"I never give an account of myself to any man," said Conlán, "till I get an account from him."
"There is no man among us," said Conan, "bound in that way but Cucúlin." They called on Cucúlin; he came up and the two fought. Conlán knew by the description his mother had given that Cuculin was his father, but Cucúlin did not know his son. Every time Conlán aimed his spear he threw it so as to strike the ground in front of Cucúlin's toe, but Cucúlin aimed straight at him.
They were at one another three days and three nights. The son always sparing the father, the father never sparing the son.
Conan Maol came to them the fourth morning. "Cucúlin," said he, "I did n't expect to see any man standing against you three days, and you such a champion."
When Conlán heard Conan Maol urging the father to kill him, he gave a bitter look at Conan, and forgot his guard. Cucúlin's spear went through his head that minute, and he fell. "I die of that blow from my father," said he.
"Are you my son?" said Cucúlin.
"I am," said Conlán.
Cucúlin took his sword and cut the head off him sooner than leave him in the punishment and pain he was in. Then he faced all the people, and Fin was looking on.
