Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens

Chief,” Caelte begged.
    â€œWhat is a feast without Fionn?” they complained.
    But he would not stay.
    â€œBy my hand,” he cried, “I must go. She will be looking for me from the window.”
    â€œThat will happen indeed,” Goll admitted.
    â€œThat will happen,” cried Fionn. “And when she sees me far out on the plain, she will run through the great gate to meet me.”
    â€œIt would be the queer wife would neglect that run,” Conán growled.
    â€œI shall hold her hand again,” Fionn entrusted to Caelte’s ear.
    â€œYou will do that, surely.”
    â€œI shall look into her face,” his lord insisted. But he saw that not even beloved Caelte understood the meaning of that, and he knew sadly and yet proudly that what he meant could not be explained by any one and could not be comprehended by any one.
    â€œYou are in love, dear heart,” said Caelte.
    â€œIn love he is,” Conán grumbled. “A cordial for women, a disease for men, a state of wretchedness.”
    â€œWretched in truth,” the Chief murmured. “Love makes us poor. We have not eyes enough to see all that is to be seen, nor hands enough to seize the tenth of all we want. When I look in her eyes I am tormented because I am not looking at her lips, and when I see her lips my soul cries out, ‘Look at her eyes, look at her eyes.’ ”
    â€œThat is how it happens,” said Goll rememberingly.
    â€œThat way and no other,” Caelte agreed.
    And the champions looked backwards in time on these lips and those, and knew their Chief would go.
    When Fionn came in sight of the great keep his blood and his feet quickened, and now and again he waved a spear in the air.
    â€œShe does not see me yet,” he thought mournfully.
    â€œShe cannot see me yet,” he amended, reproaching himself.
    But his mind was troubled, for he thought also, or he felt without thinking, that had the positions been changed he would have seen her at twice the distance.
    â€œShe thinks I have been unable to get away from the battle, or that I was forced to remain for the feast.”
    And, without thinking it, he thought that had the positions been changed he would have known that nothing could retain the one that was absent.
    â€œWomen,” he said, “are shamefaced, they do not like to appear eager when others are observing them.”
    But he knew that he would not have known if others were observing him, and that he would not have cared about it if he had known. And he knew that his Saeve would not have seen, and would not have cared for any eyes than his.
    He gripped his spear on that reflection, and ran as he had not run in his life, so that it was a panting, dishevelled man that raced heavily through the gates of the great Dun.
    Within the Dun there was disorder. Servants were shouting to one another, and women were running to and fro aimlessly, wringing their hands and screaming; and, when they saw the Champion, those nearest to him ran away, and there was a general effort on the part of every person to get behind every other person. But Fionn caught the eye of his butler, Gariv Cronán, the Rough Buzzer, and held it.
    â€œCome you here,” he said.
    And the Rough Buzzer came to him without a single buzz in his body.
    â€œWhere is the Flower of Allen?” his master demanded.
    â€œI do not know, master,” the terrified servant replied.
    â€œYou do not know!” said Fionn. “Tell what you do know.”
    And the man told him this story.

Chapter 4
    W hen you had been away for a day the guards were surprised. They were looking from the heights of the Dun, and the Flower of Allen was with them. She, for she had a quest’s eye, called out that the master of the Fianna was coming over the ridges to the Dun, and she ran from the keep to meet you.”
    â€œIt was not I,” said Fionn.
    â€œIt bore your shape,” replied Gariv Cronán.