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A woeful crash, O a woeful crash the waves are making on the strand to the north; breaking against the smooth rock, crying after Cael now he is gone. A sorrowful fight, O a sorrowful fight, the sea is making with the strand to the north; my beauty is lessened; the end of my life is measured.
"I never was in such a wilderness in my life," said I to John Jones, "is it possible that the chair of the mighty Huw is in a place like this; which seems never to have been trodden by human foot. Well does the Scripture say 'Dim prophwyd yw yn cael barch yn ei dir ei hunan."
Then he raised his big boot and gave the boat a kick that drove it seven leagues out into the sea, and that was how the adventure of Cael of the Iron finished. "Who are you, sir?" said Fionn to the Carl. But before answering the Carl's shape changed into one of splendour and delight. "I am ruler of the Shi' of Rath Cruachan," he said.
"But try and run like this," the Carl admonished, and he gave a wriggling bound and a sudden outstretching and scurrying of shanks, and he disappeared from Cael's sight in one wild spatter of big boots. Despair fell on Cael of the Iron, but he had a great heart.
"I will run until I burst," sobbed Cael, and he screwed agitation and despair into his legs until he hummed and buzzed like a blue-bottle on a window. Five miles from Ben Edair the Carl stopped, for he had again come among blackberries.
Fear fell llke night around the Fianna, and they stood with slack knees and hanging hands waiting for death. But the Carl lifted a pawful of his oozy slop and discharged this at Cael with such a smash that the man's head spun off his shoulders and hopped along the ground.
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.
"It is the Carl," he said, "carrying something on his back, and behind him again there is a dust." "Are you sure?" said Fionn in a voice that rumbled and vibrated like thunder. "It is the Carl," said the watcher, "and the dust behind him is Cael of the Iron trying to catch him up."
"Give out your deed," Fionn commanded. "Thus," said Cael with cold savagery. "If you can find a man among your fourteen battalions who can outrun or outwrestle or outfight me, I will take myself off to my own country, and will trouble you no more."
"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.
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