BLIND MAN.
Hush, I say!
FOOL.
Does Cuchulain know that he is coming to kill him?
BLIND MAN.
How would he know that with his head in the clouds? He doesn’t care for common fighting. Why would he put himself out, and nobody in it but that young man? Now, if it were a white fawn that might turn into a queen before morning—
FOOL.
Come to the fowl. I wish it was as big as a pig; a fowl with goose grease and pig’s crackling.
BLIND MAN.
No hurry, no hurry. I know whose son it is. I wouldn’t tell anybody else, but I will tell you,—a secret is better to you than your dinner. You like being told secrets.