“If you were on the top of that mountain,” said the wayfarer, pointing northward, “you would see the king’s castle.”
Dyeermud went on in strong haste, and from the mountain-top saw the king’s castle. On the green field in front of it so many people had gathered to see Fin MacCool’s death, that if a pin were to drop from the middle of the sky it could not fall without striking the head of man, woman, or child. When Dyeermud came down to the field, it was useless to ask for room or for passage, since each wished himself to be nearest the place of Fin’s death. Dyeermud drew his sword; and as a mower goes through the grass of a meadow on a harvest day, or a hawk through a flock of starlings on a chilly March morning, so did Dyeermud cut his way through the crowd till he came to the gallows. He turned then toward the castle, struck the pole of combat, and far was the sound of his blow heard. The king put his head through the window.
“Who struck that blow?” asked the king. “He must be an enemy!”
“You could not expect a friend to do the like of that,” replied Dyeermud. “I struck the blow.”
“Who are you?” cried the king.
“My name when in Erin is Dyeermud.”
“What brought you hither?” asked the king.
“I came,” replied Dyeermud, “to succor my chief, Fin MacCool.”
The king let a laugh out of him, and asked, “Have any more men come besides you?”
“When you finish with me, you may be looking for others,” said Dyeermud.