FERGUS.
— gathering up his parchments. — And you won’t go, surely.
NAISI.
I will not. . . . I’ve had dread, I tell you, dread winter and summer, and the autumn and the springtime, even when there’s a bird in every bush making his own stir till the fall of night; but this talk’s brought me ease, and I see we’re as happy as the leaves on the young trees, and we’ll be so ever and always, though we’d live the age of the eagle and the salmon and the crow of Britain.
FERGUS.
— with anger. — Where are your brothers? My message is for them also.
NAISI.
You’ll see them above chasing otters by the stream.
FERGUS.
— bitterly. — It isn’t much I was mistaken, thinking you were hunters only.
[He goes, Naisi turns towards tent and sees Deirdre crouching down with her cloak round her face. Deirdre comes out.
NAISI.
You’ve heard my words to Fergus? (She does not answer. A pause. He puts his arm round her.) Leave troubling, and we’ll go this night to Glen da Ruadh, where the salmon will be running with the tide.
[Crosses and sits down.
DEIRDRE.
— in a very low voice. — With the tide in a little while we will be journeying again, or it is our own blood maybe will be running away. (She turns and clings to him.) The dawn and evening are a little while, the winter and the summer pass quickly, and what way would you and I, Naisi, have joy for ever?
NAISI.
We’ll have the joy is highest till our age is come, for it isn’t Fergus’s talk of great deeds could take us back to Emain.