CHRISTY. _indignantly._—Starting from you, is it? (_He follows her._) I will not, then, and when the airs is warming in four months, or five, it’s then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin in the dews of night, the times sweet smells do be rising, and you’d see a little shiny new moon, maybe, sinking on the hills. PEGEEN. _looking at him playfully._—And it’s that kind of a poacher’s love you’d make, Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin, when the night is down? CHRISTY. It’s little you’ll think if my love’s a poacher’s, or an earl’s itself, when you’ll feel my two hands stretched around you, and I squeezing kisses on your puckered lips, till I’d feel a kind of pity for the Lord God is all ages sitting lonesome in his golden chair. PEGEEN. That’ll be right fun, Christy Mahon, and any girl would walk her heart out before she’d meet a young man was your like for eloquence, or talk, at all. CHRISTY. _encouraged._—Let you wait, to hear me talking, till we’re astray in Erris, when Good Friday’s by, drinking a sup from a well, and making mighty kisses with our wetted mouths, or gaming in a gap or sunshine, with yourself stretched back unto your necklace, in the flowers of the earth. PEGEEN. _in a lower voice, moved by his tone._—I’d be nice so, is it? CHRISTY. _with rapture._—If the mitred bishops seen you that time, they’d be the like of the holy prophets, I’m thinking, do be straining the bars of Paradise to lay eyes on the Lady Helen of Troy, and she abroad, pacing back and forward, with a nosegay in her golden shawl. PEGEEN. _with real tenderness._—And what is it I have, Christy Mahon, to make me fitting entertainment for the like of you, that has such poet’s talking, and such bravery of heart? CHRISTY. _in a low voice._—Isn’t there the light of seven heavens in your heart alone, the way you’ll be an angel’s lamp to me from this out, and I abroad in the darkness, spearing salmons in the Owen, or the Carrowmore? PEGEEN. If I was your wife, I’d be along with you those nights, Christy Mahon, the way you’d see I was a great hand at coaxing bailiffs, or coining funny nick-names for the stars of night. CHRISTY. You, is it? Taking your death in the hailstones, or in the fogs of dawn. PEGEEN. Yourself and me would shelter easy in a narrow bush, (_with a qualm of dread_) but we’re only talking, maybe, for this would be a poor, thatched place to hold a fine lad is the like of you. CHRISTY. _putting his arm round her._—If I wasn’t a good Christian, it’s on my naked knees I’d be saying my prayers and paters to every jackstraw you have roofing your head, and every stony pebble is paving the laneway to your door. PEGEEN. _radiantly._—If that’s the truth, I’ll be burning candles from this out to the miracles of God that have brought you from the south to-day, and I, with my gowns bought ready, the way that I can wed you, and not wait at all.