[Roadside with big stones, etc., on the right; low loose wall at
back with gap near centre; at left, ruined doorway of church with
bushes beside it. Martin Doul and Mary Doul grope in on left and
pass over to stones on right, where they sit.]
-- [raising her head.] -- The length of that! Well,
the sun's getting warm this day if it's late autumn itself.
-- [putting out his hands in sun.] -- What way
wouldn't it be warm and it getting high up in the south? You
were that length plaiting your yellow hair you have the morning
lost on us, and the people are after passing to the fair of
It isn't going to the fair, the time they do be
driving their cattle and they with a litter of pigs maybe
squealing in their carts, they'd give us a thing at all. (She
sits down.) It's well you know that, but you must be talking.
-- [sitting down beside her and beginning to shred
rushes she gives him.] -- If I didn't talk I'd be destroyed in a
short while listening to the clack you do be making, for you've a
queer cracked voice, the Lord have mercy on you, if it's fine to
look on you are itself.
Who wouldn't have a cracked voice sitting out all the
year in the rain falling? It's a bad life for the voice, Martin
Doul, though I've heard tell there isn't anything like the wet
south wind does be blowing upon us for keeping a white beautiful
skin -- the like of my skin -- on your neck and on your brows,
and there isn't anything at all like a fine skin for putting
splendour on a woman.
-- [teasingly, but with good humour.] -- I do be
thinking odd times we don't know rightly what way you have your
splendour, or asking myself, maybe, if you have it at all, for
the time I was a young lad, and had fine sight, it was the ones
with sweet voices were the best in face.
Let you not be making the like of that talk when
you've heard Timmy the smith, and Mat Simon, and Patch Ruadh, and
a power besides saying fine things of my face, and you know
rightly it was "the beautiful dark woman" they did call me in
-- [as before.] -- If it was itself I heard Molly
Byrne saying at the fall of night it was little more than a
fright you were.
-- [sharply.] -- She was jealous, God forgive her,
because Timmy the smith was after praising my hair.
Ay, jealous, Martin Doul; and if she wasn't itself,
the young and silly do be always making game of them that's dark,
and they'd think it a fine thing if they had us deceived, the way
we wouldn't know we were so fine-looking at all.
[She puts her hand to her face with a complacent gesture.]
-- [a little plaintively.] -- I do be thinking in the
long nights it'd be a grand thing if we could see ourselves for
one hour, or a minute itself, the way we'd know surely we were
the finest man and the finest woman of the seven counties of the
east (bitterly) and then the seeing rabble below might be
destroying their souls telling bad lies, and we'd never heed a
thing they'd say.
If you weren't a big fool you wouldn't heed them this
hour, Martin Doul, for they're a bad lot those that have their
sight, and they do have great joy, the time they do be seeing a
grand thing, to let on they don't see it at all, and to be
telling fool's lies, the like of what Molly Byrne was telling to
If it's lies she does be telling she's a sweet,
beautiful voice you'd never tire to be hearing, if it was only
the pig she'd be calling, or crying out in the long grass, maybe
after her hens. (Speaking pensively.) It should be a fine,
soft, rounded woman, I'm thinking, would have a voice the like of
-- [sharply again, scandalized.] -- Let you not be
minding if it's flat or rounded she is; for she's a flighty,
foolish woman, you'll hear when you're off a long way, and she
making a great noise and laughing at the well.
Isn't laughing a nice thing the time a woman's
-- [bitterly.] -- A nice thing is it? A nice thing to
hear a woman making a loud braying laugh the like of that? Ah,
she's a great one for drawing the men, and you'll hear Timmy
himself, the time he does be sitting in his forge, getting mighty
fussy if she'll come walking from Grianan, the way you'll hear
his breath going, and he wringing his hands.
-- [slightly piqued.] -- I've heard him say a power
of times it's nothing at all she is when you see her at the side
of you, and yet I never heard any man's breath getting uneasy the
time he'd be looking on yourself.
