“She is the Bud of the Branch,” said Conachúr. “She is the Fragrant Apple of the Bough.”
“Did I not say that she was beautiful?” cried the gleeful and vehement lady.
“You did not say so,” he replied sternly. “You never told me of this.”
“Nay, master, you would not believe me.”
“It could not be told,” the thoughtful monarch admitted. “If the flight of the swallow could be imparted by words, or the crisping of foam: if the breath of the lily could be uttered, or the beauty of a young tree on a sunny hill: then this Troubler might be spoken of. Have you noticed, my friend, how the sun paints glories and wonders on the sky as he goes west in the evening, or at early morn with what noble tenderness he comes again: she is radiant and tender as the sun, Lavarcham.”
“Thus it is,” said Lavarcham.
“She is nine times sweeter than the cuckoo on the branch,” he cried. “I give her the Pass before all the women of the world, for she is notable and delicate and dear.”
“Then you will marry her as is fitting,” Lavarcham pleaded. “You will not give my baby to a rough gentleman.”
The king stood furiously from his chair.
“She is for no man but the king,” he stormed. “She shall be my one wife until Doom.”