Mac Roth set off. Now all the land was covered with a mantle of fresh snow, and, true enough, Cuchulain warmed himself by practising javelin feats out on the mountain-side, in the full air and sun.
His charioteer looked forth and saw a man approach. “A warrior comes, O little Cu,” he said. “What sort of warrior is he who comes?” Cuchulain asked, but did not cease to fling his javelins in the air. “A massive, goodly, dark-faced man, clad in an ample mantle of dark brown, that fastens at his throat with a delicate, richly ornamented pin of bronze. Beneath the mantle a strong coat of skins, and sandals bound with leather thongs are on his feet. A sharp-edged sword he carries in one hand, and in the other holds a hazel-switch, to keep in order two great noble hounds that play around his steps.”
“These are the trappings of a herald,” said Cuchulain; “no doubt he comes from Meave and Ailill to propose terms to us.”
Mac Roth came to the place where Laeg was awaiting him. “Who is your master, man?” said he. “My master is the young man over there; I am his charioteer,” replied Laeg. Mac Roth turned half round and saw Cuchulain. “And who may you serve, my young man?” quoth he. “I serve King Conor,” said the hero. “Cannot you tell me something more precise than that?” inquired Mac Roth again. “That much will serve your turn,” replied the youth. “Can you then tell me where I could find this renowned Cuchulain, who is so frightening the men of Erin now?” pursued Mac Roth. “What do you want to say to him that cannot be said as well to me?” “I come in embassage from Ailill and from Meave, with power to propose terms of truce, and with an invitation from the Queen that Cuchulain should meet and confer with her.” “What terms do you propose?” he asked again. “With bounteous offers I am come from Meave, promise of wealth in cattle and in flocks, and welcome of an honoured guest to Cruachan and a place near Meave’s own side; all this and more, if he will quit the petty chieftain Conor, and will enter her service, and if, moreover, he will hold his hand from smiting down our hosts; for, in good sooth, the nightly thunder-feats he plays upon the warriors please not the host at all.”
Anger came upon Cuchulain to hear King Conor styled a petty chief by this contemptuous messenger of Meave. “Go back to those who sent you,” he replied, “for if in truth Cuchulain heard your terms, he would reject and fling them back with scorn. To-morrow I engage that the hero will confer with Meave herself, but only if she come under the escort and the charge of Fergus.”
Mac Roth returned with haste, and in the camp he sought out Connaught’s Queen. Eagerly she asked, “Well, did you find the champion, Mac Roth?” “All that I found was a terrible, angry, surly fellow airing himself between the mountains and the sea; but whether it were the formidable hero of whom men speak or no, indeed, I know not.”
“Did he accept our terms?” pursued the Queen. “The man I saw rejected them outright, flinging them back at us with angry scorn. Only he promised that to-morrow, in the glen, Cuchulain would be found to talk of terms, but that you needs must go in company with Fergus.”
“To-morrow I myself will offer terms,” said Meave, “and he will not refuse.” So on the morrow Meave and Fergus sought the glen, the Queen keeping carefully to the far side of the valley, with the wooded dell between themselves and the place where she believed Cuchulain would be found. Eagerly she scanned the glen on every side, expecting on the opposite ridge to see a mighty, ugly warrior, fully armed, who waited for her coming. “Why comes he not, Fergus?” she said at last. But Fergus answered not, for he was standing all engrossed in watching a young stripling, lithe and radiant, who on the other side the glen was practising sling-feats, shooting at the passing birds that flew above his head, and bringing them down alive.
“Cuchulain is there before you,” Fergus said. “I see no one at all save one young lad, who seems expert in feats,” replied the Queen; “I cannot see a warrior near or far.”
“That young lad it is who has done damage to your hosts, however,” was the reply. “Is that boy, the young boy yonder, the famous hero of whom all men speak?” Meave cried astonished. “Small need, methinks, to be afraid of him, myself will speak to him and offer him my terms.” Then in a high and haughty voice, as when a Queen speaks to an underling, Meave called across the valley to Cuchulain. She set before him honourable terms if he would leave the service of King Conor and enter hers. Promptly, without an instant’s thought, he set them all aside. Then as he seemed about to turn away to practise feats again, in despair the Queen called out, “Are there no terms whatever that you will accept? it is not pleasant to our people, nor likes it them at all, to be cut off and slaughtered night by night and harassed by your precious thunder-feats.”