Dermot was asleep when Finn sounded the horn but the last note of it
waked him. He sprang to his feet with a mighty bound that sent showers
of rocks and dirt in every direction.
“Great is the trouble of my chief!” he exclaimed. “I have never heard
such a blast from his horn.”
He rushed to the shore, found a small boat lying there, hoisted the sail
and set off in the direction from whence the sound had come. He was
lucky enough to arrive at the same harbor in which was anchored the ship
on which Finn had been taken away. Dermot anchored his boat and started
up the broad road.
As he went along he found men, women and children hastening in the same
direction with all the speed at their command. He asked several of them
the reason for their hurry, but all seemed too excited to answer him.
Finally Dermot grew angry, so singling out one man who seemed to be in
greater haste than the rest, he picked him up and held him off the
ground while he repeated his question.
The man was greatly frightened, you may believe, for Dermot was taller
and broader than any man of the White Nation and must have seemed quite
like a giant to his captive. The man suddenly became very anxious to
explain.
“You must not belong to this country, if you do not know where we are
going,” he said.
“I am not from this country,” answered Dermot. “I am from Erin.”
“If that is so, you must know Finn MacCool,” said the man.
“I know him well. He is my chief,” replied Dermot.
“Then you had better tell no one that you are from Erin,” said the man.
“If you do, you are likely to share the same fate. Finn is to be hanged
in the palace courtyard today. The gallows is ready. When he is dead,
his body is to be pulled to pieces by wild horses. You had better not
acknowledge that you know him.”
Dermot set the fellow on his feet again. The fierce look in his eyes
caused the man to step back.
“If you were not so small,” thundered Dermot, “you would never give such
advice to another man. Men from Erin never fail to acknowledge their
friends. Show me the way to the palace.”
“If you will go up the hill on your right, you can see it in the valley
below,” directed the man. He lost no time in getting a safe distance
from this mighty stranger. He was so frightened that instead of going on
to the hanging, he turned around and made for his home as fast as he
could. In the whole White Nation he was the only man traveling away from
the palace.
Dermot bounded up the hill with mighty strides. When on top he looked in
the direction of the hurrying people. Sure enough, there was the castle
with crowds spread out all around it. Dermot dashed down the hill at
full speed.
People were crowded so closely together that no ordinary man could
possibly have squeezed through them. Each man was elbowing his neighbor
so that he might get close enough to see the death of this great Fenian
chief. Dermot could have cut his way through with his sword, but it was
one of the rules of the Fenians not to harm the common people of a
nation. He cleared his way by taking several in his right hand and
several in his left and putting them behind him. Then he stepped into
the opening and repeated the process until he reached the courtyard. He
walked past the gallows and up to the pole of combat before the palace.
This he struck a mighty blow with his sword.
The king came to his window and looked out in alarm.
“Who struck that blow?” he asked. “It must have been an enemy.”
If the trouble had not been so serious, Dermot might have laughed at
this silly remark. But he was in no humor for laughter.
“If that sounded like the blow of a friend,” he said, “listen to this.”
Once more he swung his sword against the pole. This time his blow was so
strong that the pole broke into splinters, which showered over the heads
of the people.
“What do you want?” whined the king, who was, and always had been, a
fearful coward.
“I want to see my chief, Finn MacCool, or to fight for him,” announced
Dermot.
“See him you shall not,” declared the king, keeping well in the
protection of his castle. “You are at liberty to fight for him.”
“Very well,” answered Dermot. “Send out seven hundred of your best men
on my right hand, seven hundred on my left, seven hundred at my back and
as many as you wish in front of me.”
“How many?” demanded the startled king, drawing still further back into
his palace.
Dermot repeated his demand. You must remember that Dermot was the son of
a god and could not be wounded. It is no wonder the king thought he had
misunderstood. It was too good a chance to let go by. The king sent out
the men requested, feeling sure that he would soon be rid of this
fellow, who had made splinters of the combat pole.
But the king’s men were no match for Dermot even when they pressed
against him in such numbers. By nightfall not a man had touched him
while hundreds of the warriors of the White Nation were wounded or dead.
With the setting of the sun, Dermot put up his sword and called out to
the king,
“Do I get shelter for the night?”
It was customary in those days to stop fighting when the sun went down.
It was also the custom to furnish food and a bed to a hero who was
making a trial at arms. The king pointed to a long, low house a short
distance from the courtyard.
“Go in there,” he called. “You are welcome to what shelter you find.”