“Well, then, O prophetess Feidelm,” said Queen Meave, “how seest thou our host?” but yet she trembled as she spoke. And Feidelm said, “I see thy hosts all red, I see them all becrimsoned.”
“Thou seest ill, O prophetess,” said Meave; “for in the courts of Emain now the King lies sick and ill; my messengers have been to him, and nought there is that we need fear from Ulster. Therefore, O Feidelm, woman-prophet Feidelm, tell us now but the truth; how seest thou our hosts?”
“I see them all dyed red, I see them all becrimsoned,” said the girl again.
“It cannot be,” said Meave. “For many months my spies have been in Ulster, and this well I know; that in Ulster they dream not of the coming of a host. Now tell us this time true, O Feidelm, O woman-prophet Feidelm, how seest thou our host?”
But again the maiden answered as before: “I see all red on them, I see them all becrimsoned.”
Then Meave grew angry, and fury came upon her, and she called on her charioteer to slay the fairy maid. But the man was afraid to touch her, so strange and formidable did she stand there, holding the dripping sword upright.
Then once again Meave answered her: “Girl, I care not for thy threats, for well I know, that when the men of Ulster come together, frays and quarrels will arise among themselves, either as regards the troop which shall precede the host, or that one which shall follow; or about precedence among the leaders, or about forays for cattle and for food. Therefore, I conclude that they will fall upon each other, and that it will be but a little matter for me to disperse them, and return again with spoils to Cruachan.”
Then the maiden’s face grew grave, and she spoke as though she saw a vision, and Meave trembled as she listened to her words. “I see thy host,” she said, “crimson and red, fall back before the men of Ulster. Yet the host of Ulster seems not a mighty host, but faint and weak through sickness, and the King of Ulster lies on his bed. Through all my dreams there comes a lad, not old in years, but great in weapon-feats. Young though he is, the marks of many wounds are on his skin, and round his head there shines the ‘hero’s light.’ A face he has the noblest and the best, and in his eyes sparkle the champion’s gleams; a stripling, fair and modest in his home, but in the battle fierce and tough and strong, as though he wore a mighty dragon’s form. In either of his hands four darts he holds, and with a skill before unknown, he plies them on your host. A formidable sword hangs by his side, and close beside him stands his charioteer, holding his pointed spear. A madness seems to seize him in the fight; by him your hosts are all hewn down, and on the battle-field the slain, foot laid to foot and hand to hand, do thickly lie. Before the hosts of Ulster all unmoved he stands as if to guard them from the fight; all on himself the burden of the uneven contest falls. Strong heroes cannot stand before his blows, and in the homes of Connaught women weep the slain who come not back. This is the vision that I see, and this the prophecy of Feidelm, Cruachan’s woman-seer.”
Then all her pride and courage fled from Meave, and fearfully she asked the woman-seer, “What is the name by which this youth is known?”
And Feidelm said: “To all the world the youth’s name will be known, Cuchulain son of Sualtach, of the Feats; but in the North, because he guards their homes as a good watch-dog guards the scattered flocks upon the mountain-side, men call him lovingly, ‘The Hound of Ulster.’”