Molly Byrne (as before). He’s a bigger fool than that, Timmy. Look on him now, and tell me if that isn’t a grand fellow to think he’s only to open his mouth to have a fine woman, the like of me, running along by his heels.

Martin Doul recoils towards centre, with his hand to his eyes; Mary Doul is seen on left coming forward softly.

Timmy (with blank amazement). Oh, the blind is wicked people, and it’s no lie. But he’ll walk off this day and not be troubling us more.

Turns back left and picks up Martin Doul’s coat and stick; some things fall out of coat pocket, which he gathers up again.

Martin Doul (turns round, sees Mary Doul, whispers to Molly Byrne with imploring agony). Let you not put shame on me, Molly, before herself and the smith. Let you not put shame on me and I after saying fine words to you, and dreaming … dreams … in the night. (He hesitates, and looks round the sky.) Is it a storm of thunder is coming, or the last end of the world? (He staggers towards Mary Doul, tripping slightly over tin can). The heavens is closing, I’m thinking, with darkness and great trouble passing in the sky. (He reaches Mary Doul, and seizes her left arm with both his hands—with a frantic cry.) Is it the darkness of thunder is coming, Mary Doul! Do you see me clearly with your eyes?

Mary Doul (snatches her arm away, and hits him with empty sack across the face). I see you a sight too clearly, and let you keep off from me now.

Molly Byrne (clapping her hands). That’s right, Mary. That’s the way to treat the like of him is after standing there at my feet and asking me to go off with him, till I’d grow an old wretched road-woman the like of yourself.

Mary Doul (defiantly). When the skin shrinks on your chin, Molly Byrne, there won’t be the like of you for a shrunk hag in the four quarters of Ireland.… It’s a fine pair you’d be, surely!

Martin Doul is standing at back right centre, with his back to the audience.

Timmy (coming over to Mary Doul). Is it no shame you have to let on she’d ever be the like of you?

Mary Doul. It’s them that’s fat and flabby do be wrinkled young, and that whitish yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the like of a handful of thin grass you’d see rotting, where the wet lies, at the north of a sty. (Turning to go out on right.) Ah, it’s a better thing to have a simple, seemly face, the like of my face, for two-score years, or fifty itself, than to be setting fools mad a short while, and then to be turning a thing would drive off the little children from your feet.

She goes out; Martin Doul has come forward again, mastering himself, but uncertain.

Timmy. Oh, God protect us, Molly, from the words of the blind. (He throws down Martin Doul’s coat and stick.) There’s your old rubbish now, Martin Doul, and let you take it up, for it’s all you have, and walk off through the world, for if ever I meet you coming again, if it’s seeing or blind you are itself, I’ll bring out the big hammer and hit you a welt with it will leave you easy till the judgment day.

Martin Doul (rousing himself with an effort). What call have you to talk the like of that with myself?

Timmy (pointing to Molly Byrne). It’s well you know what call I have. It’s well you know a decent girl, I’m thinking to wed, has no right to have her heart scalded with hearing talk—and queer, bad talk, I’m thinking—from a raggy-looking fool the like of you.

Martin Doul (raising his voice). It’s making game of you she is, for what seeing girl would marry with yourself? Look on him, Molly, look on him, I’m saying, for I’m seeing him still, and let you raise your