XI.

The heroes marched to Cattraeth with the dawn; Feelingly did their relatives {96d} regret their absence; Mead they drank, yellow, sweet, ensnaring; That year is the point to which many {96e} a minstrel turns; Redder were their swords than their plumes, {97a} Their blades were white as lime, {97b} and into four parts were their helmets cloven, {97c} Even those of {97d} the retinue of Mynyddawg the Courteous.