DEIRDRE.
I’ll not be here to know if that is true.
NAISI.
It’s our three selves he’ll kill tonight, and then in two months or three you’ll see him walking down for courtship with yourself.
DEIRDRE.
I’ll not be here.
NAISI.
— hard. — You’d best keep him off, maybe, and then, when the time comes, make your way to some place west in Donegal, and it’s there you’ll get used to stretching out lonesome at the fall of night, and waking lonesome for the day.
DEIRDRE.
Let you not be saying things are worse than death.
NAISI.
— a little recklessly. — I’ve one word left. If a day comes in the west that the larks are cocking their crests on the edge of the clouds, and the cuckoos making a stir, and there’s a man you’d fancy, let you not be thinking that day I’d be well pleased you’d go on keening always.
DEIRDRE.
— turning to look at him. — And if it was I that died, Naisi, would you take another woman to fill up my place?
NAISI.
— very mournfully. — It’s little I know, saving only that it’s a hard and bitter thing leaving the earth, and a worse and harder thing leaving yourself alone and desolate to be making lamentation on its face always.
DEIRDRE.
I’ll die when you do, Naisi. I’d not have come here from Alban but I knew I’d be along with you in Emain, and you living or dead. . . . Yet this night it’s strange and distant talk you’re making only.
NAISI.
There’s nothing, surely, the like of a new grave of open earth for putting a great space between two friends that love.