CONCHUBOR.
— with sudden anger. — I’ll not go, when it’s long enough I am above in my dun stretching east and west without a comrade, and I more needy, maybe, than the thieves of Meath. . . . You think I’m old and wise, but I tell you the wise know the old must die, and they’ll leave no chance for a thing slipping from them they’ve set their blood to win.
LAVARCHAM.
— nodding her head. — If you’re old and wise, it’s I’m the same, Conchubor, and I’m telling you you’ll not have her though you’re ready to destroy mankind and skin the gods to win her. There’s things a king can’t have, Conchubor, and if you go rampaging this night you’ll be apt to win nothing but death for many, and a sloppy face of trouble on your own self before the day will come.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s too much talk you have. (Goes right.) Where is Owen? Did you see him no place and you coming the road?
LAVARCHAM.
I seen him surely. He went spying on Naisi, and now the worms is spying on his own inside.
CONCHUBOR.
— exultingly. — Naisi killed him?
LAVARCHAM.
He did not, then. It was Owen destroyed himself running mad because of Deirdre. Fools and kings and scholars are all one in a story with her like, and Owen thought he’d be a great man, being the first corpse in the game you’ll play this night in Emain.
CONCHUBOR.
It’s yourself should be the first corpse, but my other messengers are coming, men from the clans that hated Usna.
LAVARCHAM.
— drawing back hopelessly. — Then the gods have pity on us all!
[Men with weapons come in.
CONCHUBOR.
— to Soldiers. — Are Ainnle and Ardan separate from Naisi?