I'm not the like of the girls do be running round on
the roads, swinging their legs, and they with their necks out
looking on the men. . . . Ah, there's a power of villainy
walking the world, Martin Doul, among them that do be gadding
around with their gaping eyes, and their sweet words, and they
with no sense in them at all.
-- [sadly.] -- It's the truth, maybe, and yet I'm
told it's a grand thing to see a young girl walking the road.
You'd be as bad as the rest of them if you had your
sight, and I did well, surely, not to marry a seeing man it's
scores would have had me and welcome -- for the seeing is a queer
lot, and you'd never know the thing they'd do. [A moment's
-- [listening.] -- There's some one coming on the
Let you put the pith away out of their sight, or
they'll be picking it out with the spying eyes they have, and
saying it's rich we are, and not sparing us a thing at all.
[They bundle away the rushes. Timmy the smith comes in on left.]
-- [with a begging voice.] -- Leave a bit of silver
for blind Martin, your honour. Leave a bit of silver, or a penny
copper itself, and we'll be praying the Lord to bless you and you
going the way.
-- [stopping before them.] -- And you letting on a while
back you knew my step! [He sits down.]
-- [with his natural voice.] -- I know it when Molly
Byrne's walking in front, or when she's two perches, maybe,
lagging behind; but it's few times I've heard you walking up the
like of that, as if you'd met a thing wasn't right and you coming
on the road.
-- [hot and breathless, wiping his face.] -- You've good
ears, God bless you, if you're a liar itself; for I'm after
walking up in great haste from hearing wonders in the fair.
-- [rather contemptuously.] -- You're always hearing
queer wonderful things, and the lot of them nothing at all; but
I'm thinking, this time, it's a strange thing surely you'd be
walking up before the turn of day, and not waiting below to look
on them lepping, or dancing, or playing shows on the green of
-- [huffed.] -- I was coming to tell you it's in this place
there'd be a bigger wonder done in a short while (Martin Doul
stops working) than was ever done on the green of Clash, or the
width of Leinster itself; but you're thinking, maybe, you're too
cute a little fellow to be minding me at all.
-- [amused, but incredulous.] -- There'll be wonders
in this place, is it?
I never heard tell of anything to happen in this
place since the night they killed the old fellow going home with
his gold, the Lord have mercy on him, and threw down his corpse
into the bog. Let them not be doing the like of that this night,
for it's ourselves have a right to the crossing roads, and we
don't want any of your bad tricks, or your wonders either, for
it's wonder enough we are ourselves.
If I'd a mind I'd be telling you of a real wonder this
day, and the way you'll be having a great joy, maybe, you're not
thinking on at all.
-- [interested.] -- Are they putting up a still
behind in the rocks? It'd be a grand thing if I'd sup handy the
way I wouldn't be destroying myself groping up across the bogs in
the rain falling.
-- [still moodily.] -- It's not a still they're bringing,
or the like of it either.
-- [persuasively, to Timmy.] -- Maybe they're hanging a
thief, above at the bit of a tree. I'm told it's a great sight
to see a man hanging by his neck; but what joy would that be to
ourselves, and we not seeing it at all?
-- [more pleasantly.] -- They're hanging no one this day,
Mary Doul, and yet, with the help of God, you'll see a power
hanged before you die.
Well you've queer hum-bugging talk. . . . What way
would I see a power hanged, and I a dark woman since the seventh
year of my age?
Did ever you hear tell of a place across a bit of the
sea, where there is an island, and the grave of the four
I've heard people have walked round from the west and
they speaking of that.
-- [impressively.] -- There's a green ferny well, I'm told,
behind of that place, and if you put a drop of the water out of
it on the eyes of a blind man, you'll make him see as well as any
person is walking the world.
-- [with excitement.] -- Is that the truth, Timmy?
I'm thinking you're telling a lie.
