MOLLY BYRNE. Let you keep away from me, and not be soiling my chin. [_People laugh heartily._] MARTIN DOUL. _bewildered._ — It’s Molly’s voice you have. MOLLY BYRNE. Why wouldn’t I have my own voice? Do you think I’m a ghost? MARTIN DOUL. Which of you all is herself? (_He goes up to Bride._) Is it you is Mary Doul? I’m thinking you’re more the like of what they said (_peering at her._) For you’ve yellow hair, and white skin, and it’s the smell of my own turf is rising from your shawl. [_He catches her shawl._] BRIDE. _pulling away her shawl._ — I’m not your wife, and let you get out of my way. [_The People laugh again._] MARTIN DOUL. _with misgiving, to another Girl._ — Is it yourself it is? You’re not so fine-looking, but I’m thinking you’d do, with the grand nose you have, and your nice hands and your feet. GIRL. _scornfully._ — I never seen any person that took me for blind, and a seeing woman, I’m thinking, would never wed the like of you. [_She turns away, and the People laugh once more, drawing back a little and leaving him on their left._] PEOPLE. _jeeringly._ — Try again, Martin, try again, and you’ll be finding her yet. MARTIN DOUL. _passionately._ — Where is it you have her hidden away? Isn’t it a black shame for a drove of pitiful beasts the like of you to be making game of me, and putting a fool’s head on me the grand day of my life? Ah, you’re thinking you’re a fine lot, with your giggling, weeping eyes, a fine lot to be making game of myself and the woman I’ve heard called the great wonder of the west. [_During this speech, which he gives with his back towards the church, Mary Doul has come out with her sight cured, and come down towards the right with a silly simpering smile, till she is a little behind Martin Doul._] MARY DOUL. _when he pauses._ — Which of you is Martin Doul? MARTIN DOUL. _wheeling round._ — It’s her voice surely. [_They stare at each other blankly._] MOLLY BYRNE. _to Martin Doul._ — Go up now and take her under the chin and be speaking the way you spoke to myself. MARTIN DOUL. _in a low voice, with intensity._ — If I speak now, I’ll speak hard to the two of you. MOLLY BYRNE. _to Mary Doul._ — You’re not saying a word, Mary. What is it you think of himself, with the fat legs on him, and the little neck like a ram? MARY DOUL. I’m thinking it’s a poor thing when the Lord God gives you sight and puts the like of that man in your way. MARTIN DOUL. It’s on your two knees you should be thanking the Lord God you’re not looking on yourself, for if it was yourself you seen you’d be running round in a short while like the old screeching mad-woman is running round in the glen. MARY DOUL. _beginning to realize herself._ — If I’m not so fine as some of them said, I have my hair, and big eyes, and my white skin.