Martin Doul. It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. (He passes behind her and comes near her left.) For I’ve heard tell there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in them, and fine light in the sky. (Bending towards her.) And light’s a grand thing for a man ever was blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like of you, the way we’d have a right to go off this day till we’d have a fine life passing abroad through them towns of the south, and we telling stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs.

Molly Byrne (turning round half amused, and looking him over from head to foot). Well, isn’t it a queer thing when your own wife’s after leaving you because you’re a pitiful show, you’d talk the like of that to me?

Martin Doul (drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant). It’s a queer thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world. (In a low voice with peculiar emphasis.) But there’s one thing I’m telling you, if she walked off away from me, it wasn’t because of seeing me, and I no more than I am, but because I was looking on her with my two eyes, and she getting up, and eating her food, and combing her hair, and lying down for her sleep.

Molly Byrne (interested, off her guard). Wouldn’t any married man you’d have be doing the like of that?

Martin Doul (seizing the moment that he has her attention). I’m thinking by the mercy of God it’s few sees anything but them is blind for a space (with excitement). It’s a few sees the old women rotting for the grave, and it’s few sees the like of yourself. (He bends over her.) Though it’s shining you are, like a high lamp would drag in the ships out of the sea.

Molly Byrne (shrinking away from him). Keep off from me, Martin Doul.

Martin Doul (quickly, with low, furious intensity). It’s the truth I’m telling you. (He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her.) And you’d do right not to marry a man is after looking out a long while on the bad days of the world; for what way would the like of him have fit eyes to look on yourself, when you rise up in the morning and come out of the little door you have above in the lane, the time it’d be a fine thing if a man would be seeing, and losing his sight, the way he’d have your two eyes facing him, and he going the roads, and shining above him, and he looking in the sky, and springing up from the earth, the time he’d lower his head, in place of the muck that seeing men do meet all roads spread on the world.

Molly Byrne (who has listened half mesmerized, starting away). It’s the like of that talk you’d hear from a man would be losing his mind.

Martin Doul (going after her, passing to her right). It’d be little wonder if a man near the like of you would be losing his mind. Put down your can now, and come along with myself, for I’m seeing you this day, seeing you, maybe, the way no man has seen you in the world. (He takes her by the arm and trys to pull her away softly to the right.) Let you come on now, I’m saying, to the lands of Iveragh and the Reeks of Cork, where you won’t set down the width of your two feet and not be crushing fine flowers, and making sweet smells in the air.

Molly Byrne (laying down can; trying to free herself). Leave me go, Martin Doul! Leave me go, I’m saying!

Martin Doul. Let you not be fooling. Come along now the little path through the trees.

Molly Byrne (crying out towards forge). Timmy—Timmy the smith. (Timmy comes out of forge, and Martin Doul lets her go. Molly Byrne, excited and breathless, pointing to Martin Doul.) Did ever you hear that them that loses their sight loses their senses along with it, Timmy the smith!

Timmy (suspicious, but uncertain). He’s no sense, surely, and he’ll be having himself driven off this day from where he’s good sleeping, and feeding, and wages for his work.