DEIRDRE. It isn’t many I’d call, Naisi. . . . I was in the woods at the full moon and I heard a voice singing. Then I gathered up my skirts, and I ran on a little path I have to the verge of a rock, and I saw you pass by underneath, in your crimson cloak, singing a song, and you standing out beyond your brothers are called the Plower of Ireland. NAISI. It’s for that you called us in the dusk? DEIRDRE. — _in a low voice._ — Since that, Naisi, I have been one time the like of a ewe looking for a lamb that had been taken away from her, and one time seeing new gold on the stars, and a new face on the moon, and all times dreading Emain. NAISI. — _pulling himself together and beginning to draw back a little._ — Yet it should be a lonesome thing to be in this place and you born for great company. DEIRDRE. — _softly._ — This night I have the best company in the whole world. NAISI. — _still a little formally._ — It is I who have the best company, for when you’re queen in Emain you will have none to be your match or fellow. DEIRDRE. I will not be queen in Emain. NAISI. Conchubor has made an oath you will, surely. DEIRDRE. It’s for that maybe I’m called Deirdre, the girl of many sorrows . . . for it’s a sweet life you and I could have, Naisi. . . . . It should be a sweet thing to have what is best and richest, if it’s for a short space only. NAISI. — _very distressed._ — And we’ve a short space only to be triumphant and brave. DEIRDRE. You must not go, Naisi, and leave me to the High King, a man is aging in his dun, with his crowds round him, and his silver and gold. (_More quickly._) I will not live to be shut up in Emain, and wouldn’t we do well paying, Naisi, with silence and a near death. (_She stands up and walks away from him._) I’m a long while in the woods with my own self, and I’m in little dread of death, and it earned with riches would make the sun red with envy, and he going up the heavens; and the moon pale and lonesome, and she wasting away. (_She comes to him and puts her hands on his shoulders._) Isn’t it a small thing is foretold about the ruin of ourselves, Naisi, when all men have age coming and great ruin in the end? NAISI. Yet it’s a poor thing it’s I should bring you to a tale of blood and broken bodies, and the filth of the grave. . . . Wouldn’t we do well to wait, Deirdre, and I each twilight meeting you on the sides of the hills? DEIRDRE. — _despondently._ — His messengers are coming. NAISI. Messengers are coming? DEIRDRE. Tomorrow morning or the next, surely.