“The matter I wish to discuss is your uncle, Cet mac Magach, Cet of Connacht. That man scorns our borders, and his depredations are costly and impertinent. Our young men also are not equal to that able reiver. Could you not talk to him, Conall, and draw him off us?”
“I talk to Connachtmen with a sword.”
“You may talk to him that way if you please.”
Conall reviewed the invitation imperturbably.
“I would not care to kill Cet mac Magach. He is my mother’s brother.”
“And he is not an easy person to kill,” said Conachúr. “We shall make our own arrangements about him. Blessing and long life to you!”
The dismissed champion strode from the room.
“That man,” Conachúr thought moodily, “has been hammered together stone by stone, and is no more than a petrified vanity. He loves nothing but his honour, which is that he loves himself.”
“Come in, the Cú,” he called. “Come in, and an hundred welcomes, my sweet lad.”
Cúchulinn, magnificent in red silk and gold embroideries, came leaping in.