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A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

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And Ainle also craved that death might be dealt to him the first. But<br />

Naoise held out his own sword, "The Retaliator," to the executioner.<br />

"Mannanan, the son <strong>of</strong> Lîr, gave me my good sword," he said. "With it<br />

strike my dear brothers and me one blow only as we stand here like<br />

three trees planted in the soil. Then shall none <strong>of</strong> us know the grief and<br />

shame <strong>of</strong> seeing the other beheaded." And because it was hard for any<br />

man to disobey the command <strong>of</strong> Naoise, a king <strong>of</strong> men, the Norseman<br />

reached out his hand for the sword. But Deirdrê sprang from the<br />

shoulder <strong>of</strong> Naoise and would have killed the man ere he struck.<br />

Roughly he threw her aside, and with one blow he shore <strong>of</strong>f the heads<br />

<strong>of</strong> the three greatest heroes <strong>of</strong> Alba.<br />

For a little while there was a great stillness there, like the silence before<br />

the coming <strong>of</strong> a storm. And then all who had beheld the end <strong>of</strong> the fair<br />

and noble Sons <strong>of</strong> Usna broke into great lamentation. Only Conor stood<br />

silent, gazing at the havoc he had wrought. To Cuchulainn, the mighty<br />

champion, a good man and a true, Deirdrê fled, and begged him to<br />

protect her for the little span <strong>of</strong> life that she knew yet remained to her.<br />

And with him she went to where the head <strong>of</strong> Naoise lay, and tenderly<br />

she cleansed it from blood and from the stains <strong>of</strong> strife and stress, and<br />

smoothed the hair that was black as a raven's wing, and kissed the cold<br />

lips again and again. And as she held it against her white breast, as a<br />

mother holds a little child, she chanted for Naoise, her heart, and for his<br />

brothers, a lament that still lives in the language <strong>of</strong> the Gael.<br />

"Is it honour that ye love, brave and chivalrous Ultonians? Or is the<br />

word <strong>of</strong> a base king better than noble truth? Of a surety ye must be glad,<br />

who have basely slain honour In slaying the three noblest and best <strong>of</strong><br />

your brotherhood.<br />

* * * * *<br />

Let now my beauty that set all this warring aflame, Let now my beauty<br />

be quenched as a torch that is spent-- For here shall I quench it, here,<br />

where my loved one lies, A torch shall it be for him still through the<br />

darkness <strong>of</strong> death."

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