Now his eye lighted upon a tall pillar-stone that was beside the loch in the midst of the plain. And he drew himself to the stone, and leaned his back against it, and with the girdle that was about his breast, he bound himself to the stone, standing up facing the men of Erin. And in his hand he grasped his naked sword and held it up aloft, and in his other hand he took his shield, and placed it close beside him on the ground. For he said, “I will not die before the men of Erin lying down nor sitting on the ground, but I will die before them standing up.” And the Grey of Macha found him where he stood, and came up, dragging the spear that still held in his wound; and it laid its head upon Cuchulain’s breast, weeping great dropping tears of dusky blood. And all about his shoulders hovered carrion birds, yet still the host dared not venture nigh, for the hero’s light shone from his forehead, and they knew not whether he were alive or dead.
Then went Luga near to see if he were yet alive, and as he came beside him, the great sword fell from the dying Champion’s hand, and struck the hand of Luga, and smote it off, so that the sword and hand fell to the ground together. Cuchulain heaved a deep and troubled sigh, and with that sigh his soul parted from his body. Yea, with the greatness of that sigh the pillar-stone was split, as may be seen to this day. Men call it still the Pillar of the Hero’s dying Sigh.
[CHAPTER XXX]
The Red Rout
Daily upon the ramparts of Dun Dalgan Emer of the beauteous hair looked out and waited for Cuchulain, for nought of Laeg’s grim tale, that he was dead or dying on the Plain, would take hold on her mind. But still and evermore he came not home.
Upon a certain day, far off she saw a single horseman coming towards the fort, upon a horse that wearily and weakly moved along, dropping red blood at every step. Weary the horseman seemed, and in his hand he bore a rod made out of osiers of the stream, and on it hung the gory heads of lately slaughtered men. Then trembling and affright fell on the queen. Full well she knew the horse that dripped with blood, the Grey of Macha, Cuchulain’s chariot-steed, but on his back another rider sat. “’Tis Conall the Victorious,” she exclaimed, “he rides Cuchulain’s horse. With evil news he comes to me this day. The tale is true that Laeg told, Cuchulain in his blood lies on Murthemne’s Plain, dying or dead. Woe that another rides Cuchulain’s steed! Woe that the Hound of Ulster draws not near. Full many a day in triumphant pride by this same path he hath come home to me! Full many a day along this beaten way in gallant glee he hath gone forth to war!” Sadly and sorrowfully drew Conall near and greeted Emer. And Emer said, “What gory heads are those thou bearest on the withe? How and in what fight didst thou come by them?” “These are the heads of those who slew thy hero and my friend! Alas! that I in distant lands was wandering when Cuchulain died. Too late I came to save him, if perchance he still might shun the hour of his death; but not too late my promise to redeem and to avenge his fall. See here upon the withe is Luga’s head, and here the head of dark Curoi mac Daire, and here is Erc’s, the fair young lad who stained his youth with blood, the blood of Ulster’s Guardian and its Hound. These and the others I bear here with me in token of my duty well performed, my promise kept. Where’er men speak the praise of Ulster’s Hound and tell his deeds, there also shall they speak of the Red Rout of Conall Cernach, in vengeance of his death!”
Then trembling Emer said, “One head I see not here upon the withe; yet in thy bosom surely thou hast yet one head for me. I see fair hair, O Conall, bring it forth; give back to me my lover and my friend.”
Then Conall said: “Listen, O Emer, to the tale I tell. When round the men of Erin in my wrath and battle-fury I had passed, cutting and hewing down their chiefs and leaders and their mighty men, close up to Tara’s wall I made my way, seeking for Erc, who fled before my steps surrounded by his chosen counsellors. Passing the playing-fields without the fort, I saw men playing hurley with a head, a human head in place of hurley-balls, a human head yet fresh and wet with blood. My own blood froze within my veins! It was the head of Ulster’s Hound they struck and flung from hand to hand! And at the shame of it methought its cheeks blushed hot and rosy red. Even as I came the head was struck; it bounded up, and nobly took the goal. A shout went up from all those reckless men. ‘So, so, the Hound of Ulster wins again; good man, good man, we hit him under once and took his head from him, but he would take revenge upon us now.’
“‘Revenge,’ I cried, ‘revenge he’ll find indeed,’ and at that word into their midst I sprang, dealing on every hand death-bringing blows. Like corn before the mower’s scythe, or like grown grass beneath the feet of many hosts, I hewed them down. Harsh cries went up, for all unarmed they fell, helpless and with no power to withstand, and Erc came out upon the green, and stood there in dismay. I held Cuchulain’s head on high in my left hand. ‘Thy head to match with his,’ I cried, and ere he raised a sound his head was rolling at my feet. I picked it up and hither came to seek thee, gentle queen.”