A sturdy, bellicose, forthright personage he was indeed. He was equipped in a wonderful solidity of armour, with a hard, carven helmet on his head, a splendid red-bossed shield swinging on his shoulder, a wide-grooved, straight sword clashing along his thigh. On his shoulders under the shield he carried a splendid scarlet mantle; over his breast was a great brooch of burnt gold, and in his fist he gripped a pair of thick-shafted, unburnished spears.
Fionn and the champions looked on this gentleman, and they admired exceedingly his bearing and equipment.
"Of what blood are you, young gentleman?" Fionn demanded, "and from which of the four corners of the world do you come?"
"My name is Cael of the Iron," the stranger answered, "and I am son to the King of Thessaly."
"What errand has brought you here?"
"I do not go on errands," the man replied sternly, "but on the affairs that please me."
"Be it so. What is the pleasing affair which brings you to this land?"
"Since I left my own country I have not gone from a land or an island until it paid tribute to me and acknowledged my lordship."
"And you have come to this realm" cried Fionn, doubting his ears.
"For tribute and sovereignty," growled that other, and he struck the haft of his spear violently on the ground.
"By my hand," said Conán, "we have never heard of a warrior, however great, but his peer was found in Ireland, and the funeral songs of all such have been chanted by the women of this land."
"By my hand and word," said the harsh stranger,
