There was a wonderful warrior of Ulster who witnessed that
bargaining, and that was Fergus Mac Roich. Fergus came to his tent.
'Woe is me! the deed that is done to-morrow morning!' said Fergus.
'What deed is that?' said the folk in the tent.
'My good fosterling Cuchulainn to be slain.'
'Good lack! who makes that boast?'
'An easy question: his own dear ardent foster-brother, Fer Diad Mac
Damain. Why do ye not win my blessing?' said Fergus; 'and let one
of you go with a warning and with compassion to Cuchulainn, if
perchance he would leave the ford to-morrow morning.'
'On our conscience,' said they, 'though it were you yourself who
were on the ford of combat, we would not come as far as [the ford]
to seek you.'
'Good, my lad,' said Fergus; 'get our horses for us and yoke the
chariot.'
The lad arose and got the horses and yoked the chariot. They came
forth to the ford of combat where Cuchulainn was.
'One chariot coming hither towards us, O Cuchulainn!' said Loeg.
For it is thus the lad was, with his back towards his lord. He used
to win every other game of _brandub_ [_Brandub_, the name of a
game; probably, like _fidchill_ and _buanfach_, of the nature of
chess or draughts.
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