There is a something in you that I fear: A something not of us. Were you not born In some most distant corner of the world? [_The SECOND MERCHANT, who has been listening at the door to the right, comes forward, and as he comes a sound of voices and feet is heard through the door to his left._ SECOND MERCHANT [_aside to FIRST MERCHANT_]. Away now—they are in the passage—hurry, For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts With Ave Marys, and burn all our skin With holy water. FIRST MERCHANT. Farewell: we must ride Many a mile before the morning come; Our horses beat the ground impatiently. [_They go out to R. A number of peasants enter at the same moment by the opposite door._ CATHLEEN. What would you? A PEASANT. As we nodded by the fire, Telling old histories, we heard a noise Of falling money. We have searched in vain. CATHLEEN. You are too timid. I heard naught at all. THE OLD PEASANT. Ay, we are timid, for a rich man’s word Can shake our houses, and a moon of drouth Shrivel our seedlings in the barren earth; We are the slaves of wind, and hail, and flood; Fear jogs our elbow in the market-place, And nods beside us on the chimney-seat. Ill-bodings are as native unto our hearts As are their spots unto the woodpeckers. CATHLEEN. You need not shake with bodings in this house. [_OONA enters from the door to L._ OONA. The treasure-room is broken in—mavrone—mavrone; The door stands open and the gold is gone. [_The peasants raise a lamenting cry._ CATHLEEN. Be silent. [_The cry ceases._ Saw you any one? OONA. Mavrone, That my good mistress should lose all this money. CATHLEEN. You three upon my right hand, ride and ride; I will give a farm to him who finds the thieves. [_A man with keys at his girdle has entered while she was speaking._ A PEASANT. The porter trembles. THE PORTER. It is all no use; Demons were here. I sat beside the door In my stone niche, and two owls passed me by, Whispering with human voices. THE OLD PEASANT. God forsakes us. CATHLEEN. Old man, old man, He never closed a door Unless one opened. I am desolate, For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart: But always I have faith. Old men and women, Be silent; He does not forsake the world, But stands before it modelling in the clay And moulding there His image. Age by age The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard For its old, heavy, dull, and shapeless ease; At times it crumbles and a nation falls, Now moves awry and demon hordes are born. [_The peasants cross themselves._ But leave me now, for I am desolate, I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder. [_She steps down from the oratory door._