Part 18 (1/2)

'Who are you at all?' said Cuchulainn.

'It is I, your father from the _sid_, Lug Mac Ethlend.'

'My wounds are heavy, it were high time that I should be healed.'

'Sleep a little, O Cuchulainn,' said the warrior; 'your heavy swoon (?) [Note: Conjectural--MS. _tromthortim_.] of sleep at the mound of Lerga till the end of three days and three nights, and I will fight against the hosts for that s.p.a.ce.'

Then he sings the _ferdord_ to him, and he sleeps from it. Lug looked at each wound that it was clean. Then Lug said:

'Arise, O great son of the Ulstermen, whole of thy wounds. ... Go into thy chariot secure. Arise, arise!' [Note: Rhetoric.]

For three days and three nights Cuchulainn was asleep. It were right indeed though his sleep equalled his weariness. From the Monday after the end of summer exactly to the Wednesday after Candlemas, for this s.p.a.ce Cuchulainn had not slept, except when he slept a little while against his spear after midday, with his head on his clenched fist, and his clenched fist on his spear, and his spear on his knee; but he was striking and cutting and attacking and slaying the four great provinces of Ireland for that s.p.a.ce.

It is then that the warrior of the sid cast herbs and gra.s.ses of curing and charms of healing into the hurts and wounds and into the injuries and into the many wounds of Cuchulainn, so that Cuchulainn recovered in his sleep without his perceiving it at all.

Now it was at this time that the boys came south from Emain Macha: Folloman Mac Conchobair with three fifties of kings' sons of Ulster, and they gave battle thrice to the hosts, so that three times their own number fell, and all the boys fell except Folloman Mac Conchobair. Folloman boasted that he would not go back to Emain for ever and ever, until he should take the head of Ailill with him, with the golden crown that was above it. This was not easy to him; for the two sons of Bethe Mac Bain, the two sons of Ailill's foster-mother and foster-father, came on him, and wounded him so that he fell by them. So that that is the death of the boys of Ulster and of Folloman Mac Conchobair.

Cuchulainn for his part was in his deep sleep till the end of three days and three nights at the mound in Lerga. Cuchulainn arose then from his sleep, and put his hand over his face, and made a purple wheelbeam from head to foot, and his mind was strong in him, and he would have gone to an a.s.sembly, or a march, or a tryst, or a beer-house, or to one of the chief a.s.semblies of Ireland.

'How long have I been in this sleep now, O warrior?' said Cuchulainn.

'Three days and three nights,' said the warrior.

'Alas for that!' said Cuchulainn.

'What is the matter?' said the warrior.

'The hosts without attack for this s.p.a.ce,' said Cuchulainn.

'They are not that at all indeed,' said the warrior.

'Who has come upon them?' said Cuchulainn.

'The boys came from the north from Emain Macha; Folloman Mac Conchobair with three fifties of boys of the kings' sons of Ulster; and they gave three battles to the hosts for the s.p.a.ce of the three days and the three nights in which you have been in your sleep now.

And three times their own number fell, and the boys fell, except Folloman Mac Conchobair. Folloman boasted that he would take Ailill's head, and that was not easy to him, for he was killed.'

'Pity for that, that I was not in my strength! For if I had been in my strength, the boys would not have fallen as they have fallen, and Folloman Mac Conchobair would not have fallen.'

'Strive further, O Little Hound, it is no reproach to thy honour and no disgrace to thy valour.'

'Stay here for us to-night, O warrior,' said Cuchulainn, 'that we may together avenge the boys on the hosts.'

'I will not stay indeed,' said the warrior, 'for however great the contests of valour and deeds of arms any one does near thee, it is not on him there will be the renown of it or the fame or the reputation, but it is on thee; therefore I will not stay. But ply thy deed of arms thyself alone on the hosts, for not with them is there power over thy life this time.'

'The scythe-chariot, O my friend Loeg!' said Cuchulainn; 'can you yoke it? and is its equipment here? If you can yoke it, and if you have its equipment, yoke it; and if you have not its equipment, do not yoke it at all.'

It is then that the charioteer arose, and he put on his hero's dress of charioteering. This was his hero's dress of charioteering that he put on: his soft tunic of skin, light and airy, well-turned [Note: Lit. 'kneaded.'], made of skin, sewn, of deer-skin, so that it did not restrain the movement of his hands outside. He put on his black (?) upper-cloak over it outside: Simon Magus had made it for Darius, King of the Romans, so that Darius gave it to Conchobar, and Conchobar gave it to Cuchulainn, and Cuchulainn gave it to his charioteer. The charioteer took first then his helm, ridged, like a board (?), four-cornered, with much of every colour and every form, over the middle of his shoulders.

This was well-measured (?) to him, and it was not an overweight.

His hand brought the circlet of red-yellow, as though it were a plate of red-gold, of refined gold smelted over the edge of an anvil, to his brow, as a sign of his charioteering, in distinction to his master.