Breaking their ranks, in wild disorder they streamed westward o’er the plain, each man making for his home. On every side they cast away their arms, so that the ground was strewn with shields and spears, and vainly Meave and Ailill called on them to turn. Seeing the rout, the men of Ulster followed hard, pressing upon their rear, and cutting off a multitude of men. From noon till twilight’s fall they fled, nor halted till they reached the Shannon’s ford, to pass across it and regain their homes. And, haughtily and undauntedly, Cuchulain pursued the host, making a red rout of the flying men, so that the way was strewn with dying and with dead.
Close at his side, urging on his withered steeds, rode aged Iliach, Ulster’s valiant chief. Old and beyond the fighting-age was he, yet, when the muster of the corps was made, he would not stay behind. “Bring me my chariot and my steeds,” said he. Now many years had passed since last the old man went into the field. Rusted and broken was his chariot, his weapons bent and worn; as to his ancient chariot-steeds, they were but lean and wasted beasts, long since turned out to grass. No cushions had the chariot, nor any seat at all; just as it was the steeds were harnessed to the metal frame, and in his hand he took his blunt and rusty spears. All round him on the chariot-floor were piled up flags and rocks and stones; with these, when his old worn-out weapons broke in twain, he plied and mightily discomfited the enemy.
Yet, as he stood erect, his white hair streaming on the wind, so strange and formidable was his look, so flashing was his eye, that all the men of Erin shrank before him as he passed. At length his vigour ebbed, his strength gave out, the handle of his sword dropped useless from his hand. He called upon his charioteer. “My work is done,” he said, “take thou my head from me upon my chariot’s rim; I would not fall into the enemy’s hand. My honour and the honour of my country is avenged. I die content.” Then with his own old sword, upon the side-edge of the chariot his charioteer hewed off his head. Cuchulain turned and saw what had been done. “Bear thou the head to Emain,” said he, “and let his body be buried with all honour near his home. Iliach died as a hero should. So die all Ulster’s heroes, avenging Ulster’s honour on her foes.”
[CHAPTER XIX]
The Humbling of Queen Meave
Towards the fall of day, Cuchulain reached the ford of the Shannon at the place that is now called Athlone. He saw the army of Meave flying, broken and disbanded, across the river, and weariness and dislike of the rout overtook him, so that he turned aside into a wood close by to rest awhile, for of his chariot there remained but a few bent ribs, and the wheels were loosened from the pole. “I will watch the flying host,” he thought, “until the Ulstermen come up, and together we will smite them and cut off their rear.” As he pushed his way into the wood, he saw before him, in the dimness of the fading light, Queen Meave herself, fallen, forsaken and exhausted, on the ground. So close was she that he could have smitten her from behind, and taken off her head, had he so willed. But it was not the wont of Cuchulain to smite from behind, or ever to hurt a woman. But he stood over her, and sternly spoke.
“What dost thou here, O Meave, O captain of the host of Erin? Behold thy army flies, broken and discomfited, across the stream, seeking its native province, and the army of the men of Ulster presses hard upon their rear. No leader have they to guide their flying bands; why liest thou here alone?”
Then the haughty queen replied sadly, and with all her spirit gone: “Queen as I am, and captain of mine host, yet have I but a woman’s strength; my forces are exhausted, and my power is gone; fain must I lie and rest. Help me, O generous foe, I claim a boon from thee!”
“What boon is this that thou dost crave of me, O Meave, mine enemy?”