If the trouble had not been so serious, Dermot might have laughed at this silly remark. But he was in no humor for laughter.
“If that sounded like the blow of a friend,” he said, “listen to this.”
Once more he swung his sword against the pole. This time his blow was so strong that the pole broke into splinters, which showered over the heads of the people.
“What do you want?” whined the king, who was, and always had been, a fearful coward.
“I want to see my chief, Finn MacCool, or to fight for him,” announced Dermot.
“See him you shall not,” declared the king, keeping well in the protection of his castle. “You are at liberty to fight for him.”
“Very well,” answered Dermot. “Send out seven hundred of your best men on my right hand, seven hundred on my left, seven hundred at my back and as many as you wish in front of me.”
“How many?” demanded the startled king, drawing still further back into his palace.
Dermot repeated his demand. You must remember that Dermot was the son of a god and could not be wounded. It is no wonder the king thought he had misunderstood. It was too good a chance to let go by. The king sent out the men requested, feeling sure that he would soon be rid of this fellow, who had made splinters of the combat pole.
But the king’s men were no match for Dermot even when they pressed against him in such numbers. By nightfall not a man had touched him while hundreds of the warriors of the White Nation were wounded or dead. With the setting of the sun, Dermot put up his sword and called out to the king,