LAVARCHAM. You will not. Would you have him see you, and he a man would be jealous of a hawk would fly between her and the rising sun. (_She looks out._) Go up to the hearth and be as busy as if you hadn’t seen them at all.
OLD WOMAN. — _sitting down to polish vessel._ — There’ll be trouble this night, for he should be in his tempers from the way he’s stepping out, and he swinging his hands.
LAVARCHAM. — _wearied with the whole matter._ — It’d be best of all, maybe, if he got in tempers with herself, and made an end quickly, for I’m in a poor way between the pair of them (_going back to tapestry frame._) There they are now at the door.
LAVARCHAM. — _getting up and courtesying._ — The gods save and keep you kindly, and stand between you and all harm for ever.
CONCHUBOR. — _looking around._ — Where is Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM. — _trying to speak with indifference._ — Abroad upon Slieve Fuadh. She does be all times straying around picking flowers or nuts, or sticks itself; but so long as she’s gathering new life I’ve a right not to heed her, I’m thinking, and she taking her will.
CONCHUBOR. — _stiffly._ — A night with thunder coming is no night to be abroad.
LAVARCHAM. — _more uneasily._ — She’s used to every track and pathway, and the lightning itself wouldn’t let down its flame to singe the beauty of her like.
FERGUS. — _cheerfully._ — She’s right, Conchubor, and let you sit down and take your ease, (_he takes a wallet from under his cloak_) and I’ll count out what we’ve brought, and put it in the presses within.
[_He goes into the inner room with the Old Woman._
CONCHUBOR. — _sitting down and looking about._ — Where are the mats and hangings and the silver skillets I sent up for Deirdre?
LAVARCHAM. The mats and hangings are in this press, Conchubor. She wouldn’t wish to be soiling them, she said, running out and in with mud and grasses on her feet, and it raining since the night of Samhain. The silver skillets and the golden cups we have beyond locked in the chest.
CONCHUBOR. Bring them out and use them from this day.
CONCHUBOR. — _getting up and going to frame._ — Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM. — _pleased to speak of it._ — It is, Conchubor. All say there isn’t her match at fancying figures and throwing purple upon crimson, and she edging them all times with her greens and gold.