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"If you do," Fionn pleaded, "tell it to me upon your honour." "I will do that," the man replied. "Do not look any further for the rusty-kneed, slow-trotting son of Rona'n," he continued, "but ask me to run your race, and, by this hand, I will be first at the post." At this the Chief began to laugh.
Cona'n also refused, and so did Caelte mac Rona'n and mac Lugac, for there was no man there but was terrified by the sight of that mighty and valiant harridan. Fionn rose to his feet. "I will take this combat myself," he said sternly. And he swung his buckler forward and stretched his right hand to the sword. But at that terrible sight Goll mae Morna blushed deeply and leaped from the ground.
It would be hard to tell of the terror that was in Fionn's breast and in the hearts of the Fianna while they attended the conclusion of that race. They discussed it unendingly, and at some moment of the day a man upbraided Fionn because he had not found Caelte the son of Rona'n as had been agreed on. "There is no one can run like Caelte," one man averred. "He covers the ground," said another.
For this was the order of Fionn's affection: first there was the boy; next, Bran and Sceo'lan with their three whelps; then Caelte mac Rona'n, and from him down through the champions. He loved them all, but it was along that precedence his affections ran. The thorn that went into Bran's foot ran into Fionn's also.
Art og mac Morna of the Hard Strokes fell to biting his fingers, Cona'n the Swearer and Garra mac Morna grumbled irritably to each other and at their neighbours, even Caelte, the son of Rona'n, looked down into his own lap, and Goll Mor sipped at his wine without any twinkle in his eye.
"He won't outrun Caelte mac Rona'n," Fionn asserted. The big man jeered. "Say that he won't outrun a hedgehog, dear heart. This Cael will end the course by the time your Caelte begins to think of starting." "Then," said Fionn, "I no longer know where to turn, or how to protect the honour of Ireland." "I know how to do these things," the other man commented with a slow nod of the head.
Fionn, thus pressed, told of the coming of Cael of the Iron, of the challenge the latter had issued, and that he, Fionn, was off to Tara of the Kings to find Caelte mac Rona'n. "I know that foreigner well," the big man commented. "Is he the champion he makes himself out to be?" Fionn inquired. "He can do twice as much as he said he would do," the monster replied.
"In running alone," Fionn continued thoughtfully, "we have a notable champion, Caelte mac Rona'n." "This son of Rona'n will not long be notable," the stranger asserted. "He can outstrip the red deer," said Cona'n. "He can outrun the wind," cried Fionn. "He will not be asked to outrun the red deer or the wind," the stranger sneered. "He will be asked to outrun me," he thundered.
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