CHAPTER XIX
In ten seconds the floor rugs had sailed from their anchorages and were lying some neatly inside out and all in woeful askewness. The chairs left their military formation; some stood seat to seat like couples preparing for a dance, others in the woeful, slack isolation of those who stare after uncivil partners that have fled. And in this wreckage of a woman’s room Conachúr strode.
“Lavarcham,” he cried, “there shall be great deeds done in Ireland from this day.”
“Yes, my dear lord.”
“I am twenty years younger than I was an hour ago. I could leap like a young buck, Lavarcham.”
“Yes, my dear lord,” she stammered.
“Poets shall sing more wisely in Eirè because of this day; harpers shall play more sweetly; the magicians shall win increase of power, for through me this land shall be possessed by power and beauty.”
“Yes, my sweet lord,” cried the transformed woman.
“You shall be with me always, Lavarcham.”
“Oh, my master!”