MARTIN DOUL. _breaking out into a passionate cry._ — Your hair, and your big eyes, is it?... I’m telling you there isn’t a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the world isn’t finer than the dirty twist on your head. There isn’t two eyes in any starving sow isn’t finer than the eyes you were calling blue like the sea. MARY DOUL. _interrupting him._ — It’s the devil cured you this day with your talking of sows; it’s the devil cured you this day, I’m saying, and drove you crazy with lies. MARTIN DOUL. Isn’t it yourself is after playing lies on me, ten years, in the day and in the night; but what is that to you now the Lord God has given eyes to me, the way I see you an old wizendy hag, was never fit to rear a child to me itself. MARY DOUL. I wouldn’t rear a crumpled whelp the like of you. It’s many a woman is married with finer than yourself should be praising God if she’s no child, and isn’t loading the earth with things would make the heavens lonesome above, and they scaring the larks, and the crows, and the angels passing in the sky. MARTIN DOUL. Go on now to be seeking a lonesome place where the earth can hide you away; go on now, I’m saying, or you’ll be having men and women with their knees bled, and they screaming to God for a holy water would darken their sight, for there’s no man but would liefer be blind a hundred years, or a thousand itself, than to be looking on your like. MARY DOUL. _raising her stick._ — Maybe if I hit you a strong blow you’d be blind again, and having what you want. [_The Saint is seen in the church door with his head bent in prayer._] MARTIN DOUL. _raising his stick and driving Mary Doul back towards left._ — Let you keep off from me now if you wouldn’t have me strike out the little handful of brains you have about on the road. [_He is going to strike her, but Timmy catches him by the arm._] TIMMY. Have you no shame to be making a great row, and the Saint above saying his prayers? MARTIN DOUL. What is it I care for the like of him? (_Struggling to free himself_). Let me hit her one good one, for the love of the Almighty God, and I’ll be quiet after till I die. TIMMY. _shaking him._ — Will you whisht, I’m saying. SAINT. _coming forward, centre._ — Are their minds troubled with joy, or is their sight uncertain, the way it does often be the day a person is restored? TIMMY. It’s too certain their sight is, holy father; and they’re after making a great fight, because they’re a pair of pitiful shows.