The king sent his servants with them then to the treasure-house to measure the gold.  “Measure out the full of it to my brothers first,” said Brian, “and then give good measure to myself, since it was I made the poem.”

But when the skin was brought out, Brian made a quick sudden snatch at it with his left hand, and drew his sword and made a stroke at the man nearest him, and made two halves of him.  And then he kept a hold of the skin and put it about himself, and the three of them rushed out of the court, cutting down every armed man before them, so that not one escaped death or wounding.  And then Brian went to where the king himself was, and the king made no delay in attacking him, and they made a hard fight of it, and at the end the King of Greece fell by the hand of Brian, son of Tuireann.

The three brothers rested for a while after that, and then they said they would go and look for some other part of the fine.  “We will go to Pisear, King of Persia,” said Brian, “and ask him for the spear.”

So they went into their boat, and they left the blue streams of the coast of Greece, and they said:  “We are well off when we have the apples and the skin.”  And they stopped nowhere till they came to the borders of Persia.

“Let us go to the court with the appearance of poets,” said Brian, “the same as we went to the King of Greece.”  “We are content to do that,” said the others, “as all turned out so well the last time we took to poetry; not that it is easy for us to take to a calling that does not belong to us.”

So they put the poet’s tie on their hair, and they were as well treated as they were at the other court; and when the time came for poems Brian rose up, and it is what he said: 

“It is little any spear looks to Pisear; the battles of enemies are broken, it is not too much for Pisear to wound every one of them.

“A yew, the most beautiful of the wood, it is called a king, it is not bulky.  May the spear drive on the whole crowd to their wounds of death.”

“That is a good poem,” said the king, “but I do not understand why my own spear is brought into it, O Man of Poetry from Ireland.”

“It is because it is that spear of your own I would wish to get as the reward of my poem,” said Brian.  “It is little sense you have to be asking that of me,” said the king; “and the people of my court never showed greater respect for poetry than now, when they did not put you to death on the spot.”

When Brian heard that talk from the king, he thought of the apple that was in his hand, and he made a straight cast and hit him in the forehead, so that his brains were put out at the back of his head, and he bared the sword and made an attack on the people about him.  And the other two did not fail to do the same, and they gave him their help bravely till they had made an end of all they met of the people of the court.  And then they found the spear, and its head in a cauldron of water, the way it would not set fire to the place.