Now the prince had been absent from his father’s hall for many days and feared his anger or that suspicion might fall upon him; so that night he took his horse and rode into the city of Camelon and entered his father’s hall. There he found Feargus talking with the king. When the prince entered, Feargus turned to withdraw and, in a moment, beheld the wondrous ring on the prince’s finger; then his heart leapt for very joy, for in dire trouble had he been. So he went out and donned his byrny and slung his great sword over his shoulder, and then, covering it all with the habit of a wandering minstrel, took his harp, the clarsach, or small harp of the Gael, and made himself a beard of great length and whiteness so that, having donned it, none could know him. He then went forth, mounted on a sorry nag, which laboured so under his weight that he had pity on it and sighed for his great grey horse. He rode to the outskirts of the town and there waited the prince’s coming. Long after midnight he approached with a strong company of warriors, and Feargus dismounted and sat upon a fallen tree, and as the prince drew nigh played a plaintive tune. With the clarsach and pipe the Picts excelled, and of them few could be likened to Feargus for skill. Now the prince was filled with thoughts of love, yet was he angry at having been so thwarted, and fearful also for his own life. So when he heard the harp in the still night he turned to the harper and drew in his beast, whereupon Feargus sang this song:— THE BOON OF LIFE I sing the greatest boon of life— ’Tis not the torrent’s glorious strife, Sun-dappled paths where nature weaves A paradise amongst the leaves, Or forest depths, the wild deer’s haunt, ’Tis not of these I make my vaunt, Nay, not of these! ’Tis not the friends kind fate hath sent Full of brave thoughts and hardiment, Though at your back a stalwart friend His blade will swing, swift to defend, Nor heed though foemen be a host, Yet not of these I make my boast, Nay, not of these! Whose face is fresh as morning fair, Whose hands the whitest anywhere, What is the one thing I can praise, With all my heart through all my days, With all the life that me doth move? ’Tis only love, ah, yes, ’tis love! The prince listened till the end of the song, and said he, “Thou hast wondrous skill, good minstrel; never heard I the like, nay, and the song thou singest pleaseth me.” Then Feargus answered, imitating the broken English of the Lothian Britons, “Yes, sir knight, but I am old and my hand will not long keep its cunning.” “Here’s gold to thee, and, if thou art willing, thou mayest come with me this night, for there is much merriment in my hall and I am to wed a fair lady to-morrow.” “That will I gladly, sir knight, but my beast is old and weary and can go but slowly.”