“He covers the ground,” said another.
“He is light as a feather.”
“Swift as a stag.” “Lunged like a bull.”
“Legged like a wolf.”
“He runs!”
These things were said to Fionn, and Fionn said these things to himself.
With every passing minute a drop of lead thumped down into every heart, and a pang of despair stabbed up to every brain.
“Go,” said Fionn to a hawk-eyed man, “go to the top of this hill and watch for the coming of the racers.”
And he sent lithe men with him so that they might run back in endless succession with the news.
The messengers began to run through his tent at minute intervals calling “nothing,” “nothing,” “nothing,” as they paused and darted away.