Down by the shore he could see figures moving, and, thinking that his knights had found their way thither, he rode like the wind down the long, gentle slope towards them. As he drew nearer and nearer, he saw that there were twelve of them, and they were playing at ball. By the mighty strokes they gave with the coman he guessed that these were the twelve sons of Bawr Sculloge, for none but them could drive the ball so high and far. Tremendous were their strokes, and, when they ran after the ball, they outstripped the wind.
As Fion drew rein and dismounted, they stopped their play; and, drawing near, welcomed him loudly as the helper of the weak, and the protector of the green island against the white-faced stranger.
When he had returned their greeting, they invited him to join them in their game—if such an amusement was agreeable to him.
'Fion, son of Cumhail,' said one, 'here, take my coman and wipe away the vanity and conceit of all comers, for we are practising for a great contest.'
Fion took the coman and looked at it, holding it up between his finger and thumb.
'I doubt if I could do much good with this plaything,' said Fion; 'it would break at first blow if I were to strike at all hard.'
'Never let that stand in the way,' returned the other. 'Wait!'
He then searched upon the ground among the blades of grass, and at length found a nettle, which he pulled up by the roots. Having breathed a charm over it, he passed it three times from one hand to the other, and lo, it was changed into a mighty coman, fit for the hand of Fion, son of Cumhail.
Then they were amazed at his terrific blows. The ball, struck by Fion, soared almost out of sight in the sky, and fell to earth far off. But, each time, the fleet-footed sons of Bawr Sculloge retrieved it.
At last Fion bared his arm to the shoulder, and, with a final blow, sent the ball out of sight. None saw it go; none saw it fall. They all stood and looked at each other.