Deirdre was as convinced as the boys were that Naoise could beat any combination of champions that might have the ill-luck to move against him. She knew it from his complexion, from his curling hair. Oh! she knew it from a variety of proofs, and she was inclined to be angry when he argued with the younger boys that Cúchulinn [8] was the greatest man alive. But on that subject the agreement was so unanimous, so hearty, that she might doubt but could not question it.
“What I should like,” said Ainnle, “would be to see a fight and a combat between our Cúchulinn and Fergus mac Roy.”
“That would be a fight indeed,” said Naoise, “but we shall never see it. They love each other.”
“It would be a queer thing,” said Ainnle, “if a boy were to fight with his own foster-father.”
“I heard that a boy once did, and killed him too,” said Ardan.
“Who did? Who did?”
“I forget his name.”
“Because you never heard it.”
“Our young Ardan makes things up in his head,” said Naoise, in a fatherly voice, while Ardan hid his blushes by attending to the fire.
“Do you think,” Ainnle inquired, “that Cúchulinn could beat Fergus if they fought?”