"Ye cannot," says Ingcel. "Clouds of weakness are coming to you," etc.
"Good cause hast thou, O Ingcel," says Lomna son of Donn Desa. "Not unto
_thee_ is the loss caused by the Destruction: for thou wilt carry off
the head of the king of another country, and thyself will escape.
Howbeit 'tis hard for me, for I shall be the first to be slain at
the Hostel."
"Alas for me!" says Ingcel, "peradventure I shall be the frailest
corpse," etc.
"And whom sawest thou afterwards?"
THE ROOM OF THE REARGUARDS
"There I saw twelve men on silvery hurdles all around that room of the
king. Light yellow hair was on them. Blue kilts they wore. Equally
beautiful were they, equally hardy, equally shapely. An ivory-hilted
sword in each man's hand, and they cast them not down; but it is the
horse-rods in their hands that are all round the room. Liken thou that,
O Fer rogain."
"Easy for me to say. The king of Tara's guardsmen are there. These are
their names: three Londs of Liffey-plain: three Arts of Ath cliath
(_Dublin_): three Buders of Buagnech: and three Trenfers of Cuilne.
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