'Go from me,' said Cuchulainn. 'I am loath to cleanse my hands in you. I would have divided you into many parts long since but for Fergus.'
'We will not part thus,' said Etarcomol, 'till I have taken your head, or left my head with you.'
'It is that indeed that will be there,' said Cuchulainn.
Cuchulainn strikes him with his sword in his two armpits, so that his clothes fell from him, and it did not wound his skin.
'Go then,' said Cuchulainn.
'No,' said Etarcomol.
Then Cuchulainn attacked him with the edge of his sword, and took his hair off as if it was shaved with a razor; he did not put even a scratch (?) on the surface. When the churl was troublesome then and stuck to him, he struck him on the hard part of his crown, so that he divided him down to the navel.
Fergus saw the chariot go past him, and the one man therein. He turned to quarrel with Cuchulainn.
'Ill done of you, O wild boy!' said he, 'to insult me. You would think my club [Note: Or 'track'?] short,' said he.
'Be not angry with me, O friend Fergus,' said Cuchulainn … [Note:
Rhetoric, five lines.] 'Reproach me not, O friend Fergus.'