-- [gruffly.] -- That's the truth, Martin Doul, and you may
believe it now, for you're after believing a power of things
weren't as likely at all.
Maybe we could send us a young lad to bring us the
water. I could wash a naggin bottle in the morning, and I'm
thinking Patch Ruadh would go for it, if we gave him a good
drink, and the bit of money we have hid in the thatch.
It'd be no good to be sending a sinful man the like of
ourselves, for I'm told the holiness of the water does be getting
soiled with the villainy of your heart, the time you'd be
carrying it, and you looking round on the girls, maybe, or
drinking a small sup at a still.
-- [with disappointment.] -- It'd be a long terrible
way to be walking ourselves, and I'm thinking that's a wonder
will bring small joy to us at all.
-- [turning on him impatiently.] -- What is it you want
with your walking? It's as deaf as blind you're growing if
you're not after hearing me say it's in this place the wonder
would be done.
-- [with a flash of anger.] -- If it is can't you
open the big slobbering mouth you have and say what way it'll be
done, and not be making blather till the fall of night.
-- [jumping up.] -- I'll be going on now (Mary Doul rises),
and not wasting time talking civil talk with the like of you.
-- [standing up, disguising her impatience.] -- Let you
come here to me, Timmy, and not be minding him at all. (Timmy
stops, and she gropes up to him and takes him by the coat).
You're not huffy with myself, and let you tell me the whole story
and don't be fooling me more. . . . Is it yourself has brought
us the water?
Ay, a fine saint, who's going round through the churches
of Ireland, with a long cloak on him, and naked feet, for he's
brought a sup of the water slung at his side, and, with the like
of him, any little drop is enough to cure the dying, or to make
the blind see as clear as the gray hawks do be high up, on a
still day, sailing the sky.
-- [feeling for his stick.] -- What place is he,
Timmy? I'll be walking to him now.
Let you stay quiet, Martin. He's straying around saying
prayers at the churches and high crosses, between this place and
the hills, and he with a great crowd go- ing behind -- for it's
fine prayers he does be saying, and fasting with it, till he's as
thin as one of the empty rushes you have there on your knee; then
he'll be coming after to this place to cure the two of you --
we're after telling him the way you are -- and to say his prayers
in the church.
-- [turning suddenly to Mary Doul.] -- And we'll be
seeing ourselves this day. Oh, glory be to God, is it true
-- [very pleased, to Timmy.] -- Maybe I'd have time to
walk down and get the big shawl I have below, for I do look my
best, I've heard them say, when I'm dressed up with that thing on
-- [listening.] Whisht now. . . . I hear people
again coming by the stream.
-- [looking out left, puzzled.] -- It's the young girls I
left walking after the Saint. . . . They're coming now (goes up
to entrance) carrying things in their hands, and they walking as
easy as you'd see a child walk who'd have a dozen eggs hid in her
-- [listening.] -- That's Molly Byrne, I'm thinking.
[Molly Byrne and Bride come on left and cross to Martin Doul,
carrying water-can, Saint's bell, and cloak.]
-- [volubly.] -- God bless you, Martin. I've holy water
here, from the grave of the four saints of the west, will have
you cured in a short while and seeing like ourselves.
-- [crosses to Molly, interrupting her.] -- He's heard
that. God help you. But where at all is the Saint, and what way
is he after trusting the holy water with the likes of you?
He was afeard to go a far way with the clouds is
coming beyond, so he's gone up now through the thick woods to say
a prayer at the crosses of Grianan, and he's coming on this road
to the church.
-- [still astonished.] -- And he's after leaving the holy
water with the two of you? It's a wonder, surely. [Comes down
left a little.]
The lads told him no person could carry them things
through the briars, and steep, slippy-feeling rocks he'll be
climbing above, so he looked round then, and gave the water, and
his big cloak, and his bell to the two of us, for young girls,
says he, are the cleanest holy people you'd see walking the
world. [Mary Doul goes near seat.]
