“Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes are red. One would pity her, master. Indeed, I shall go to see her to-morrow.”
“You did not want to see her any more,” said the king.
“It was so,” she replied humbly. “But my heart was wrung when I looked on her wretchedness.”
“And the young men?”
“They are stout young men, master.”
“And the guards that I posted?”
“They were at their posts.”
“There ends a tale, and seven of my poor years ...!” said Conachúr. “What did she look like, woman?”
“She is thin and haggard, and she leaned by the table as though all the weariness of the world were in her sides.”
“Thus ...!” said Conachúr. “And we fash ourselves for these things and spend our years and our pith ...! Fill my cup, Lavarcham. Let the years go and the rest, for we are fools and children. Get to your rest, friend, and let me mourn my foolish years and all my nonsense.”