DEIRDRE.
— turning on him. — Was it that way with your sorrow, when I and Naisi went northward from Slieve Fuadh and let raise our sails for Alban?
CONCHUBOR.
There’s one sorrow has no end surely — that’s being old and lonesome. (With extraordinary pleading.) But you and I will have a little peace in Emain, with harps playing, and old men telling stories at the fall of night. I’ve let build rooms for our two selves, Deirdre, with red gold upon the walls and ceilings that are set with bronze. There was never a queen in the east had a house the like of your house, that’s waiting for yourself in Emain.
SOLDIER — running in. — Emain is in flames. Fergus has come back and is setting fire to the world. Come up, Conchubor, or your state will be destroyed!
CONCHUBOR.
— angry and regal again. — Are the Sons of Usna buried?
SOLDIER.
They are in their grave, but no earth is thrown.
CONCHUBOR.
Let me see them. Open the tent! (Soldier opens back of tent and shows grave.) Where are my fighters?
SOLDIER.
They are gone to Emain.
CONCHUBOR.
— to Deirdre. — There are none to harm you. Stay here until I come again.
[Goes out with Soldier. Deirdre looks round for a moment, then goes up slowly and looks into grave. She crouches down and begins swaying herself backwards and forwards, keening softly. At first her words are not heard, then they become clear.
DEIRDRE.
It’s you three will not see age or death coming — you that were my company when the fires on the hill-tops were put out and the stars were our friends only. I’ll turn my thoughts back from this night, that’s pitiful for want of pity, to the time it was your rods and cloaks made a little tent for me where there’d be a birch tree making shelter and a dry stone; though from this day my own fingers will be making a tent for me, spreading out my hairs and they knotted with the rain.