SAINT. _coming between them._ — May the Lord who has given you sight send a little sense into your heads, the way it won’t be on your two selves you’ll be looking — on two pitiful sinners of the earth — but on the splendour of the Spirit of God, you’ll see an odd time shining out through the big hills, and steep streams falling to the sea. For if it’s on the like of that you do be thinking, you’ll not be minding the faces of men, but you’ll be saying prayers and great praises, till you’ll be living the way the great saints do be living, with little but old sacks, and skin covering their bones. (_To Timmy._) Leave him go now, you’re seeing he’s quiet again. (_He frees Martin Doul._) And let you (_he turns to Mary Doul_) not be raising your voice, a bad thing in a woman; but let the lot of you, who have seen the power of the Lord, be thinking on it in the dark night, and be saying to yourselves it’s great pity and love He has for the poor, starving people of Ireland. (_He gathers his cloak about him._) And now the Lord send blessing to you all, for I am going on to Annagolan, where there is a deaf woman, and to Laragh, where there are two men without sense, and to Glenassil, where there are children blind from their birth; and then I’m going to sleep this night in the bed of the holy Kevin, and to be praising God, and asking great blessing on you all. [_He bends his head._] CURTAIN ACT II [_Village roadside, on left the door of a forge, with broken wheels, etc., lying about. A well near centre, with board above it, and room to pass behind it. Martin Doul is sitting near forge, cutting sticks._] TIMMY. _heard hammering inside forge, then calls._ — Let you make haste out there.... I’ll be putting up new fires at the turn of day, and you haven’t the half of them cut yet. MARTIN DOUL. _gloomily._ — It’s destroyed I’ll be whacking your old thorns till the turn of day, and I with no food in my stomach would keep the life in a pig. (_He turns towards the door._) Let you come out here and cut them yourself if you want them cut, for there’s an hour every day when a man has a right to his rest. TIMMY. _coming out, with a hammer, impatiently._ — Do you want me to be driving you off again to be walking the roads? There you are now, and I giving you your food, and a corner to sleep, and money with it; and, to hear the talk of you, you’d think I was after beating you, or stealing your gold. MARTIN DOUL. You’d do it handy, maybe, if I’d gold to steal. TIMMY. _throws down hammer; picks up some of the sticks already cut, and throws them into door._ There’s no fear of your having gold — a lazy, basking fool the like of you. MARTIN DOUL. No fear, maybe, and I here with yourself, for it’s more I got a while since and I sitting blinded in Grianan, than I get in this place working hard, and destroying myself, the length of the day.