“Do not speak unkindly to me,” she begged.
“That lovely mouth spoke always lovely things, and now it speaks nothing but evil.”
She closed his lips with her hand.
“No, no,” she said. “Do not say more. Or say only that you love me. You do love me, my husband?”
“Little tender wife!” he smiled. “After all the dangers we have gone through you are frightened at last.”
“Yes,” she breathed, “I am terribly frightened. I die of fear for us all. When I remember Conachúr.... He looked so at me, Naoise! He——! Come with me to Scotland. We will be safe there. We will be happy again. We will hunt in the Woods of Cuan and Glen da Rua. I shall never complain again in this life if you will come with me to Scotland. Let us go away. You and I, and our darlings, Ainnle and Ardan. He is so young to be killed, our brother Ardan. He is but twenty-one years old, and he is gay and loving and fearless. We will be together again; we four: alone and happy. Listen! we will hunt and feast and defend ourselves and fear nothing. You shall win a kingdom there: in sweet Alba of the heathery uplands; but let us fly from Conachúr. You do not know him. Only I and Lavarcham know that terrible king. He is thoughtful. He is bitter and unforgiving, and his memories are rooted deep like the roots of a deep tree.”
But Naoise put her hands away.
“If you must speak badly of others,” he said coldly, “speak to me of foreigners, and not of my own people!”
“Alas, my husband!” said Deirdre. “Alas and alas for all of us!”
She rose wearily.