the collection of an army; he did this for friendship.
Ailill and Medb perceived it; it was then Medb said:

'O Fergus, this is strange,
What kind of way do we go?
Straying south or north
We go over every other folk.

'Ailill of Ai with his hosting
Fears that you will betray them.
You have not given your mind hitherto
To the leading of the way.

'If it is in friendship that you do it,
Do not lead the horses
Peradventure another may be found
To lead the way.'

Fergus replied:

'O Medb, what troubles you?
This is not like treachery.
It belongs to the Ulstermen, O woman,
The land across which I am leading you.

'It is not for the disadvantage of the host
That I go on each wandering in its turn;
It is to avoid the great man
Who protects Mag Murthemne.

'Not that my mind is not distressed
On account of the straying on which I go,
But if perchance I may avoid even afterwards
Cuchulainn Mac Sualtaim.'

Then they went till they were in Iraird Cuillend. Eirr and Indell,
Foich and Foclam (their two charioteers), the four sons of Iraird
Mac Anchinne, [Marginal gloss: 'or the four sons of Nera Mac Nuado
Mac Taccain, as it is found in other books.'] it is they who were
before the host, to protect their brooches and their cushions and
their cloaks, that the dust of the host might not soil them. They
found the withe that Cuchulainn threw, and perceived the grazing
that the horses had grazed. For Sualtaim's two horses had eaten the
grass with its roots from the earth; Cuchulainn's two horses had
licked the earth as far as the stones beneath the grass. They sit
down then, until the host came, and the musicians play to them.
They give the withe into the hands of Fergus Mac Roich; he read the
ogam that was on it.

When Medb came, she asked, 'Why are you waiting here?'

'We wait,' said Fergus,' because of the withe yonder. There is an
ogam on its ----, and this is what is in it: "Let no one go past
till a man is found to throw a like withe with his one hand, and
let it be one twig of which it is made; and I except my friend
Fergus." Truly,' said Fergus, 'Cuchulainn has thrown it, and they
are his horses that grazed the plain.'

And he put it in the hands of the druids; and Fergus sang this song:

'Her