And he, when he looked on her, knew that never in his life had he seen woman half so fair as Fand. “Art thou he, Cuchulain of Murthemne, the Hound of Ulster?” she asked, and even as she spoke the whole band of youths and maidens rose to their feet, and sang a chant of welcome to Cuchulain.
Then Fand placed Cuchulain at her right hand, and happy and gladsome were they together, and for a while Cuchulain forgot Ulster, and his place at Conor’s hand, and all the cares and troubles of the other life; nay, he forgot Emer his own wife and the feast she was preparing for him, and the days passed quickly and joyously in the company of Liban and Labra and Fand. And it seemed to him as though Erin were but a dark unquiet land beside the clearness of Moy Mell, the Fairy-land of all Delights.
At length one night he could not sleep; not all the warbling of the fairy-birds from the branches of the tree and from the eaves, nor yet the sound of minstrel’s strains could soothe him into slumber. For he remembered Ulster and his duty to his king, and Emer and the feast she was to make for him, and all his warrior deeds which were departing from him, and he felt he must needs forsake the Land of all Delights and go back to his work in Erin once again.
In the morning he called Fand, and told her he must go that day, for he knew not what troubles might be happening to Ulster while he was away, or what was become of Emer, his wife. But Labra and Fand besought him to stay yet awhile, and they called the musicians and bid them chase away the sudden gloom of Cuchulain, and they brought out the playing-games, hurley and chess, and raced the horses to please him, and they harnessed the steeds of the chariots for his delight. But even for all this Cuchulain would not stay. For he said, “My warrior-strength is passing from me as I rest in idleness, my vigour is decaying. Let me then go, for I am not as the little dogs that play about their mistresses’ feet; I am a Hound of war and conflicts to stand before the foe, and do battle for my country and my king.”
And Cuchulain sang this lay:
“No pup am I to play about the feet of ladies fair,
But where the hounds of war are loosed you’ll find me ever there;
No mongrel whelp to watch the fire or crouch beside the hearth,
I stand beside the fords, I scare the champion from his path.
“My bark is not the yelp of curs cowed to the heels by fear,