DEIRDRE—Why do you talk so strangely, fostermother?
LAVARCAM—Concobar, I will not fight against the will of the immortals. I am not thy servant, but theirs. Let the Red Branch fall! If the gods scatter it they have chosen to guide the people of Ulla in another I path.
DEIRDRE—What has disturbed your mind, dear foster-mother? What have I to do with the Red Branch? And why should the people of Ulla fall because of me?
LAVARCAM—O Deirdre, there were no warriors created could overcome the Red Branch. The gods have but smiled on this proud chivalry through thine eyes, and they are already melted. The waving of thy hand is more powerful to subdue than the silver rod of the king to sustain. Thy golden hair shall be the flame to burn up Ulla.
DEIDRE—Oh, what do you mean by these fateful prophecies? You fill me with terror. Why should a dream so gentle and sweet portend sorrow?
LAVARCAM—Dear golden head, cast sorrow aside for a time. The Father has not yet struck the last chords on the harp of life. The chords of joy have but begun for thee.
DEIRDRE—You confuse my mind, dear fostermother, with your speech of joy and sorrow. It is not your wont. Indeed, I think my dream portends joy.
LAVARCAM—It is love, Deirdre, which is coming to thee. Love, which thou hast never known.
DEIRDRE—But I love thee, dearest and kindest of guardians.
LAVARCAM—Oh, in this love heaven and earth will be forgotten, and your own self unremembered, or dim and far off as a home the spirit fives in no longer.