Saint. And did you never hear tell of the summer, and the fine spring, and the places where the holy men of Ireland have built up churches to the Lord? No man isn’t a madman, I’m thinking, would be talking the like of that, and wishing to be closed up and seeing no sight of the grand glittering seas, and the furze that is opening above, and will soon have the hills shining as if it was fine creels of gold they were, rising to the sky.

Martin Doul. Is it talking now you are of Knock and Ballavore? Ah, it’s ourselves had finer sights than the like of them, I’m telling you, when we were sitting a while back hearing the birds and bees humming in every weed of the ditch, or when we’d be smelling the sweet, beautiful smell does be rising in the warm nights, when you do hear the swift flying things racing in the air, till we’d be looking up in our own minds into a grand sky, and seeing takes, and big rivers, and fine hills for taking the plough.

Saint (to People). There’s little use talking with the like of him.

Molly Byrne. It’s lazy he is, holy father, and not wanting to work; for a while before you had him cured he was always talking, and wishing, and longing for his sight.

Martin Doul (turning on her). I was longing, surely, for sight; but I seen my fill in a short while with the look of my wife, and the look of yourself, Molly Byrne, when you’d the queer wicked grin in your eyes you do have the time you’re making game with a man.

Molly Byrne. Let you not mind him, holy father; for it’s bad things he was saying to me a while back—bad things for a married man, your reverence—and you’d do right surely to leave him in darkness, if it’s that is best fitting the villainy of his heart.

Timmy (to Saint). Would you cure Mary Doul, your reverence, who is a quiet poor woman, never did hurt to any, or said a hard word, saving only when she’d be vexed with himself, or with young girls would be making game of her below.

Saint (to Mary Doul). If you have any sense, Mary, kneel down at my feet, and I’ll bring the sight again into your eyes.

Martin Doul (more defiantly). You will not, holy father. Would you have her looking on me, and saying hard words to me, till the hour of death?

Saint (severely). If she’s wanting her sight I wouldn’t have the like of you stop her at all. (To Mary Doul.) Kneel down, I’m saying.

Mary Doul (doubtfully). Let us be as we are, holy father, and then we’ll be known again in a short while as the people is happy and blind, and be having an easy time, with no trouble to live, and we getting halfpence on the road.

Molly Byrne. Let you not be a raving fool, Mary Doul. Kneel down now, and let him give you your sight, and himself can be sitting here if he likes it best, and taking halfpence on the road.

Timmy. That’s the truth, Mary; and if it’s choosing a wilful blindness you are, I’m thinking there isn’t anyone in this place will ever be giving you a hand’s turn or a hap’orth of meal, or be doing the little things you do need to keep you at all living in the world.

Mat Simon. If you had your sight, Mary, you could be walking up for him and down with him, and be stitching his clothes, and keeping a watch on him day and night the way no other woman would come near him at all.

Mary Doul (half persuaded). That’s the truth, maybe——