“What can you see, O Fionn?” said the watcher.
“I can see nothing,” said Fionn, and he projected again his grim, gaunt forehead. For it seemed as if the watcher stared with his whole face, aye, and with his hands; but Fionn brooded weightedly on distance with his puckered and crannied brow.
They looked again.
“What can you see?” said Fionn.
“I see nothing,” said the watcher.
“I do not know if I see or if I surmise, but something moves,” said Fionn. “There is a trample,” he said.
The watcher became then an eye, a rigidity, an intense out-thrusting and ransacking of thin-spun distance. At last he spoke.
“There is a dust,” he said.
And at that the champions gazed also, straining hungrily afar, until their eyes became filled with a blue darkness and they could no longer see even the things that were close to them.
“I,” cried Cona’n triumphantly, “I see a dust.”