He
sang how once a king of the Ultonians, having plunged into the
sea-depths, there slew a monster which had wrought much havoc
amongst fishers and seafaring men. The heroes attended to his
song, leaning forward with bright eyes. They applauded the song
and the singer, and praised the valour of the heroic man
[Footnote: This was Fergus Mac Leda, Fergus, son of Leda, one of
the more ancient kings of Ulster. His contest with the sea-monster
is the theme of a heroic tale.] who had done that deed. Then the
champion struck the table with his clenched hand, and addressed
the assembly. Wrath and sorrow were in his voice. It resembled the
brool of lions heard afar by seafaring men upon some savage shore
on a still night.
"Famous deeds," he said, "are not wrought now amongst the Red
Branch. I think we are all become women. I grow weary of these
huntings in the morning and mimic exercises of war, and this
training of steeds and careering of brazen chariots stained never
with aught but dust and mire, and these unearned feastings at
night and vain applause of the brave deeds of our forefathers.
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