-- [sits down, laughing to herself.] -- Well, the
Saint's a simple fellow, and it's no lie.
-- [leaning forward, holding out his hands.] -- Let
you give me the water in my hand, Molly Byrne, the way I'll know
you have it surely.
-- [giving it to him.] -- Wonders is queer things,
and maybe it'd cure you, and you holding it alone.
-- [looking round.] -- It does not, Molly. I'm not
seeing at all. (He shakes the can.) There's a small sup only.
Well, isn't it a great wonder the little trifling thing would
bring seeing to the blind, and be showing us the big women and
the young girls, and all the fine things is walking the world.
-- [shaking it.] -- Well, glory be to God.
-- [pointing to Bride.] -- And what is it herself
has, making sounds in her hand?
-- [crossing to Martin Doul.] -- It's the Saint's bell;
you'll hear him ringing out the time he'll be going up some
place, to be saying his prayers.
[Martin Doul holds out his hand; she gives it to him.]
-- [ringing it.] -- It's a sweet, beautiful sound.
You'd know, I'm thinking, by the little silvery voice
of it, a fasting holy man was after carrying it a great way at
[Bride crosses a little right behind Martin Doul.]
-- [unfolding Saint's cloak.] -- Let you stand up
now, Martin Doul, till I put his big cloak on you. (Martin Doul
rises, comes forward, centre a little.) The way we'd see how
you'd look, and you a saint of the Almighty God.
-- [standing up, a little diffidently.] -- I've heard
the priests a power of times making great talk and praises of the
beauty of the saints. [Molly Byrne slips cloak round him.]
-- [uneasily.] -- You'd have a right to be leaving him
alone, Molly. What would the Saint say if he seen you making
game with his cloak?
-- [recklessly.] -- How would he see us, and he
saying prayers in the wood? (She turns Martin Doul round.) Isn't
that a fine holy-looking saint, Timmy the smith? (Laughing
foolishly.) There's a grand, handsome fellow, Mary Doul; and if
you seen him now you'd be as proud, I'm thinking, as the
archangels below, fell out with the Almighty God.
-- [with quiet confidence going to Martin Doul and
feeling his cloak.] -- It's proud we'll be this day, surely.
[Martin Doul is still ringing.]
-- [to Martin Doul.] -- Would you think well to be
all your life walking round the like of that, Martin Doul, and
you bell-ringing with the saints of God?
-- [turning on her, fiercely.] -- How would he be
bell-ringing with the saints of God and he wedded with myself?
It's the truth she's saying, and if bell-ringing is
a fine life, yet I'm thinking, maybe, it's better I am wedded
with the beautiful dark woman of Ballinatone.
-- [scornfully.] -- You're thinking that, God help
you; but it's little you know of her at all.
It's little surely, and I'm destroyed this day
waiting to look upon her face.
-- [awkwardly.] -- It's well you know the way she is; for
the like of you do have great knowledge in the feeling of your
-- [still feeling the cloak.] -- We do, maybe. Yet
it's little I know of faces, or of fine beautiful cloaks, for
it's few cloaks I've had my hand to, and few faces (plaintively);
for the young girls is mighty shy, Timmy the smith and it isn't
much they heed me, though they do be saying I'm a handsome man.
-- [mockingly, with good humour.] -- Isn't it a queer
thing the voice he puts on him, when you hear him talking of the
skinny-looking girls, and he married with a woman he's heard
called the wonder of the western world?
-- [pityingly.] -- The two of you will see a great wonder
this day, and it's no lie.
I've heard tell her yellow hair, and her white
skin, and her big eyes are a wonder, surely.
-- [who has looked out left.] -- Here's the saint coming
from the selvage of the wood. . . . Strip the cloak from him,
Molly, or he'll be seeing it now.
