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 fled from a boy"; but Aillen still continued his flight. Then Fionn poised his spear—which for a long time had struggled in his hand, striving to free itself—and with all the strength of his arm threw it; and so great was the force with which he sent it hurtling through the air that it pierced straight through the magician and into a tree beyond. A few yards further Aillen ran, then on the verge of a pine forest stumbled and fell, and when Fionn reached him he was dead.

A wave of exhaustion and weariness swept over the boy as he looked on the dead body of the enchanter, and gathering a quantity of fragrant pine-needles together to make a couch he sank down on it, and was soon fast asleep, lulled by the music of the wind murmuring through the trees.

In the morning, as the cold grey dawn lightened the eastern sky, Fionn woke and sat up, wondering where he was. Sleep had erased from his memory all the events of the preceding night, but as he rose to his feet his eyes fell on Aillen mac Midna, lying face downwards in the long grass; then remembrance returned to