SHAWN. I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place to be hearing the like of him. PEGEEN. Well, you’re a daring fellow, and if they find his corpse stretched above in the dews of dawn, what’ll you say then to the peelers, or the Justice of the Peace? SHAWN. _thunderstruck._—I wasn’t thinking of that. For the love of God, Pegeen Mike, don’t let on I was speaking of him. Don’t tell your father and the men is coming above; for if they heard that story, they’d have great blabbing this night at the wake. PEGEEN. I’ll maybe tell them, and I’ll maybe not. SHAWN. They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I’m saying? PEGEEN. Whisht yourself. [_She goes behind counter. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comes in followed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and Jimmy Farrell, who is fat and amorous, about forty-five._] MEN. _together._—God bless you. The blessing of God on this place. PEGEEN. God bless you kindly. MICHAEL. _to men who go to the counter._—Sit down now, and take your rest. (_Crosses to Shawn at the fire._) And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh? Are you coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy’s wake? SHAWN. I am not, Michael James. I’m going home the short cut to my bed. PEGEEN. _speaking across the counter._—He’s right too, and have you no shame, Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night, and leaving myself lonesome in the shop? MICHAEL. _good-humouredly._—Isn’t it the same whether I go for the whole night or a part only? and I’m thinking it’s a queer daughter you are if you’d have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the Dead Women, with a drop taken. PEGEEN. If I am a queer daughter, it’s a queer father’d be leaving me lonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogs barking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear. JIMMY. _flatteringly._—What is there to hurt you, and you a fine, hardy girl would knock the head of any two men in the place? PEGEEN. _working herself up._—Isn’t there the harvest boys with their tongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the east glen, and the thousand militia—bad cess to them!—walking idle through the land. There’s lots surely to hurt me, and I won’t stop alone in it, let himself do what he will. MICHAEL. If you’re that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you. It’s the will of God, I’m thinking, himself should be seeing to you now. [_They all turn on Shawn._] SHAWN. _in horrified confusion._—I would and welcome, Michael James, but I’m afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the Holy Father and the Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I did the like of that? MICHAEL. _with contempt._—God help you! Can’t you sit in by the hearth with the light lit and herself beyond in the room? You’ll do that surely, for I’ve heard tell there’s a queer fellow above, going mad or getting his death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she’d be safer this night with a person here.