Naoise’s great chest rose, but his voice was calm.
“No man will ever hear you call for help, Buinne.”
“Let no man give what is not called for.”
“But for that help, Buinne, you would now be dead.”
“I was not fit for the end of the line?” said Buinne harshly.
“You are young yet, comrade, but in two years you will have the speed and smash that such a post calls for.”
“Your speed! your smash!” said the sardonic Buinne.
“The world knows,” Ainnle interposed, “that the four greatest champions of Ireland are Cúchulinn, Fergus, Conall, and Naoise.”
“And Ainnle,” Buinne completed with a grin.
The young man turned his dancing length of whipcord and his narrowed brow on Buinne.