ith the Ultonians who had sheltered on a
rising ground. But the Sons of Usna found themselves entrapped in a
morass where the water had been. Conor, seeing them in his hands at
last, bade some of his warriors go and take them. But for shame no
Ultonian would go, and it was a man from Norway who walked along a dry
spit of land to where they stood, sunk deep in the green bog. "Slay me
first!" called Ardan as he drew near, sword in hand. "I am the
youngest, and, who knows, my death may change the tides of fate!"

And Ainle also craved that death might be dealt to him the first. But
Naoise held out his own sword, "The Retaliator," to the executioner.

"Mannanan, the son of Lir, gave me my good sword," he said. "With it
strike my dear brothers and me one blow only as we stand here like
three trees planted in the soil. Then shall none of us know the grief
and shame of seeing the other beheaded." And because it was hard for
any man to disobey the command of Naoise, a king of men, the Norseman
reached out his hand for the sword. But Deirdre sprang from the
shoulder of Naoise and would have killed the man ere he struck.
Roughly he threw her aside, and with one blow he shore off the heads
of the three greatest heroes of Alba.

For a little while there was a great stillness there, like the silence
before the coming of a storm. And then all who had beheld the end of
the fair and noble Sons of Usna broke into great lamentation. Only
Conor stood silent, gazing at the havoc he had wrought. To Cuchulainn,
the mighty champion, a good man and a true, Deirdre fled, and begged
him to protect her for the little span of life that she knew yet
remained to her. And with him she went to where the head of Naoise
lay, and tenderly she cleansed it from blood and from the stains of
strife and stress, and smoothed the hair that was black as a raven's
wing, and kissed the cold lips again and again. And as she held it
against her white breast, as a mother holds a little child, she
chanted for Naoise, her heart, and for his brothers, a lament that
still lives in the language of the Gael.

"Is it honour that ye love, brave and chivalrous Ultonians?
Or is the word of a base king better than noble truth?
Of a surety ye must be glad, who have basely slain honour
In slaying the three noblest and best of your brotherhood.

* * * * *

Let now my beauty that set all this warring aflame,
Let now my beauty be