Fergus was at his rath and greeted him in a friendly manner. They went inside and even before any refreshment was brought Finbarr said to the old man, quietly but firmly, "Fergus, we know that you know where Deirdre is."

Yet, carefully though he observed him, Finbarr could have sworn that the chief was sincere when he looked at him sadly and replied, "I wish that I did."

So Finbarr told him of the druid's vision and described the island that Larine had seen. And then Fergus knew where his daughter was.

"I do not know that place," he said.

"I shall stay here until you do," Finbarr replied.

Fergus hesitated, considering his options.

"There may be an island like that some way along the coast," he said at last. "We could look for it tomorrow." He ordered food and wine; and since Finbarr was tired after his journey, when darkness had fallen, he slept. When everyone in the rath was asleep, Fergus silently got up and went out. He took a little curragh of skins and put it on his back; because he was afraid of waking his visitors, he did not take a horse, but went down to the hurdles on foot and crossed the Liffey and started towards the headland that Deirdre had loved. His long legs easily covered the distance, but whenever he could, with the curragh on his back, the old man ran.

It was late in the night when Fergus came to the shore. A three- quarter moon was high in the sky and the sea was calm. Then he put his curragh in the water and crossed to the island and found Deirdre and Conall asleep in each other's arms. And he woke them, and when Deirdre saw him, she flung her arms around him. And seeing how they were, and that his daughter was to have a child, Fergus wept.

It did not take the chief long to tell them what happened and to warn them, "You have only till morning before he finds you." But what were they to do? "You'll have to leave here tonight," he said, though as he looked at his daughter he could not help adding, "for how long, Deirdre, can you run?"

It was the problem that had concerned Conall all summer. Deirdre was not due to have her child until after midwinter, and she seemed strong and well. Conall had hoped that by now it might nave been possible to cross the sea, but his secret trips along the coast had not been encouraging. Every harbour was still being watched. More than once he had wondered if she should go to her rather. Surely, even if discovered, the king would not harm a helpless mother and child.

But Deirdre was against it, and it had been she who hit upon an ingenious solution.

"Take me to the shore when my time is near. I will tell the old Iwidow I am an abandoned woman.

She will help me." She smiled.

"Then perhaps the druid from the island will pass by and look at me."

"And then?"

"You will find a way for us to leave, in due course."

Conall had supposed that this plan of action might work, but he was not sure; and as each day went by his secret misgivings had grown. So now, almost before he had time to think about it, he heard himself say, "Perhaps if I can draw Finbarr away, Deirdre can remain with you."

Fergus, for a moment, said nothing. Though he saw her pale and anxious face, he was lost in his own thoughts. What would be the consequences for him, and his two sons, if he were discovered hiding Deirdre? Did he really want the daughter he loved back in his house? And thinking how little he had managed to do for her, he felt ashamed.

"Dubh Linn is her home," he said, "and always will be." But taking Conall by the arm he added, "You must get her off the island by dawn. For in the morning, I shall have to bring Finbarr along the coast.

Once Finbarr has gone, let her come to the rath at night and I'll find a way to hide her."

Then, anxious to return to the rath before he was missed, he set off back across the water.

The moon was still some way above the horizon when he started to walk back along the shore. On his left, the high hump of the headland rose darkly; hurrying as best he could, it was not long before he reached the foot of the low ridge from the top of which he would see the broad expanse of the Dubh Linn bay. Pausing only for a moment to take a few, deep breaths, the old man started up. The track was easy going.

He saw the line of the ridge ahead, outlined against the starry sky. There were a few clumps of trees and bushes along the way.

He was nearing the top when he heard the jingle of a harness and the snort of a horse just ahead. He stopped and stared at the clump of bushes from behind which the sound had come. Then from the shadow, a large shape emerged.

It was a chariot. It wheeled to face him down the slope, and from the chariot came Finbarr's voice.

"Thank you, Fergus, for showing me the way."

At last she was ready. She knew she could delay no longer; the sky was still full of stars, but there was now a hint of paleness in the east across the sea.

She had taken as long as she could. The island was her sanctuary: once she left it, she sensed, she would never be safe again. Perhaps, Conall had told her, they might be able to return there. Was it possible?

She glanced at Conall. He had been standing with his back to her for a long time now, staring silently across at the shore.

The plan they had formed was simple enough. They would cross to the shore now, make their way inland, and hide in the woods. If Finbarr came to inspect the island, he would find only the little hut. The old woman at the shore would tell him that she had never seen anyone but the wandering druid at the place. In due course he would give up and go away. And then?

Perhaps they might return to the island. Or Deidre might go to her father. Or they might still escape across the sea. Who knew?

She rose and walked over to Conall. He did not move. She stood beside him, and touched his arm.

'I am ready," she whispered. But Conall only shook his head.

"Too late," he said, and pointed. As she stared into the darkness she saw the shadow of Finbarr's chariot waiting on the shore; and before she could catch the words, they came out: "Oh Conall, I cannot go back. I should die."