-- [hastily to Bride.] -- Take the bell and put
yourself by the stones. (To Martin Doul.) Will you hold your
head up till I loosen the cloak? (She pulls off the cloak and
throws it over her arm. Then she pushes Martin Doul over and
stands him beside Mary Doul.) Stand there now, quiet, and let
you not be saying a word.
[She and Bride stand a little on their left, demurely, with bell,
etc., in their hands.]
-- [nervously arranging his clothes.] -- Will he mind
the way we are, and not tidied or washed cleanly at all?
He'll not see what way you are. . . . He'd walk by
the finest woman in Ireland, I'm thinking, and not trouble to
raise his two eyes to look upon her face. . . . Whisht!
-- [officiously.] -- They are, holy father; they do be
always sitting here at the crossing of the roads, asking a bit of
copper from them that do pass, or stripping rushes for lights,
and they not mournful at all, but talking out straight with a
full voice, and making game with them that likes it.
-- [to Martin Doul and Mary Doul.] -- It's a hard life
you've had not seeing sun or moon, or the holy priests itself
praying to the Lord, but it's the like of you who are brave in a
bad time will make a fine use of the gift of sight the Almighty
God will bring to you today. (He takes his cloak and puts it
about him.) It's on a bare starving rock that there's the grave
of the four beauties of God, the way it's little wonder, I'm
thinking, if it's with bare starving people the water should be
used. (He takes the water and bell and slings them round his
shoulders.) So it's to the like of yourselves I do be going, who
are wrinkled and poor, a thing rich men would hardly look at at
all, but would throw a coin to or a crust of bread.
-- [moving uneasily.] -- When they look on herself,
who is a fine woman.
-- [shaking him.] -- Whisht now, and be listening to the
-- [looks at them a moment, continues.] -- If it's raggy
and dirty you are itself, I'm saying, the Almighty God isn't at
all like the rich men of Ireland; and, with the power of the
water I'm after bringing in a little curagh into Cashla Bay,
He'll have pity on you, and put sight into your eyes.
-- [taking off his hat.] -- I'm ready now, holy
-- [taking him by the hand.] -- I'll cure you first, and
then I'll come for your wife. We'll go up now into the church,
for I must say a prayer to the Lord. (To Mary Doul, as he moves
off.) And let you be making your mind still and saying praises
in your heart, for it's a great wonderful thing when the power of
the Lord of the world is brought down upon your like.
-- [pressing after him.] -- Come now till we watch.
-- [waving them back.] -- Stay back where you are, for I'm
not wanting a big crowd making whispers in the church. Stay back
there, I'm saying, and you'd do well to be thinking on the way
sin has brought blindness to the world, and to be saying a prayer
for your own sakes against false prophets and heathens, and the
words of women and smiths, and all knowledge that would soil the
soul or the body of a man.
[People shrink back. He goes into church. Mary Doul gropes
half-way towards the door and kneels near path. People form a
group at right.]
Isn't it a fine, beautiful voice he has, and he a fine,
brave man if it wasn't for the fasting?
It'd be a fine thing if some one in this place
could pray the like of him, for I'm thinking the water from our
own blessed well would do rightly if a man knew the way to be
saying prayers, and then there'd be no call to be bringing water
from that wild place, where, I'm told, there are no decent
houses, or fine-looking people at all.
-- [who is looking in at door from right.] -- Look at the
great trembling Martin has shaking him, and he on his knees.
-- [anxiously.] -- God help him. . . What will he be doing
when he sees his wife this day? I'm thinking it was bad work we
did when we let on she was fine-looking, and not a wrinkled,
wizened hag the way she is.
Why would he be vexed, and we after giving him great
joy and pride, the time he was dark?
-- [sitting down in Mary Doul's seat and tidying her
hair.] -- If it's vexed he is itself, he'll have other things now
to think on as well as his wife; and what does any man care for a
wife, when it's two weeks or three, he is looking on her face?
