PART III_The Harvard Classics, Volume 49, Epic and Saga With Introductions And Notes

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.

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 Tenèbres 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 disheartenèd.

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 DÁ 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 Dá 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 DÁ 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 Brí Léith, 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 Etáin,"

"Dear are all till compared with Etáin."

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. "Etáin 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, Etáin, 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 Etáin, 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 Etirscél, 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 Eterscél'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 Mainès, 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

Désa 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 Eterscéle, 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 Némglan, 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 Némglan; "'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 Désá's three

great-grandsons, for 'tis they that have taken the beasts." Whenever he

went to speak to Donn Désá'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 Mainès 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 Ingcél the One-eyed, grandson of Conmac: thrice fifty men

and their veterans they met upon the sea.

They make an alliance, and go with Ingcél 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 Ingcél 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 Ingcél 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 Eterscél. "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.

"Dá 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 Cuálu, 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 Lé 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 Lé 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 Dá 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 Désa, 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 "Manè." And each

Manè had a nickname, to wit, Manè Fatherlike and Manè Motherlike, and

Manè otherlike, and Manè Gentle-pious, Manè Very-pious, Manè Unslow, and

Manè Honeyworded, Manè Grasp-them-all, and Manè the Loquacious. Rapine

was wrought by them. As to Manè Motherlike and Manè Unslow there were

fourteen score in the body of their marauders. Manè Fatherlike had three

hundred and fifty. Manè Honeyworded had five hundred. Manè

Grasp-them-all had seven hundred. Manè 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 Cúalu of Leinster, namely, the

three Red Hounds of Cúalu, 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 Ingcél 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 Ingcél. 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

Ingcél: "do not break the truth of men (fair play) upon us, for ye are