Conachúr tugged at his beard half in anger and half in laughter.
Another vanity in a mantle, he thought. That boy loves me indeed, and he would as surely kill me, for it is certain that I could not think of killing him. Is there no person in my realm who loves me better than his own poor pride? And what a three that—Naoise—must choose for his sureties!
He strode savagely up and down the room.
“We shall see now what Fergus is like,” he sneered. “He professes to adore me, and eyes me with the devotion of a dull dog. A dull dog he is, and a monster of sufficiency to boot.”
If he dares to thwart me—the king gloomed, and went into a bitter rage of meditation.
A great voice boomed on him.
“Good my soul, Conachúr!”
“It is Fergus,” cried the king joyfully, and strode to meet his visitor.
“Come, my pulse and best. Sit you and I shall stand. Nay, sit,” he chided gently. “Indeed, if things were right you should sit always, and this man,” tapping his own breast, “should bend a lover’s knee before you. You bear no ill-will, sweetheart, for that trick of long ago?”
The giant sat.