_Mayor._ Maybe you do not know, being much away, How many of our cattle died last winter From lacking grass, and that there was much sickness Because the poor had nothing but salt fish To live upon. The people all came out And stood about the doors as I went by. _Seanchan._ What would you have of me? For there are men that shall be born at last And find sweet nurture that they may have voices Even in anger like the strings of harps. Yet how could they be born to majesty If I had never made the golden cradle? _Mayor._ What is it? “Father”--“Mother”; that is it; Your father sends this message. _Cian._ He is listening. _Mayor._ He says that he is old and that he needs you, And that the people will be pointing at him And he not able to lift up his head If you should turn the King’s favour away. And he adds to it, that he cared you well, And you in your young age, and that it’s right That you should care him now. _Cian._ And when he spoke He cried because the stiffness of his bones Prevented him from coming. _Mayor._ But your mother Has sent no message, for when they had told her The way it is between you and the King She said, “No message can do any good, He will not send the answer that you want; We cannot change him,” and she went indoors, Lay down upon her bed and turned her face Out of the light. And thereupon your father Said, “Tell him how she is, and that she sends No message.” I have nothing more to say. Cian and Brian, you can set out the food. [_He sits down on steps. SEANCHAN is silent._ _Mayor._ I have a horse waiting outside the town To bring me home, and all the neighbours wait Your answer. What answer am I to bring? _Seanchan._ Give them my answer--no, I have no answer: My mother knew it. _Mayor._ Maybe you have forgotten That all our fields are so heaped up with stones That the goats famish, and the mowers mow With knives, and that the King half promised us---- _Seanchan._ Thrust that old cloak of yours into your mouth Till it’s done gabbling. _Mayor._ But---- _Cian._ You have said enough; I knew that you would never speak it right. _Seanchan._ Our mothers know us, they know us to the bone, They knew us before birth, and that is why They know us even better than the sweethearts Upon whose breasts we have lain. _Brian._ We have brought your honour The food that you have always liked the best, Young pigeons from Kinvara, and watercress Out of the stream that’s by the blessed well, And dulse from Duras. Here is the dulse, your honour, It is wholesome, and has the good taste of the sea. _Seanchan._ O Brian, you would spread the table for me As you would spread it when I was in my childhood; But all that’s finished.