But he would not stay.
"By my hand," he cried, "I must go. She will be looking for me from the window."
"That will happen indeed," Goll admitted.
"That will happen," cried Fionn. "And when she sees me far out on the plain, she will run through the great gate to meet me."
"It would be the queer wife would neglect that run," Conán growled.
"I shall hold her hand again," Fionn entrusted to Caelte's ear.
"You will do that, surely."
"I shall look into her face," his lord insisted.
But he saw that not even beloved Caelte understood the meaning of that, and he knew sadly and yet proudly that what he meant could not be explained by any one and could not be comprehended by any one.
"You are in love, dear heart," said Caelte.
"In love he is," Conán grumbled. "A cordial for women, a disease for men, a state of wretchedness."
"Wretched in truth," the Chief murmured. "Love makes us poor. We have not eyes enough to see all that is to be seen, nor hands enough to seize the tenth of all we want. When I look in her eyes I am tormented because I am not looking at her lips, and when I see her lips my soul cries out, 'Look at her eyes, look at her eyes.'"
"That is how it happens," said Goll rememberingly.
"That way and no other," Caelte agreed.
And the champions looked backwards in time on these lips and those, and knew their Chief would go.
When Fionn came in sight of the great keep his blood
