pons, so that a hundred warriors of them died of terror and of
heart-burst in the middle of the camp and of the position that
night.

When Loeg was there, he saw something: a single man who came
straight across the camp of the men of Ireland from the north-east
straight towards him.

'A single man is coming to us now, O Little Hound!' said Loeg.

'What kind of man is there?' said Cuchulainn.

'An easy question: a man fair and tall is he, with hair cut broad,
waving yellow hair; a green mantle folded round him; a brooch of
white silver in the mantle on his breast; a tunic of royal silk,
with red ornamentation of red gold against the white skin, to his
knees. A black shield with a hard boss of white metal; a five
pointed spear in his hand; a forked (?) javelin beside it.
Wonderful is the play and sport and exercise that he makes; but no
one attacks him, and he attacks no one, as if no one saw him.'

'It is true, O fosterling,' said he; 'which of my friends from the
_sid_ is that who comes to have pity on me, because they know the
sore distress in which I am, alone against the four great provinces
of Ireland, on the Cattle-Foray of Cualnge at this time?'

That was true for Cuchulainn. When the warrior had reached the
place where Cuchulainn was, he spoke to him, and had pity on him
for it.

'This is manly, O Cuchulainn,' said he.

'It is not much at all,' said Cuchulainn.

'I will help you,' said the man.

'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 space.'

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 space 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