TRAMP. (_Speaking mournfully._) Is it myself, lady of the house, that does be walking round in the long nights, and crossing the hills when the fog is on them, the time a little stick would seem as big as your arm, and a rabbit as big as a bay horse, and a stack of turf as big as a towering church in the city of Dublin? If myself was easily afeard, I’m telling you, it’s long ago I’ld have been locked into the Richmond Asylum, or maybe have run up into the back hills with nothing on me but an old shirt, and been eaten with crows the like of Patch Darcy—the Lord have mercy on him—in the year that’s gone. NORA. (_With interest._) You knew Darcy? TRAMP. Wasn’t I the last one heard his living voice in the whole world? NORA. There were great stories of what was heard at that time, but would any one believe the things they do be saying in the glen? TRAMP. It was no lie, lady of the house.... I was passing below on a dark night the like of this night, and the sheep were lying under the ditch and every one of them coughing, and choking, like an old man, with the great rain and the fog. Then I heard a thing talking—queer talk, you wouldn’t believe at all, and you out of your dreams,—and “Merciful God,” says I, “if I begin hearing the like of that voice out of the thick mist, I’m destroyed surely.” Then I run, and I run, and I run, till I was below in Rathvanna. I got drunk that night, I got drunk in the morning, and drunk the day after,—I was coming from the races beyond—and the third day they found Darcy.... Then I knew it was himself I was after hearing, and I wasn’t afeard any more. NORA. (_Speaking sorrowfully and slowly._) God spare Darcy, he’ld always look in here and he passing up or passing down, and it’s very lonesome I was after him a long while (_she looks over at the bed and lowers her voice, speaking very clearly,_) and then I got happy again—if it’s ever happy we are, stranger,—for I got used to being lonesome. (_A short pause; then she stands up._) NORA. Was there any one on the last bit of the road, stranger, and you coming from Aughrim? TRAMP. There was a young man with a drift of mountain ewes, and he running after them this way and that. NORA. (_With a half-smile._) Far down, stranger? TRAMP. A piece only. (_She fills the kettle and puts it on the fire._) NORA. Maybe, if you’re not easy afeard, you’ld stay here a short while alone with himself. TRAMP. I would surely. A man that’s dead can do no hurt. NORA. (_Speaking with a sort of constraint._) I’m going a little back to the west, stranger, for himself would go there one night and another and whistle at that place, and then the young man you’re after seeing—a kind of a farmer has come up from the sea to live in a cottage beyond—would walk round to see if there was a thing we’ld have to be done, and I’m wanting him this night, the way he can go down into the glen when the sun goes up and tell the people that himself is dead.