“I am not the man you seek at all,” Cuchulain cried; “go round the hill and you will find him there.”
Now while Nacrantal made his way to the other side of the hill, Cuchulain came to Laeg, his charioteer. “Smear me a false beard with blackberry juice,” he said. “No warrior of fame will fight with me, because I have no beard.” Laeg took the juice of blackberries, and sheep’s wool, and with it made a long two-pointed beard, such as prime warriors wore, and twined the ends and caught them in his belt, dyeing it black with juice. Then on the hero came anger and his battle-fury, such as came on him when a combat lay before him with a good warrior, or when he alone should fight a host.
A subtle change came over all his face. The radiant youthfulness passed away, and all the boyishness Nacrantal had seen a while ago, and in its place a stern ferocious look, as of a prime warrior waiting for his foe. His stature seemed to grow, his form to enlarge, and terrible in its strength and fierceness was his aspect as he donned his fighting-gear. He grasped his weapons in his hand, and with great strides he hastened round the hill.
So great his wrath and eagerness for combat, that as he passed a standing pillar-stone no smaller than himself, in flinging his mantle round him as he went he caught the stone up in his mantle’s folds and carried it along with him, but never was he conscious of its weight, or even knew he carried it.
Now in this guise Nacrantal knew him not. “Where is Cuchulain?” inquired he of the men who came with him. “The lad said that we should find him round the hill.”
“Cuchulain stands before you yonder,” said the Ulstermen who had come out to watch the fight.
“It was not thus that he appeared before me yesterday,” Nacrantal said. “Cuchulain seemed a stripling, and his beard not grown, but this prime warrior hath a mighty beard.”
“Nevertheless, I counsel you, defend yourself from this prime warrior,” Fergus replied; “that will be much the same to you as though you did contend with Cuchulain himself.”
Then Nacrantal made a furious onset at Cuchulain with his sword, but it struck on the pillar-stone that he carried beneath his cloak, and broke off short, close to his hand. Before he could recover from the thrust, Cuchulain sprang upon him, and lifting his sword on high with both hands, he brought it down on his adversary’s head, and there on his own shield he fell dead, smitten with one blow. “Alas!” said Nacrantal as he fell, “they said true who said that you were the best warrior in all Ireland.”