They will boast a victory over a king or a chief of the reavers; and they will afterwards escape though wounded. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, though it be only on account of those three!"