And you speak highly too.
(Cuchullain comes down from his great chair. He remains standing on the steps of the chair. The young Kings gather about him and begin to arm him.)
Give me that helmet!
I’d thought they had grown weary sending champions.
That coat will do. I’d half forgotten, boy,
How all those great kings came into the mouse-trap
That had been baited with Maeve’s pretty daughter.
How Findabair, that blue-eyed Findabair—
But the tale is worthy of a winter’s night.