He looked moodily on his gentlemen. There was Cathfa,[2] the famous poet, and Conall his grandson, to be known later as Cearnach (the victorious), but already notable; bitter-tongued Bricriu, who was famous or infamous according to one’s judgement; Uisneac, who had married one of Cathfa’s three daughters, and for whose little son Naoise the queens of Ireland would weep so long as Ireland had a memory; and there was Fergus mac Roy. Conachúr’s eye travelled loweringly from one to the other of these men until it rested on Fergus, and on him it rested lovingly, benevolently. He looked loweringly on the others because they did not stand in any particular relation to him at the moment. He looked lovingly and mildly on Fergus because he hated Fergus and had wronged him so bitterly that he must wrong him yet more in justification. His wife and Fergus mac Roy were often in his thoughts, so he looked very lovingly on them and speculated a great deal about their future. But this night the young king was seriously out of humour, not only because of his wife’s absence, but because of many things that had happened. Three comets in succession had flashed across the sky as they drove to the Story-teller’s house. His leading chariot-horse had trod in a rabbit-hole and its leg was cracked at the fetlock; and one of his attendants had been taken with mortal vomitings, and it did not seem that he would finish until he had emptied his body of his soul. Conachúr called to his father: “You are a poet, and should be able to tell us the meaning of these various omens.” “It is not hard to tell,” said the calm magician. “Then tell it,” quoth the king testily. As he spoke a thin wail came from somewhere in the building, and the men present turned an ear to that little sound, and then a questioning or humorous eye on each other. “You hear,” said the poet. “A child has just been born in this house. She will bring evil to Ireland, and she will work destruction in Ulster as a ferret works destruction in a rabbit’s burrow.” Cathfa then returned to his chess, leaving the company staring. “You have the gift of comfortable prophecy,” said the king. “Put an end to the prophecy by putting an end to the child,” Bricriu advised, “and then let us see how the gods manage their affairs.” “Bricriu, my soul,” said the king, “you like troubling the waters, but to-night you seem to be afflicted with sense. Bring the creature to me.” They carried the little morsel to him and she was laid across his knees. “So you are to destroy my kingdom and bring evil to mighty Ireland?” The babe reached with a tiny claw and gripped one finger of the king. “See,” he laughed, “she places herself under my protection,” and he moved his finger to and fro, but the child held fast to it. “Ulster is under your protection,” growled Bricriu. The king, who did not like other men’s advice, looked at him.