CONCHUBOR.
It’s my wish to have you quickly; I’m sick and weary thinking of the day you’ll be brought down to me, and seeing you walking into my big, empty halls. I’ve made all sure to have you, and yet all said there’s a fear in the back of my mind I’d miss you and have great troubles in the end. It’s for that, Deirdre, I’m praying that you’ll come quickly; and you may take the word of a man has no lies, you’ll not find, with any other, the like of what I’m bringing you in wildness and confusion in my own mind.
DEIRDRE.
I cannot go, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR.
— taking a triumphant tone. — It is my pleasure to have you, and I a man is waiting a long while on the throne of Ulster. Wouldn’t you liefer be my comrade, growing up the like of Emer and Maeve, than to be in this place and you a child always?
DEIRDRE.
You don’t know me and you’d have little joy taking me, Conchubor. . . . I’m a long while watching the days getting a great speed passing me by. I’m too long taking my will, and it’s that way I’ll be living always.
CONCHUBOR.
— dryly. — Call Fergus to come with me. This is your last night upon Slieve Fuadh.
DEIRDRE.
— now pleadingly. — Leave me a short space longer, Conchubor. Isn’t it a poor thing I should be hastened away, when all these troubles are foretold? Leave me a year, Conchubor; it isn’t much I’m asking.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s much to have me two score and two weeks waiting for your voice in Emain, and you in this place growing lonesome and shy. I’m a ripe man and in great love, and yet, Deirdre, I’m the King of Ulster. (He gets up.) I’ll call Fergus, and we’ll make Emain ready in the morning.
[He goes towards door on left.
DEIRDRE.
— clinging to him. — Do not call him, Conchubor. . . . Promise me a year of quiet. . . . It’s one year I’m asking only.
CONCHUBOR.
You’d be asking a year next year, and the years that follow. (Calling.) Fergus! Fergus! (To Deirdre.) Young girls are slow always; it is their lovers that must say the word. (Calling.) Fergus!