FERGUS. — _almost annoyed._ — Would you doubt the seals of Conall Cearneach and the kings of Meath? (_He gets parchments from his cloak and gives them to Naisi. More gently._) It’s easy being fearful and you alone in the woods, yet it would be a poor thing if a timid woman (_taunting her a little_) could turn away the Sons of Usna from the life of kings. Let you be thinking on the years to come, Deirdre, and the way you’d have a right to see Naisi a high and white-haired justice beside some king of Emain. Wouldn’t it be a poor story if a queen the like of you should have no thought but to be scraping up her hours dallying in the sunshine with the sons of kings? DEIRDRE. — _turning away a little haughtily._ — I leave the choice to Naisi. (_Turning back towards Fergus._) Yet you’d do well, Fergus, to go on your own way, for the sake of your own years, so you’ll not be saying till your hour of death, maybe, it was yourself brought Naisi and his brothers to a grave was scooped by treachery. [_Goes into tent._ FERGUS. It is a poor thing to see a queen so lonesome and afraid. (_He watches till he is sure Deirdre cannot hear him._) Listen now to what I’m saying. You’d do well to come back to men and women are your match and comrades, and not be lingering until the day that you’ll grow weary, and hurt Deirdre showing her the hardness will grow up within your eyes. . . . You’re here years and plenty to know it’s truth I’m saying. [_Deirdre comes out of tent with a horn of wine, she catches the beginning of Naisi’s speech and stops with stony wonder._ NAISI. — _very thoughtfully._ — I’ll not tell you a lie. There have been days a while past when I’ve been throwing a line for salmon or watching for the run of hares, that I’ve a dread upon me a day’d come I’d weary of her voice, (_very slowly_) and Deirdre’d see I’d wearied. FERGUS. — _sympathetic but triumphant._ — I knew it, Naisi. . . . And take my word, Deirdre’s seen your dread and she’ll have no peace from this out in the woods. NAISI. — _with confidence._ — She’s not seen it. . . . Deirdre’s no thought of getting old or wearied; it’s that puts wonder in her days, and she with spirits would keep bravery and laughter in a town with plague. [_Deirdre drops the horn of wine and crouches down where she is._ FERGUS. That humour’ll leave her. But we’ve no call going too far, with one word borrowing another. Will you come this night to Emain Macha? NAISI. I’ll not go, Fergus. I’ve had dreams of getting old and weary, and losing my delight in Deirdre; but my dreams were dreams only. What are Conchubor’s seals and all your talk of Emain and the fools of Meath beside one evening in Glen Masain? We’ll stay this place till our lives and time are worn out. It’s that word you may take in your curagh to Conchubor in Emain. FERGUS. — _gathering up his parchments._ — And you won’t go, surely.