AT another time, as the saint was sitting one day with the brothers beside the lake Ce (Lough Key, in Roscommon), at the mouth of the river called in Latin Bos (the Boyle), a certain Scotic poet came to them, and when he retired, after a short interview, the brothers said to the saint, ‘Why didst thou not ask the poet Cronan, before he went away, to sing us a song with accompaniment, according to the rules of his profession?’ The saint replied, ‘Why do even you now utter such idle words? How could I ask that poor man to sing a song of joy, who has now been murdered, and thus hastily has ended his days, at the hands of his enemies?’ The saint had no sooner said these words than immediately a man cried out from beyond the river, ‘That poet who left you in safety a few minutes ago has just now been met and put to death by his enemies.’ Then all that were present wondered very much, and looked at one another in amazement.