Fer rogain wept, so that his mantle in front of him became moist. And no voice was gotten out of his head till a third of the night had passed.
‘O little ones,’ says Fer rogain, ‘I have good reason for what I do! Those are three sons of the king of Erin: Oball and Oblíne and Corpre Findmor.’
‘It grieves us if the tale be true,’ say the sons of Donn Désa. ‘Good is the trio in that room. Manners of ripe maidens have they, and hearts of brothers, and valours of bears, and furies of lions. Whosoever is in their company and in their couch, and parts from them, he sleeps not and eats not at ease till the end of nine days, from lack of their companionship. Good are the youths for their age! Thrice ten will fall by each of them in their first encounter, and a man for each weapon, and three men for themselves. And one of the three will fall there. Because of that trio, woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!’
‘Ye cannot,’ says Ingcél: ‘clouds of weakness are coming to you, etc. And whom sawest thou afterwards?’