They stood there watching, as the light grew and the sea turned grey, and the chariot became a hard, dark shape on the beach.

Then Conall said, "I must go to him now." She managed to keep him with her a little longer; but though she still tried to hold him back, as the lightness on the horizon grew he finally pulled himself away, and took the curragh and went across alone.

He was halfway across when she saw the fiery edge of the sun break over the horizon and realised that Conall, breaking the second of the geissi, was crossing the sea with the rising sun behind him. She cried out, "Conall! The sun!"

But if he heard her, he did not turn back.

Finbarr did not move. He had been standing in his chariot, still as a stone, since long before the dawn.

During this time, he had pondered: would he feel any of the old love for his friend? Did he feel sorrow or only frustration? He hardly knew. But he did know what had to be done and so, perhaps afraid of his own emotions, he had hardened his heart. Yet now, as Conall came across the water and drew closer, it was none of these, but an entirely different emotion that he felt. It was surprise. And wonder.

He should have realised, he remembered, after what the old woman had told him when he came that way before, that the figure who came from the island would look like a druid. But it was more than that. As Conall reached the beach and started walking towards him, Finbarr experienced the strangest sensation. Seeing him now, coming out of the waves, with his head shaved like a druid, dressed simply as a hermit, it was as if he were looking not at Conall but at Conall's ghost. For if Conall had died and returned from the Isles of the Blessed, then surely this was how he would have appeared. It was the inner spirit, the very essence of the man he had loved, who now drew near like a sorrowful shade. A few paces away, Conall stopped and calmly nodded.

"You know, Conall, why I am here." Finbarr found his voice was husky.

"It is a pity you came, Finbarr. It can do you no good."

Was that all his friend had to say to him?

"It's more than a year I've been looking for you," he burst out.

"What are your orders from the High King?" Conall asked quietly.

"To bring you both safely back."

"Deirdre will not come, and I shall not leave her."

"That is all that matters-yourself and Deirdre?"

"It seems so."

"It does not concern you, Conall," he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice, "that there have been three years of bad harvests, that poor people are only kept from starving by what the chiefs can give them, and that all this is blamed upon you for the way you have shamed the High King, your uncle?"

"Who says this?" Conall looked a little shaken.

"The druids say it, Conall, and the filidh, and the bards." He took a deep breath. "And I say it, too."

Conall paused thoughtfully before replying, and when he did so it seemed to be with sadness.

"I cannot come with you, Finbarr."

"There is no choice, Conall." Finbarr indicated his chariot. "You can see that I am armed."

"Then you must kill me." It was not a challenge.

Conall just stood quietly, looking in front of him, as though waiting for the blow to fall.

For long moments, Finbarr gazed down at his friend.

Then, reaching down, he took three objects and threw them at his friend's feet.

They were Conall's spear, and his shield, and his shining sword.

"Defend yourself," he said.

"I cannot," replied Conall, who did not pick his weapons up.

And now Finbarr lost patience with his friend entirely.

"Is it afraid to fight you are?" he cried. "Then here's what we'll do.

I'll wait at the Ford of Hurdles, Conall.

You can come and fight me there like a man-and if you win you can leave. Or you can run away with your woman and I'll return to your uncle and tell him I let a coward go free. Please yourself." And with that he wheeled his I chariot away.

Then, after a long pause, and having no alternative, Conall picked up his weapons and sadly followed him.

It was on a grassy strand, with the ford across the Liffey just behind them, that Conall and Finbarr prepared for battle.

There was a ritual to be followed before a Celtic warrior fought. First, the warrior should be naked, though he might paint his face on his body with the bluish dye called woad. But more important than any outward decoration was the inward preparation. For men did not go into battle cold. Armies worked themselves up with fearsome war chants and terrifying battle cries. Druids would shout to the enemy, telling them they were doomed. As the druids cast spells and warriors hurled insults, men from the camp would sometimes throw mud or even human excrement at the faces of their opponents to discourage them. But above all, each warrior had to work himself into that heightened state where strength and skill became something more than mere bone and muscle-where he drew strength from all his ancestors, too, and even the gods. This was the warrior's sublime inspiration, his battle rage, his "warp spasm," as the Celtic poets called it.

To achieve this heightened state, a Celtic warrior would go through ritual movements, standing on one leg, twisting his body and contorting his face until it seemed to have been transformed into a living war mask.

Finbarr prepared in the classic manner.

Drawing up his right knee, he slowly arched his body as if it were a bow. Closing his left eye, he half tilted his face so that his master eye, wide and glaring, seemed to bore into his opponent in a piercing squint. Conall, meanwhile, stood very still, but it seemed to Finbarr that he was communicating with the gods.

"It will be the worse for you, Conall," he cried, "that you came here. I am a boar who will gouge you, Conall. A boar."

But Conall said nothing.

