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           Andpresentlyhesatdownuponthetable,swordinhand;theairthathewasmakingallthetimebegantorunalittleclearer,andthenclearerstill;andthenoutheburstwithagreatvoiceintoaGaelicsong.

           Ihavetranslatedithere,notinverse(ofwhichIhavenoskill)butatleastintheking’sEnglish.

           Hesangitoftenafterwards,andthethingbecamepopular;sothatIhavehearditandhaditexplainedtome,many’sthetime.

           “ThisisthesongoftheswordofAlan;Thesmithmadeit,Thefiresetit;NowitshinesinthehandofAlanBreck.

           “Theireyesweremanyandbright,Swiftweretheytobehold,Manythehandstheyguided:Theswordwasalone.

           “Thedundeertroopoverthehill,Theyaremany,thehillisone;Thedundeervanish,Thehillremains.

           “Cometomefromthehillsofheather,Comefromtheislesofthesea.Ofar-beholdingeagles,Hereisyourmeat.”

           Nowthissongwhichhemade(bothwordsandmusic)inthehourofourvictory,issomethinglessthanjusttome,whostoodbesidehiminthetussle.Mr.Shuanandfivemorewereeitherkilledoutrightorthoroughlydisabled;butofthese,twofellbymyhand,thetwothatcamebytheskylight.Fourmorewerehurt,andofthatnumber,one(andhenottheleastimportant)gothishurtfromme.Sothat,altogether,Ididmyfairsharebothofthekillingandthewounding,andmighthaveclaimedaplaceinAlan’sverses.Butpoetshavetothinkupontheirrhymes;andingoodprosetalk,Alanalwaysdidmemorethanjustice.

           Inthemeanwhile,Iwasinnocentofanywrongbeingdoneme.