When his enemy began his attack the King of Ireland’s Son had power to do nothing else but guard himself from that weighty sword. He had the Sword of Light for a guard and well did that bright, swift blade guard him. The two fought across the courtyard making hard places soft and soft places hard with their trampling. They fought from when it was early to when it was noon, and they fought from when it was noon until it was long afternoon. And not a single wound did the King of Ireland’s Son inflict upon the King of the Land of Mist, and not a single wound did the King of the Land of Mist inflict upon him. But the King of Ireland’s Son was growing faint and weary. His eyes were worn with watching the strokes and thrusts of the sword that was battling against him. His arms could hardly bear up his own sword. His heart became a stream of blood that would have gushed from his breast. And then, as he was about to fall down with his head under the sword of the King of the Land of Mist a name rose above all his thoughts--“Fedelma.” If he sank down and the sword of the King of the Land of Mist fell on him, never would she be saved. The will became strong again in the King of Ireland’s Son. His heart became a steady beating thing. The weight that was upon his arms passed away. Strongly he held the sword in his hand and he began to attack the King of the Land of Mist. And now he saw that the sword in the hand of his enemy was broken and worn with the guard that the Sword of Light had put against it. And now he made a strong attack. As the light was leaving the sky and as the darkness was coming down he saw that the strength was waning in the King of the Land of Mist. The sword in his hand was more worn and more broken. At last the blade was only a span from the hilt. As he drew back to the gate of the fourth courtyard the King of Ireland’s Son sprang at him and thrust the Sword of Light through his breast. He stood with his face becoming exceedingly terrible. He flung what remained of his sword, and the broken blade struck the foot of the King of Ireland’s Son and pierced it. Then the King of the Land of Mist fell down on the ground before the fourth gate. So weary from his battles, so pained with the wound of his foot was the King of Ireland’s Son that he did not try to cross the body and go towards the fifth gate. He turned back. He climbed down the rock and went towards the River of the Broken Towers. The Glashan was broiling on a hot stone the eel he had taken out of the river. “Wash my wound and give me refreshment, Glashan,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. The Glashan washed the wound in his foot and gave him a portion of the broiled eel with cresses and water. “To-morrow’s dawn I shall go back,” said the King of Ireland’s Son, “and go through the fifth and sixth and seventh gate and take away Fedelma.” “If the King of the Land of Mist lets you,” said the Glashan.