He was right in his conjecture, for presently Ethne left the group and hesitatingly approached the giant warrior, who was still gazing vacantly at the glassy surface of the water.  She touched him timidly on the shoulder.  Slowly he raised his head, and still half dazed by his long staring, listened while she made her request.  He rose to his feet sleepily, throwing out his brawny arms and expanding his chest as he cast a keen glance at the birds slowly circling near the ground.

“Those birds are not fit to eat,” he said, turning to her with a good-natured smile.

“But we want the wings to put on our shoulders.  It would be so good of you to get them for us,” said Ethne in persuasive tones.

“If it’s flying you wish to try,” he said, with a laugh, “you’ll need better wings than those.  However, you shall have them if I can get within throwing distance of them.”

He glanced around for Laeg.  That far-seeing individual was already yoking the horses to the chariot.  A moment later, Cuchullain and the charioteer were dashing across the plain behind the galloping steeds.  As they neared the birds, Cuchullain sent missiles at them from his sling with such incredible rapidity and certainty of aim that not one of the flock escaped.  Each of the women was given two of the birds; but when Ethne, who had modestly held back when the others hurried forward to meet the returning chariot, came to receive her share, not one remained.

“As usual,” said Laeg stolidly, “if anyone fails to get her portion of anything, its sure to be Ethne.”

“Too sure,” said Cuchullain, a look of compassion softening his stern features.  He strode over to Ethne, and placing his hand gently on her head said:  “Don’t take your disappointment to heart, little woman; when any more birds come to the plains of Murthemney, I promise to get for you the most beautiful of them all.”

“There’s a fine brace of them now, flying towards us,” exclaimed Laeg, pointing across the lake.  “And I think I hear them singing.  Queer birds, those; for I see a cord as of red gold between them.”

Nearer and nearer swept the strange beings of the air, and as their weird melody reached the many Ultonians at the Samhain fire, the stalwart warriors, slender maidens, the youthful and the time-worn, all felt the spell and became as statues, silent, motionless, entranced.  Alone the three at the chariot felt not the binding influences of the spell.  Cuchullain quietly fitted a smooth pebble into his sling.  Ethne looked appealingly at Laeg, in whose sagacity she greatly trusted.  A faint twinkle of the eye was the only sign that betrayed the thought of the charioteer as he tried to return her glance with a look of quiet unconcern.  She hastened after Cuchullain, who had taken his stand behind a great rock on the lake shore which concealed him from the approaching birds.

“Do not try to take them,” she entreated; “there is some strange power about them which your eyes do not see; I feel it, and my heart is filled with dread.”