That's the truth now, Molly, and it's more joy dark
Martin got from the lies we told of that hag is kneeling by the
path than your own man will get from you, day or night, and he
living at your side.
-- [defiantly.] -- Let you not be talking, Mat Simon,
for it's not yourself will be my man, though you'd be crowing and
singing fine songs if you'd that hope in you at all.
-- [shocked, to Molly Byrne.] -- Let you not be raising
your voice when the Saint's above at his prayers.
-- [crying out in the church.] -- Oh, glory be to
God. . . .
-- [solemnly.] Laus Patri sit et Filio cum Spiritu
Paraclito Qui Suae dono gratiae misertus est Hiberniae. . . .
-- [ecstatically.] -- Oh, glory be to God, I see now
surely. . . . I see the walls of the church, and the green bits
of ferns in them, and yourself, holy father, and the great width
of the sky.
[He runs out half-foolish with joy, and comes past Mary Doul as
she scrambles to her feet, drawing a little away from her as he
-- [to the others.] -- He doesn't know her at all.
[The Saint comes out behind Martin Doul, and leads Mary Doul into
the church. Martin Doul comes on to the People. The men are
between him and the Girls; he verifies his position with his
-- [crying out joyfully.] -- That's Timmy, I know
Timmy by the black of his head. . . . That's Mat Simon, I know
Mat by the length of his legs. . . . That should be Patch Ruadh,
with the gamey eyes in him, and the fiery hair. (He sees Molly
Byrne on Mary Doul's seat, and his voice changes completely.)
Oh, it was no lie they told me, Mary Doul. Oh, glory to God and
the seven saints I didn't die and not see you at all. The
blessing of God on the water, and the feet carried it round
through the land. The blessing of God on this day, and them that
brought me the Saint, for it's grand hair you have (she lowers
her head a little confused), and soft skin, and eyes would make
the saints, if they were dark awhile and seeing again, fall down
out of the sky. (He goes nearer to her.) Hold up your head,
Mary, the way I'll see it's richer I am than the great kings of
the east. Hold up your head, I'm saying, for it's soon you'll be
seeing me, and I not a bad one at all. [He touches her and she
Let you keep away from me, and not be soiling my
chin. [People laugh heartily.]
-- [bewildered.] -- It's Molly's voice you have.
Why wouldn't I have my own voice? Do you think I'm
Which of you all is herself? (He goes up to
Bride.) Is it you is Mary Doul? I'm thinking you're more the
like of what they said (peering at her.) For you've yellow hair,
and white skin, and it's the smell of my own turf is rising from
your shawl. [He catches her shawl.]
-- [pulling away her shawl.] -- I'm not your wife, and let
you get out of my way. [The People laugh again.]
-- [with misgiving, to another Girl.] -- Is it
yourself it is? You're not so fine-looking, but I'm thinking
you'd do, with the grand nose you have, and your nice hands and
-- [scornfully.] -- I never seen any person that took me for
blind, and a seeing woman, I'm thinking, would never wed the like
[She turns away, and the People laugh once more, drawing back a
little and leaving him on their left.]
-- [jeeringly.] -- Try again, Martin, try again, and
you'll be finding her yet.
-- [passionately.] -- Where is it you have her hidden
away? Isn't it a black shame for a drove of pitiful beasts the
like of you to be making game of me, and putting a fool's head on
me the grand day of my life? Ah, you're thinking you're a fine
lot, with your giggling, weeping eyes, a fine lot to be making
game of myself and the woman I've heard called the great wonder
of the west.
[During this speech, which he gives with his back towards the
church, Mary Doul has come out with her sight cured, and come
down towards the right with a silly simpering smile, till she is
a little behind Martin Doul.]
-- [when he pauses.] -- Which of you is Martin Doul?
-- [wheeling round.] -- It's her voice surely. [They
stare at each other blankly.]
-- [to Martin Doul.] -- Go up now and take her under
the chin and be speaking the way you spoke to myself.
