"You remember my spear with the thirty rivets of Arabian gold in its socket?"
"The one," Fionn queried, "that had its head wrapped in a blanket and was stuck in a bucket of water and was chained to a wall as well—the venomous Birgha?"
"That one," Fiacuil replied.
"It is Aillen mac Midna's own spear," he continued, "and it was taken out of his Shí by your father."
"Well?" said Fionn, wondering nevertheless where Fiacuil got the spear, but too generous to ask.
"When you hear the great man of the Shí coming, take the wrappings off the head of the spear and bend your face over it; the heat of the spear, the stench of it, all its pernicious and acrid qualities will prevent you from going to sleep."
"Are you sure of that?" said Fionn.
"You couldn't go to sleep close to that stench; nobody could," Fiacuil replied decidedly.
He continued: "Aillen mac Midna will be off his guard when he stops playing and begins to blow his fire; he will think everybody is asleep; then you can deliver the attack you were speaking of, and all good luck go with it."
"I will give him back his spear," said Fionn.
"Here it is," said Fiacuil, taking the Birgha from under his cloak. "But be as careful of it, my pulse, be as frightened of it as you are of the man of Dana."
"I will be frightened of nothing," said Fionn, "and the only person I will be sorry for is that Aillen mac Midna, who is going to get his own spear back."
"I will go away now," his companion whispered, "for it is growing darker where you would have thought there
