CONCHUBOR. — _outside._ — That is Naisi. Strike him! (_Tumult. Deirdre crouches down on Naisi’s cloak. Conchubor comes in hurriedly._) They’ve met their death — the three that stole you, Deirdre, and from this out you’ll be my queen in Emain. [_A keen of men’s voices is heard behind._ DEIRDRE. — _bewildered and terrified._ — It is not I will be a queen. CONCHUBOR. Make your lamentation a short while if you will, but it isn’t long till a day’ll come when you begin pitying a man is old and desolate, and High King also. . . . Let you not fear me, for it’s I’m well pleased you have a store of pity for the three that were your friends in Alban. DEIRDRE. I have pity, surely. . . . It’s the way pity has me this night, when I think of Naisi, that I could set my teeth into the heart of a king. CONCHUBOR. I know well pity’s cruel, when it was my pity for my own self destroyed Naisi. DEIRDRE. — _more wildly._ — It was my words without pity gave Naisi a death will have no match until the ends of life and time. (_Breaking out into a keen._) But who’ll pity Deirdre has lost the lips of Naisi from her neck and from her cheek for ever? Who’ll pity Deirdre has lost the twilight in the woods with Naisi, when beech-trees were silver and copper, and ash-trees were fine gold? CONCHUBOR. — _bewildered._ — It’s I’ll know the way to pity and care you, and I with a share of troubles has me thinking this night it would be a good bargain if it was I was in the grave, and Deirdre crying over me, and it was Naisi who was old and desolate. [_Keen heard._ DEIRDRE. — _wild with sorrow._ — It is I who am desolate; I, Deirdre, that will not live till I am old. CONCHUBOR. It’s not long you’ll be desolate, and I seven years saying, “It’s a bright day for Deirdre in the woods of Alban”; or saying again, “What way will Deirdre be sleeping this night, and wet leaves and branches driving from the north?” Let you not break the thing I’ve set my life on, and you giving yourself up to your sorrow when it’s joy and sorrow do burn out like straw blazing in an east wind. DEIRDRE. — _turning on him._ — Was it that way with your sorrow, when I and Naisi went northward from Slieve Fuadh and let raise our sails for Alban? CONCHUBOR. There’s one sorrow has no end surely — that’s being old and lonesome. (_With extraordinary pleading._) But you and I will have a little peace in Emain, with harps playing, and old men telling stories at the fall of night. I’ve let build rooms for our two selves, Deirdre, with red gold upon the walls and ceilings that are set with bronze. There was never a queen in the east had a house the like of your house, that’s waiting for yourself in Emain. SOLDIER — _running in._ — Emain is in flames. Fergus has come back and is setting fire to the world. Come up, Conchubor, or your state will be destroyed! CONCHUBOR. — _angry and regal again._ — Are the Sons of Usna buried? SOLDIER. They are in their grave, but no earth is thrown.