-- [in a low voice, with intensity.] -- If I speak
now, I'll speak hard to the two of you.
-- [to Mary Doul.] -- You're not saying a word, Mary.
What is it you think of himself, with the fat legs on him, and
the little neck like a ram?
I'm thinking it's a poor thing when the Lord God
gives you sight and puts the like of that man in your way.
It's on your two knees you should be thanking the
Lord God you're not looking on yourself, for if it was yourself
you seen you'd be running round in a short while like the old
screeching mad-woman is running round in the glen.
-- [beginning to realize herself.] -- If I'm not so
fine as some of them said, I have my hair, and big eyes, and my
-- [breaking out into a passionate cry.] -- Your
hair, and your big eyes, is it? . . . I'm telling you there
isn't a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the world isn't
finer than the dirty twist on your head. There isn't two eyes in
any starving sow isn't finer than the eyes you were calling blue
like the sea.
-- [interrupting him.] -- It's the devil cured you this
day with your talking of sows; it's the devil cured you this day,
I'm saying, and drove you crazy with lies.
Isn't it yourself is after playing lies on me, ten
years, in the day and in the night; but what is that to you now
the Lord God has given eyes to me, the way I see you an old
wizendy hag, was never fit to rear a child to me itself.
I wouldn't rear a crumpled whelp the like of you.
It's many a woman is married with finer than yourself should be
praising God if she's no child, and isn't loading the earth with
things would make the heavens lonesome above, and they scaring
the larks, and the crows, and the angels passing in the sky.
Go on now to be seeking a lonesome place where the
earth can hide you away; go on now, I'm saying, or you'll be
having men and women with their knees bled, and they screaming to
God for a holy water would darken their sight, for there's no man
but would liefer be blind a hundred years, or a thousand itself,
than to be looking on your like.
-- [raising her stick.] -- Maybe if I hit you a strong
blow you'd be blind again, and having what you want.
[The Saint is seen in the church door with his head bent in
-- [raising his stick and driving Mary Doul back
towards left.] -- Let you keep off from me now if you wouldn't
have me strike out the little handful of brains you have about on
[He is going to strike her, but Timmy catches him by the arm.]
Have you no shame to be making a great row, and the Saint
above saying his prayers?
What is it I care for the like of him? (Struggling
to free himself). Let me hit her one good one, for the love of
the Almighty God, and I'll be quiet after till I die.
-- [shaking him.] -- Will you whisht, I'm saying.
-- [coming forward, centre.] -- Are their minds troubled
with joy, or is their sight uncertain, the way it does often be
the day a person is restored?
It's too certain their sight is, holy father; and they're
after making a great fight, because they're a pair of pitiful
-- [coming between them.] -- May the Lord who has given you
sight send a little sense into your heads, the way it won't be on
your two selves you'll be looking -- on two pitiful sinners of
the earth -- but on the splendour of the Spirit of God, you'll
see an odd time shining out through the big hills, and steep
streams falling to the sea. For if it's on the like of that you
do be thinking, you'll not be minding the faces of men, but
you'll be saying prayers and great praises, till you'll be living
the way the great saints do be living, with little but old sacks,
and skin covering their bones. (To Timmy.) Leave him go now,
you're seeing he's quiet again. (He frees Martin Doul.) And let
you (he turns to Mary Doul) not be raising your voice, a bad
thing in a woman; but let the lot of you, who have seen the power
of the Lord, be thinking on it in the dark night, and be saying
to yourselves it's great pity and love He has for the poor,
starving people of Ireland. (He gathers his cloak about him.)
And now the Lord send blessing to you all, for I am going on to
Annagolan, where there is a deaf woman, and to Laragh, where
there are two men without sense, and to Glenassil, where there
are children blind from their birth; and then I'm going to sleep
this night in the bed of the holy Kevin, and to be prais- ing
God, and asking great blessing on you all. [He bends his head.]