Hush! I have more to tell; But gather close that I may whisper it: I speak of terrible, mysterious ends— The secrets of a king. SECOND MUSICIAN. There’s none to hear! FIRST MUSICIAN. I have been to Conchubar’s house, and followed up A crowd of servants going out and in With loads upon their heads: embroideries To hang upon the walls, or new-mown rushes To strew upon the floors, and came at length To a great room. SECOND MUSICIAN. Be silent; there are steps! [_Enter FERGUS, an old man, who moves about from door to window excitedly through what follows._ FERGUS. You are musicians by these instruments, And if as seems—for you are comely women— You can praise love, you’ll have the best of luck, For there’ll be two, before the night is in, That bargained for their love, and paid for it All that men value. You have but the time To weigh a happy music with the sad; To find what is most pleasing to a lover, Before the son of Usnach and his queen Have passed this threshold. FIRST MUSICIAN. Deirdre and her man! FERGUS. I thought to find a message from the king, And ran to meet it. Is there no messenger From Conchubar to Fergus, son of Rogh? I was to have found a message in this house. FIRST MUSICIAN. Are Deirdre and her lover tired of life? FERGUS. You are not of this country, or you’d know That they are in my charge, and all forgiven. FIRST MUSICIAN. We have no country but the roads of the world. FERGUS. Then you should know that all things change in the world, And hatred turns to love and love to hate, And even kings forgive. FIRST MUSICIAN. An old man’s love Who casts no second line, is hard to cure; His jealousy is like his love. FERGUS. And that’s but true. You have learned something in your wanderings. He was so hard to cure, that the whole court, But I alone, thought it impossible; Yet after I had urged it at all seasons, I had my way, and all’s forgiven now; And you shall speak the welcome and the joy That I lack tongue for. FIRST MUSICIAN. Yet old men are jealous. FERGUS [_going to door_]. I am Conchubar’s near friend, and that weighed somewhat, And it was policy to pardon them. The need of some young, famous, popular man To lead the troops, the murmur of the crowd, And his own natural impulse, urged him to it. They have been wandering half-a-dozen years. FIRST MUSICIAN. And yet old men are jealous. FERGUS [_coming from door_]. Sing the more sweetly Because, though age is arid as a bone, This man has flowered. I’ve need of music, too; If this gray head would suffer no reproach, I’d dance and sing—and dance till the hour ran out, Because I have accomplished this good deed. FIRST MUSICIAN.