Deirdre, far below, and playing chess at this board, they
heard a shout from the woods down by the shore where the hazels and
birches grew thick.

"That is the voice of a man of Erin!" said Naoise, and stopped in his
game to listen.

But Deirdre said, very quickly: "Not so! It is the voice of a Gael of
Alba."

Yet so she spoke that she might try to deceive her own heart, that
even then was chilled by the black shadow of an approaching evil. Then
came another shout, and yet a third. And when they heard the third
shout, there was no doubt left in their minds, for they all knew the
voice for that of Fergus, the son of Rossa the Red. And when Ardan
hastened down to the harbour to greet him, Deirdre confessed to Naoise
why she had refused at first to own that it was a voice from Erin that
she heard.

"I saw in a dream last night," she said, "three birds that flew hither
from Emain Macha, carrying three sips of honey in their beaks. The
honey they left with us, but took away three sips of blood."

And Naoise said: "What then, best beloved, dost thou read from this
dream of thine?"

And Deirdre said: "I read that Fergus comes from Conor with honeyed
words of peace, but behind his treacherous words lies death."

As they spake, Ardan and Fergus and his following climbed up the
height where the bog-myrtle and the heather and sweet fern yielded
their sweetest incense as they were wounded under their firm tread.

And when Fergus stood before Deirdre and Naoise, the man of her heart,
he told them of Conor's message, and of the peace and the glory that
awaited them in Erin if they would but listen to the words of welcome
that he brought.

Then said Naoise: "I am ready." But his eyes dared not meet the
sea-blue eyes of Deirdre, his queen.

"Knowest thou that my pledge is one of honour?" asked Fergus.

"I know it well," said Naoise.

So in joyous feasting was that night spent, and only over the heart
of Deirdre hung that black cloud of sorrow to come, of woe
unspeakable.

When the golden dawn crept over the blue hills of Loch Etive, and the
white-winged birds of the sea swooped and dived and cried in the
silver waters, the galley of the Sons of Usna set out to sea.

And Deirdre, over whom hung a doom she had not the courage to name,
sang a song at parting:

THE LAY OF DEIRDRE

"Beloved land, that Eastern land,
Alba, with its wonders.
O that I might not depart from it,
But that I go with Naoise.