Not long had they been at those talks when they saw the well-manned, full-great vessel approaching them over the furious waves of the sea. And when the damsel's people saw the ship coming, they all fled from her, and not a single person remained in her company save only Cúchulainn. And thus was that vessel: a single warrior, dark, gloomy, devilish, on the stern of that good ship, and he was laughing roughly, ill-fatedly, so that every one saw his entrails and his bowels through the body of his gullet.
‘What is that mirthfulness on the big man?’ asks Cúchulainn.
‘Because,’ says the damsel, ‘he deems it excellent that thou shouldst be an addition to his tribute in this year rather than in any other year.’
‘By my conscience’, says Cúchulainn, ‘it would not be right for him to brag thus regarding me if he knew what would come of it.’