One night the men were awakened by the continued baying of the hounds. This could only mean that some large animals were prowling around. So, early next morning, they went out upon a hunt. Oscar and Ossian took one path and Finn and Dermot the other. The latter had not gone far when they met an excited peasant, who informed them that a terrible wild boar was roaming about, spreading death and destruction in its path.
Dermot paused. He knew that hunting the wild boar was forbidden to him. The proper thing for him to do was to go back, and he knew it. Finn watched him anxiously.
“You had better go back, Dermot,” he said. “This is hardly a safe pastime for you.”
Dermot flushed with anger. “It is plain that you desire my death, Finn MacCool,” he said, “or you would not say such a thing to me. You know full well that I cannot turn back when you question my bravery.”
Finn said no more. He felt sure that Dermot would continue the hunt in spite of the warnings of his foster-father. They had gone but a few yards when a great boar burst out of the forest and made toward them. Dermot hurled his spear. It glanced off the thick skull. He drew his sword, but before he could use it, the boar knocked him down and tore him cruelly with his tusks. Even as he fell, Dermot crushed the skull of the beast with the hilt of his sword.
Finn had made no move to assist in the killing of the boar. Now he came over and looked at Dermot. The wounded man implored him to do something for him.
“I am sorry to see you this way, Dermot,” he said. “But I can never forget that you proved untrue to me sixteen years ago. There is nothing I can do for you.”
“There is,” answered Dermot. “You can restore me to health by giving me a drink from your two hands.”
“There is no well,” said Finn, making excuses.
“There is one just a few paces behind you,” said Dermot.