Note 3 — Chapter I

“To Cattraeth’s vale, in glittering row, Twice two hundred warriors go; Every warrior’s manly neck Chains of regal honor deck, Wreathed in many a golden link: From the golden cup they drink Nectar that the bees produce, Or the grape’s ecstatic juice, Flush’d with mirth and hope they burn, But none from Cattraeth’s vale return Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong (Bursting through the bloody throng), And I, the meanest of them all That live to weep and sing their fall.”