LAVARCHAM. — _looking at him with dislike._ — Yourself’s an ill-lucky thing to meet a morning is the like of this. Yet if you are a spy itself I’ll go and give my word that’s wanting surely. [_Goes out._ OWEN. — _to Deirdre._ — So I’ve found you alone, and I after waiting three weeks getting ague and asthma in the chill of the bogs, till I saw Naisi caught with Fergus. DEIRDRE. I’ve heard news of Fergus; what brought you from Ulster? OWEN. — _who has been searching, finds a loaf and sits down eating greedily, and cutting it with a large knife._ — The full moon, I’m thinking, and it squeezing the crack in my skull. Was there ever a man crossed nine waves after a fool’s wife and he not away in his head? DEIRDRE. — _absently._ — It should be a long time since you left Emain, where there’s civility in speech with queens. OWEN. It’s a long while, surely. It’s three weeks I am losing my manners beside the Saxon bull-frogs at the head of the bog. Three weeks is a long space, and yet you’re seven years spancelled with Naisi and the pair. DEIRDRE. — _beginning to fold up her silks and jewels._ — Three weeks of your days might be long, surely, yet seven years are a short space for the like of Naisi and myself. OWEN. — _derisively._ — If they’re a short space there aren’t many the like of you. Wasn’t there a queen in Tara had to walk out every morning till she’d meet a stranger and see the flame of courtship leaping up within his eye? Tell me now, (_leaning towards her_) are you well pleased that length with the same man snorting next you at the dawn of day? DEIRDRE. — _very quietly._ — Am I well pleased seven years seeing the same sun throwing light across the branches at the dawn of day? It’s a heartbreak to the wise that it’s for a short space we have the same things only. (_With contempt._) Yet the earth itself is a silly place, maybe, when a man’s a fool and talker. OWEN. — _sharply._ — Well, go, take your choice. Stay here and rot with Naisi or go to Conchubor in Emain. Conchubor’s a wrinkled fool with a swelling belly on him, and eyes falling downward from his shining crown; Naisi should be stale and weary. Yet there are many roads, Deirdre, and I tell you I’d liefer be bleaching in a bog-hole than living on without a touch of kindness from your eyes and voice. It’s a poor thing to be so lonesome you’d squeeze kisses on a cur dog’s nose. DEIRDRE. Are there no women like yourself could be your friends in Emain? OWEN. — _vehemently._ — There are none like you, Deirdre. It’s for that I’m asking are you going back this night with Fergus? DEIRDRE. I will go where Naisi chooses.