Deirdre of the Sorrows

by J. M. Synge

LAVARCHAM.
He’d have us tracked in the half of a day, and then you’d be his queen in spite of you, and I and mine would be destroyed for ever.

DEIRDRE.
— terrified with the reality that is before her. — Are there none can go against Conchubor?

LAVARCHAM.
Maeve of Connaught only, and those that are her like.

DEIRDRE.
Would Fergus go against him?

LAVARCHAM.
He would, maybe, and his temper roused.

DEIRDRE.
— in a lower voice with sudden excitement. — Would Naisi and his brothers?

LAVARCHAM.
— impatiently. — Let you not be dwelling on Naisi and his brothers. . . . In the end of all there is none can go against Conchubor, and it’s folly that we’re talking, for if any went against Conchubor it’s sorrow he’d earn and the shortening of his day of life.

[She turns away, and Deirdre stands up stiff with excitement and goes and looks out of the window.

DEIRDRE.
Are the stepping-stones flooding, Lavarcham? Will the night be stormy in the hills?

LAVARCHAM.
— looking at her curiously. — The stepping-stones are flooding, surely, and the night will be the worst, I’m thinking, we’ve seen these years gone by.