“Slay me first,” he said, “for I am the youngest of the sons of Usna: and it may be that with my death the tides of fortune may flow again.”
“That cannot be,” said Nathos. “Here is the sword which Manannan, the son of Lir, gave me, and that cannot leave any remains of blow or stroke. Let this man Maine take it, and strike at us at one and the same time, so that not one of us may have the shame and sorrow of seeing the other beheaded.”
And so it was. But while the man reached for the sword, Darthool sprang from the shoulder of Nathos, and strove to kill Maine of the Red Hand. With a blow he reeled her aside, and then whirled the great sword of Manannan on high.
There was a flash in the air, and then the heads of the three fairest and noblest heroes of Alba fell. There was a long and terrible silence, till suddenly the whole host of Uladh broke into lamentation. Only Concobar stood leaning on his sword, and stared at the stillness that was now fallen upon the House of Usna.
But already afar off Darthool had descried the champion Cuchulain, and she fled towards him.
“Thou shalt be safe with me, beautiful one,” he said. “Tell me what thou wantest me to do.”
“I do not wish to live, but I wish to live yet a brief hour, and not to be taken in shameful life before the eyes of Concobar.” So the twain returned to where the dead lay. Darthool fell upon her knees, and spread out the glory of her hair, and put her lips to the blood-wet lips of Nathos.
Then she rose, and looking upon the silent Ultonians, chanted this chant:
Is it honour that ye love, brave and chivalrous Ultonians?
Or is the word of a base king better than noble truth?