“I have heard, but it is only a rumour, that his daughter, the queen Maeve, has been married again, and that the High King has bestowed on her the kingdom of Connacht.”
“A number of our young men,” said he, with a hard smile, “have for long enough disliked that kingdom and its people: it may become difficult to keep them from crossing the border.”
“One of their men,” said Lavarcham, “crosses the Black Pig’s Dyke often enough.”
“And, woe on it,” said Conachúr, with a cheerful laugh, “he gets back again. We must strengthen the Connacht marches, or that man will make our fortifications the laughter of all Ireland. It is Cet mac Magach you speak of.”
“Conall Cearnach’s uncle indeed,” Lavarcham replied.
“But Conall crosses their borders too,” said the king. “My memory is weakening,” he continued; “what is it that Conall boasts of?”
“He boasts that he never goes to sleep without the head of another Connachtman lying in the crook of his knees.”
“Some day he may forget to remember that Cet mac Magach is his uncle, and if he brings that head home we shall give it an honourable welcome. But about your babe, I shall go and look at her to-morrow. All your over-statements will crowd on your mind to-morrow, my poor friend, and you will be very unhappy.”
“Indeed,” Lavarcham admitted, “we look with a loving eye on the person we love, and so may see less or more than is visible to other people.”
“In love,” Conachúr replied, “we see only what we love to see, and as that is unreal we should not look lovingly on anything, and so we may get sight of what is really visible.”