MARY DOUL. _listens._ — The lambs is bleating, surely, and there’s cocks and laying hens making a fine stir a mile off on the face of the hill. (_She starts._) MARTIN DOUL. What’s that is sounding in the west? [_A faint sound of a bell is heard._] MARY DOUL. It’s not the churches, for the wind’s blowing from the sea. MARTIN DOUL. _with dismay._ — It’s the old Saint, I’m thinking, ringing his bell. MARY DOUL. The Lord protect us from the saints of God! (_They listen._) He’s coming this road, surely. MARTIN DOUL. _tentatively._ — Will we be running off, Mary Doul? MARY DOUL. What place would we run? MARTIN DOUL. There’s the little path going up through the sloughs.... If we reached the bank above, where the elders do be growing, no person would see a sight of us, if it was a hundred yeomen were passing itself; but I’m afeard after the time we were with our sight we’ll not find our way to it at all. MARY DOUL. _standing up._ — You’d find the way, surely. You’re a grand man the world knows at finding your way winter or summer, if there was deep snow in it itself, or thick grass and leaves, maybe, growing from the earth. MARTIN DOUL. _taking her hand._ — Come a bit this way; it’s here it begins. (_They grope about gap._) There’s a tree pulled into the gap, or a strange thing happened, since I was passing it before. MARY DOUL. Would we have a right to be crawling in below under the sticks? MARTIN DOUL. It’s hard set I am to know what would be right. And isn’t it a poor thing to be blind when you can’t run off itself, and you fearing to see? MARY DOUL. _nearly in tears._ — It’s a poor thing, God help us, and what good’ll our gray hairs be itself, if we have our sight, the way we’ll see them falling each day, and turning dirty in the rain? [_The bell sounds nearby._] MARTIN DOUL. _in despair._ — He’s coming now, and we won’t get off from him at all. MARY DOUL. Could we hide in the bit of a briar is growing at the west butt of the church? MARTIN DOUL. We’ll try that, surely. (_He listens a moment._) Let you make haste; I hear them trampling in the wood. [_They grope over to church._] MARY DOUL. It’s the words of the young girls making a great stir in the trees. (_They find the bush._) Here’s the briar on my left, Martin; I’ll go in first, I’m the big one, and I’m easy to see. MARTIN DOUL. _turning his head anxiously._ — It’s easy heard you are; and will you be holding your tongue? MARY DOUL. _partly behind bush._ — Come in now beside of me. (_They kneel down, still clearly visible._) Do you think they can see us now, Martin Doul? MARTIN DOUL. I’m thinking they can’t, but I’m hard set to know; for the lot of them young girls, the devil save them, have sharp, terrible eyes, would pick out a poor man, I’m thinking, and he lying below hid in his grave. MARY DOUL. Let you not be whispering sin, Martin Doul, or maybe it’s the finger of God they’d see pointing to ourselves.