Where there are many that have that tint of hair—
Red-brown, the light red-brown. Come nearer, boy,
For I would have another look at you.
There’s more likeness—a pale, a stone-pale cheek.
What brought you, boy? Have you no fear of death?
YOUNG MAN.
Whether I live or die is in the gods’ hands.
CUCHULAIN.
That is all words, all words; a young man’s talk.
I am their plough, their harrow, their very strength;