Lavarcham (sinking into sadness again). I’m in dread so they were right saying she’d bring destruction on the world, for it’s a poor thing when you see a settled man putting the love he has for a young child, and the love he has for a full woman, on a girl the like of her; and it’s a poor thing, Conchubor, to see a High King, the way you are this day, prying after her needles and numbering her lines of thread.

Conchubor (getting up). Let you not be talking too far and you old itself. (Walks across room and back.) Does she know the troubles are foretold?

Lavarcham (in the tone of the earlier talk). I’m after telling her one time and another, but I’d do as well speaking to a lamb of ten weeks and it racing the hills.… It’s not the dread of death or troubles that would tame her like.

Conchubor (he looks out). She’s coming now, and let you walk in and keep Fergus till I speak with her a while.

Lavarcham (going left). If I’m after vexing you itself, it’d be best you weren’t taking her hasty or scolding her at all.

Conchubor (very stiffly). I’ve no call to. I’m well pleased she’s light and airy.

Lavarcham (offended at his tone). Well pleased is it? (With a snort of irony.) It’s a queer thing the way the likes of me do be telling the truth, and the wise are lying all times.

She goes into room on left. Conchubor arranges himself before a mirror for a moment, then goes a little to the left and waits. Deirdre comes in poorly dressed, with a little bag and a bundle of twigs in her arms. She is astonished for a moment when she sees Conchubor; then she makes a curtsey to him, and goes to the hearth without any embarrassment.

Conchubor. The gods save you, Deirdre. I have come up bringing you rings and jewels from Emain Macha.

Deirdre. The gods save you.

Conchubor. What have you brought from the hills?

Deirdre (quite self-possessed). A bag of nuts, and twigs for our fires at the dawn of day.

Conchubor (showing annoyance in spite of himself). And it’s that way you’re picking up the manners will fit you to be Queen of Ulster?

Deirdre (made a little defiant by his tone). I have no wish to be a queen.

Conchubor (almost sneeringly). You’d wish to be dressing in your duns and grey, and you herding your geese or driving your calves to their shed—like the common lot scattered in the glens.

Deirdre (very defiant). I would not, Conchubor. (She goes to tapestry and begins to work.) A girl born the way I’m born is more likely to wish for a mate who’d be her likeness.… A man with his hair like the raven, maybe, and his skin like the snow and his lips like blood spilt on it.

Conchubor (sees his mistake, and after a moment takes a flattering tone, looking at her work). Whatever you wish, there’s no queen but would be well pleased to have your skill at choosing colours and making pictures on the cloth. (Looking closely.) What is it you’re figuring?

Deirdre (deliberately). Three young men and they chasing in the green gap of a wood.