“Thou art of our hosts, O Fergus,” said Medb; [W.753.] [1]avert this necessity from us,[1] and do thou draw the fork for us from the bed of the ford.”  “Let a chariot be brought me,” cried Fergus, [2]"till I draw it out, that it may be seen that its butt is of one hewing."[2] And a chariot was brought to Fergus, and Fergus laid hold [3]with a truly mighty grip[3] on the fork, and he made splinters and [LL.fo.61a.] scraps of the chariot.  “Let another chariot be brought me,” cried Fergus. [4]Another[4] chariot was brought to Fergus, and Fergus made a tug at the fork and again made fragments and splinters of the chariot, [5]both its box and its yoke and its wheels.[5] “Again let a chariot be brought me,” cried Fergus.  And Fergus exerted his strength on the fork, and made pieces and bits of the chariot.  There where the seventeen[a] chariots of the Connachtmen’s chariots were, Fergus made pieces and bits of them all, and yet he failed to draw the fork from the bed of the ford.  “Come now, let it be, O Fergus,” cried Medb; “break our people’s chariots no more.  For hadst thou not been now engaged on this hosting, [6]by this time[6] should we have come to Ulster, driving divers spoils and cattle-herds with us.  We wot wherefore thou workest all this, to delay and detain the host till the Ulstermen rise from their ‘Pains’ and offer us battle, the battle of the Tain.”

    [1-1] LU. and YBL. 322.

    [2-2] LU. and YBL. 324.

    [3-3] Stowe.

    [4-4] Stowe.

    [5-5] Stowe.

    [a] “Fourteen,” LU. and YBL. 325 and Eg. 1782.

    [6-6] Stowe.

“Bring me a swift chariot,” cried Fergus.  And his own chariot was brought to Fergus, and Fergus gave a tug at the fork, and nor wheel nor floor nor one of the chariot-poles creaked nor cracked.  Even though it was with his strength and prowess that the one had driven it down, with his might and doughtiness the other drew it out,—­the battle-champion, the gap-breaker of hundreds, the crushing sledge, the stone-of-battle for enemies, the [W.777.] head of retainers, the foe of hosts, the hacking of masses, the flaming torch and the leader of mighty combat.  He drew it up with the tip of one hand till it reached the slope of his shoulder, and he placed the fork in Ailill’s hand.  Ailill scanned it; he regarded it near.  “The fork, meseems, is all the more perfect,” quoth Ailill; “for a single stroke I see on it from butt to top.”  “Aye, all the more perfect,” Fergus replied.  And Fergus began to sing praise [1]of Cuchulain,[1] and he made a lay thereon:—­

    “Here behold the famous fork,
    By which cruel Cuchulain stood. 
    Here he left, for hurt to all,
    Four heads of his border-foes!

    “Surely he’d not flee therefrom,
    ’Fore aught man, how brave or bold. 
    Though the scatheless[a] Hound this left,
    On its hard rind there is gore!