CONCHUBOR.
— stiffly. — A night with thunder coming is no night to be abroad.
LAVARCHAM.
— more uneasily. — She’s used to every track and pathway, and the lightning itself wouldn’t let down its flame to singe the beauty of her like.
FERGUS.
— cheerfully. — She’s right, Conchubor, and let you sit down and take your ease, (he takes a wallet from under his cloak) and I’ll count out what we’ve brought, and put it in the presses within.
[He goes into the inner room with the Old Woman.
CONCHUBOR.
— sitting down and looking about. — Where are the mats and hangings and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM.
The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor. She wouldn’t wish to be soiling them, she said, running out and in with mud and grasses on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain. The silver skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the chest.
CONCHUBOR.
Bring them out and use them from this day.
LAVARCHAM.
We’ll do it, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR.
— getting up and going to frame. — Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM.
— pleased to speak of it. — It is, Conchubor. All say there isn’t her match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon crimson, and she edging them all times with her greens and gold.