WIDOW QUIN. Gone over the hills to catch a coasting steamer to the north or south. MAHON. Could I pull up on him now? WIDOW QUIN. If you’ll cross the sands below where the tide is out, you’ll be in it as soon as himself, for he had to go round ten miles by the top of the bay. (_She points to the door_). Strike down by the head beyond and then follow on the roadway to the north and east. (_Mahon goes abruptly._) WIDOW QUIN. _shouting after him._—Let you give him a good vengeance when you come up with him, but don’t put yourself in the power of the law, for it’d be a poor thing to see a judge in his black cap reading out his sentence on a civil warrior the like of you. [_She swings the door to and looks at Christy, who is cowering in terror, for a moment, then she bursts into a laugh._] WIDOW QUIN. Well, you’re the walking Playboy of the Western World, and that’s the poor man you had divided to his breeches belt. CHRISTY. _looking out; then, to her._—What’ll Pegeen say when she hears that story? What’ll she be saying to me now? WIDOW QUIN. She’ll knock the head of you, I’m thinking, and drive you from the door. God help her to be taking you for a wonder, and you a little schemer making up the story you destroyed your da. CHRISTY. _turning to the door, nearly speechless with rage, half to himself._—To be letting on he was dead, and coming back to his life, and following after me like an old weazel tracing a rat, and coming in here laying desolation between my own self and the fine women of Ireland, and he a kind of carcase that you’d fling upon the sea.... WIDOW QUIN. _more soberly._—There’s talking for a man’s one only son. CHRISTY. _breaking out._—His one son, is it? May I meet him with one tooth and it aching, and one eye to be seeing seven and seventy divils in the twists of the road, and one old timber leg on him to limp into the scalding grave. (_Looking out._) There he is now crossing the strands, and that the Lord God would send a high wave to wash him from the world. WIDOW QUIN. _scandalised._—Have you no shame? (_putting her hand on his shoulder and turning him round._) What ails you? Near crying, is it? CHRISTY. _in despair and grief._—Amn’t I after seeing the love-light of the star of knowledge shining from her brow, and hearing words would put you thinking on the holy Brigid speaking to the infant saints, and now she’ll be turning again, and speaking hard words to me, like an old woman with a spavindy ass she’d have, urging on a hill. WIDOW QUIN. There’s poetry talk for a girl you’d see itching and scratching, and she with a stale stink of poteen on her from selling in the shop. CHRISTY. _impatiently._—It’s her like is fitted to be handling merchandise in the heavens above, and what’ll I be doing now, I ask you, and I a kind of wonder was jilted by the heavens when a day was by. [_There is a distant noise of girls’ voices. Widow Quin looks from window and comes to him, hurriedly._]