ELIZA: I’ll go. ’Twas cruel to leave them in this heat, With none to water them. This heat’s a judgment. They were my sons: I bore and suckled them. This heat’s a judgment on me, pressing down On my brain like a redhot iron ... (_She rises with difficulty, and goes, bareheaded, into the sunshine. In a few moments she staggers back, and stumbles, with unseeing eyes, towards the inner room. She pauses a second at the door, and turns, as if to speak to EZRA; but goes in, without a word. Presently a soft thud is heard within: then a low moan._) EZRA: Who’s there? Not you, Eliza? You can’t be back already, woman? Why don’t you speak? You yammered enough, just now-- Such havers! Haven’t you gone? What’s keeping you? I told you to step out. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? You’re wambling like a wallydraigling waywand. The old ewe’s got the staggers. Boodyankers! If I wasn’t so crocked and groggy, I’d make a fend To go myself--ay, blind bat as I am. Come, pull yourself together; and step lively. What’s that? What’s that? I can’t hear anything now. Where are you, woman? Speak! There’s no one here-- Though I’d have sworn I heard the old wife waigling, As if she carried a hoggerel on her shoulders. I heard a foot: yet, she couldn’t come so soon. I’m going watty. My mind’s so set on dogging The heels of that damned thief, hot-foot for the gallows, I hear his footsteps echoing in my head. He’d hirple it barefoot on the coals of hell, With a red-hot prong at his hurdies to prog him on, If I’d my way with him: de’il scart the hanniel! (_He sits, brooding: and some time has passed, when the head of a tramp, shaggy and unkempt, is thrust in at the door; and is followed by the body of PETER BARRASFORD, who steps cautiously in, and stealing up to the old man’s chair, stands looking down upon him with a grin._) EZRA (_stirring uneasily_): A step, for sure! You’re back? Though how you’ve travelled So quickly, Eliza, I can’t think. And when’s John Steel to turn us out, to follow Jim And the other vagabonds? And who’s he sending? He’s not a man to spare ... But, sheep are sheep: Someone must tend them, though all else go smash. I’ve given my life to sheep, spent myself for them: And now, I’m not the value of a dead sheep To any farmer--a rackle of bones for the midden! A bitter day, ’twill be, when I turn my back On Krindlesyke. I little reckoned to go, A blind old cripple, hobbling on two sticks. Pride has a fall, they say: and I was proud-- Proud as a thistle; and a donkey’s cropt The thistle’s prickly pride. Why don’t you speak? I’m not mistaken this time: I heard you come: I feel you standing over me. (_He pokes round with his stick, catching PETER on the shin with it._)