“Do not look at him,” said Conachúr. “He is already a dead man; let him be forgotten. All tricks and troubles are ended for you, sweet bird; you shall have peace.”
“Will you have peace to-morrow, Conachúr?” said Naoise. “Fergus is marching on you.”
“Be at ease, nephew,” and the king smiled grimly. “I shall take care of Fergus when he comes. For long I have wanted to take care of Fergus. But, first, I shall take care of you, Naoise, and of your traitor brothers. Your hour is on you,” he said, “and you die now.”
“Churl and rogue——!” said Ainnle.
But a gesture from his brother stopped him.
“Let this king do his business,” he said.
“That must be done,” said Conachúr.
He turned briskly and moved away.
Now the day was at hand, and these four looked on a world that was spectral and misshapen, but which was yet the world. On high the clouds could be seen, a grey immensity, stony as the face of Conachúr, and a chill wind moaned thinly about them. But far away the grey misery of morn had lightened, and a silver gleam, slender as a rod, crept up the east.