Then they took up their spears and shields, and Finbarr hurled his spear with huge force straight at Conall. It was a perfect throw. Once before, with such a throw, his spear had gone clean through his opponent's shield and pinned the man to the ground through his chest. But Conall, stepping aside so fast that Finbarr scarcely saw him move, let the spear glance off his shield. With only a moment's pause, Conall then hurled his in return. It flew from his hand, aimed straight at Finbarr's heart. And if some other warrior had thrown it, Finbarr would have judged it a fine cast. But he knew the incredible force of Conall's cast when he really tried and, letting the spear crash into his shield, he inwardly cursed. Then, taking up his sword, he rushed at Conall.

There were few who could match Finbarr with the sword.

He was brave, he was swift, and he was strong. As he forced Conall back, it was hard for him to tell whether his friend was deliberately giving ground or was out of practice. As iron rang on iron, the sparks flew. They reached the edge of the shallows. Still Conall was giving ground; but though Conall was soon ankle-deep in the water, Finbarr realised that neither of them had yet drawn blood.

And the more he struck, the more mysteriously Conall seemed to elude him. He shouted a war cry, rushed splashing through the water, hacked and lunged. He used every move he knew. Yet strangely his sword either struck uselessly against the defending blade or shield of Conall, or it missed entirely.

Once, when Conall's shield was lowered and his sword hung wide, Finbarr made a lightning lunge-and encountered nothing at all. It was as if, for an instant, Conall had turned into a mist. I am not fighting a warrior, Finbarr thought, I am fighting a druid.

For some time this strange contest went on, and who knew how it might have ended if, by a stroke of fate, Conall had not slipped as he stepped back onto a stone. In a flash Finbarr had struck, catching him on the arm. As Conall fell back and raised his shield, Finbarr hacked at his leg, opening a gash. In a moment Conall was up and parried the next blows, but he was limping. There was blood in the water at his feet. He gave more ground, but this time Finbarr knew it was because he was in trouble. A quick feint and he caught Wm again, on the shoulder. They continued, blow for blow, but skilful though Conall was, Finbarr could feel him getting weaker.

He had him. He knew it. The end was only a question of time. Long moments passed. They went back another twenty paces, Finbarr advancing through the watery shallows that were red with the other man's blood.

Conall was slipping. He seemed about to fall.

And now, close to triumph, all the frustration of the last year and, though he scarcely realised it himself, the many years of jealousy spoke for themselves when he cried out, "Do not think I shall kill you, Conall.

I shall not. It'll be tied and walking behind my chariot that you and Deirdre will come with me, this day, to the king."

And swinging his sword high, he leaped forward.

He never saw the blade. It moved so fast, he did not even feel it for a moment, in his battle fury. But it smashed through his breast and severed every tissue just above the heart, so that Finbarr frowned, first in puzzlement as he became aware that something had stopped. Then he felt a huge, red, aching pain, and found that he was choking, that his gorge and his mouth were full of blood, and that everything was running away from him like a river as he crashed into the shallow water.

He felt himself being turned and saw Condi's face looking down at him, infinitely sorrowful. Why was he so sorrowful? His face was becoming blurred.

"Oh Finbarr. I had no wish to kill you."

Why did Conall say that? Had he killed him?

Finbarr tried to say something to the blur.

"Conalla"

Then the light grew bright as his eyes opened wide.

Conall and the charioteer carried his body to the chariot, to be taken back to the king. Only now did Conall realise that Cuchulainn the hound was tied up in the chariot, waiting for his master. With a last sad look over the wide waters of the Liffey, Conall limped back towards Deirdre and the island.

Goibniu's single eye surveyed them all: the High King, the queen, the chiefs, and the druids.

He listened but said nothing.

It had been that afternoon, after two days" hard driving, that the exhausted charioteer had arrived at the High King's camp with Finbarr's body. The women were preparing it for burial. And in the big hall, with its wicker walls, they were all talking.

There were at least twenty young men who wanted to go after Conall. They would, of course. Kill the hero who had killed noble Finbarr-what a chance for young men eager for glory. The druids, on the whole, seemed to think this was the best plan. Larine was there, Conall's friend. He was looking sad, but saying nothing. The queen, however, was talking. She had never, it seemed to Goibniu, taken much interest in the hunting of Conall; but now she was adamant.

Conall and Deirdre should be killed. "Let her father bury his daughter at Dubh Linn," she cried. "And bring me the head of Conall." She looked round the chiefs and young heroes. "The man who brings me Conall's head shall have twelvescore cows." One thing was clear: she did not want them back. But what interested Goibniu far more was the thought process of the king who, though he sat on his large covered bench looking depressed, had still not spoken. Was he, perhaps, thinking as Goibniu thought? Did he look for deeper causes?

As so often happened when Goibniu listened to men talking, it seemed to the smith that their words were empty, signifying nothing. For what was the king's real problem? The failure of the harvests. And what caused the bad harvests? were they really the fault of the High King? Could they be cured by the death of Conall? Goibniu did not know, but he doubted.