“Mother,” he cried again, “watch this stroke.”
He went to the east mearing of the spacious lawn and struck the ball to the west. It traversed the great lawn ere it touched the earth and bounded shining above the trees. Truly it was a marvellous stroke for one so young. As he went for his ball the boy stood still before the window. “Give me thy blessing, dear mother,” he said.
“Win victory and blessing for ever, O Setanta,” she answered. “Truly thou art an expert hurler.”
“These feats,” he replied, “are nothing to what I shall yet do in needlework, O mother, when I am of age to be trusted with my first needle, and knighted by thy hands, and enrolled amongst the valiant company of thy sewing-women.”
“What meaneth the boy?” said his mother, for she perceived that he spoke awry.
“That his childhood is over, O Dectera,” answered one of her women, “and that thou art living in the past and in dreams. For who can hold back Time in his career?”
The queen’s heart leaped when she heard that word, and the blood forsook her face. She bent down her head over her work and her tears fell. After a space she looked out again upon the lawn to see if the boy had returned, but he had not.
She bade her women go and fetch him, and afterwards the whole household. They called aloud, “Setanta, Setanta,” but there was no answer, only silence and the watching and mocking trees and a sound like low laughter in the leaves; for Setanta was far away.
The boy came out of that forest on the west side. Soon he struck the great road which from Ath-a-clia [Footnote: Ath-a-cliah, i.e., the Ford of the Hurdles. It was the Irish name for Dublin.] ran through Murthemney to Emain Macha, and saw before him the purple mountain of Slieve Fuad. In his left hand was his sheaf of toy javelins; in his right the hurle; his little shield was strapped upon his back. The boy went swiftly, for there was power upon him that day, and with his ashen hurle shod with red bronze ever urged his ball forward. So he went driving, his ball before him. At other times he would cast a javelin far out westward and pursue its flight. Ever as he went there ever flew beside him a grey-necked crow. “It is a good omen,” said the boy, for he knew that the bird was sacred to the Mor-Reega.
He was amazed at his own speed and the elasticity of his limbs. Once when he rose after having gathered his thrown javelin, a man stood beside him who had the port and countenance of some ancient hero, and whose attire was strange. He was taller and nobler than any living man. He bore a rod-sling in his right hand, and in his left, in a leash of bronze, he led a hound. The hound was like white fire. Setanta could hardly look in that man’s face, but he did. The man smiled and said—