She went to Conachúr.
She stood mumbling and staring outside the door and then trotted in, whispering at him:
“She’s gone.”
And Conachúr echoed, in uncomprehending amazement:
“She’s gone.”
Lavarcham stared into the king’s face that was carved in the granite of suspense and astonishment.
“She’s gone, little Deirdre’s gone,” she yelled, and emptied her thin fingers on the air as though she emptied them of Deirdre. She clapped her hands together with a dreadful giggle, and flapped her arms along her thighs like some ungainly crow that has been set dancing drunk on mead.
“When a maid goes a man goes with her,” she croaked.
She flopped to the door and hopped out of it and popped back.
“She’s gone,” she cried. “She’s gone; she ran away with a man”; and she wobbled to the doorway again, nodding and tittering at the king until she disappeared.