In them and in their strange admixture of different and successive periods of customs, thoughts and emotions (caused by the continuous editing and re-editing of them, first in oral recitation and then at the hands of scribes), Ireland will see the record of her history, not the history of external facts, but of her soul as it grew into consciousness of personality; as it established in itself love of law, of moral right, of religion, of chivalry, of courtesy in war and daily life; as it rejoiced, and above all, as it suffered and was constant, in suffering and oppression, to its national ideals.
It seems as if, once at least, this aspect of the tales of Ireland was seen by men of old, for there is a story which tells that heaven itself desired their remembrance, and that we should be diverted and inspired by them.

In itself it is a record of the gentleness of Irish Christianity to Irish heathendom, and of its love of the heroic past.
For one day when Patrick and his clerks were singing the Mass at the Rath of the Red Ridge, where Finn was wont to be, he saw Keelta, a chief of the Fianna, draw near with his companions, and Keelta's huge hounds were with him.

They were men so tall and great that fear fell on the clerks, but Patrick met with and asked their chieftain's name.
"I am Keelta," he answered, "son of Ronan of the Fianna." "Was it not a good lord you were with," said Patrick, "Finn, son of Cumhal ?" And Keelta said, "If the brown leaves falling in the wood were gold, if the waves of the sea were silver, Finn would have given them all away." "What was it kept you through your lifetime ?" said Patrick.
"Truth that was in our hearts, and strength in our hands, and fulfilment in our tongues," said Keelta.

Then Patrick gave them food and drink and good treatment, and talked with them.

And in the morning the two angels who guarded him came to him, and he asked them if it were any harm before God, King of heaven and earth, that he should listen to the stories of the Fianna.