SAINT. Kneel down, I’m saying, the ground’s dry at your feet. MARTIN DOUL. _with distress._ — Let you go on your own way, holy father. We’re not calling you at all. SAINT. I’m not saying a word of penance, or fasting itself, for I’m thinking the Lord has brought you great teaching in the blindness of your eyes; so you’ve no call now to be fearing me, but let you kneel down till I give you your sight. MARTIN DOUL. _more troubled._ — We’re not asking our sight, holy father, and let you walk on your own way, and be fasting, or praying, or doing anything that you will, but leave us here in our peace, at the crossing of the roads, for it’s best we are this way, and we’re not asking to see. SAINT. _to the People._ — Is his mind gone that he’s no wish to be cured this day, or to be living or working, or looking on the wonders of the world? MARTIN DOUL. It’s wonders enough I seen in a short space for the life of one man only. SAINT. _severely._ — I never heard tell of any person wouldn’t have great joy to be looking on the earth, and the image of the Lord thrown upon men. MARTIN DOUL. _raising his voice._ — Them is great sights, holy father.... What was it I seen when I first opened my eyes but your own bleeding feet, and they cut with the stones? That was a great sight, maybe, of the image of God.... And what was it I seen my last day but the villainy of hell looking out from the eyes of the girl you’re coming to marry — the Lord forgive you — with Timmy the smith. That was a great sight, maybe. And wasn’t it great sights I seen on the roads when the north winds would be driving, and the skies would be harsh, till you’d see the horses and the asses, and the dogs itself, maybe, with their heads hanging, and they closing their eyes——. SAINT. And did you never hear tell of the summer, and the fine spring, and the places where the holy men of Ireland have built up churches to the Lord? No man isn’t a madman, I’m thinking, would be talking the like of that, and wishing to be closed up and seeing no sight of the grand glittering seas, and the furze that is opening above, and will soon have the hills shining as if it was fine creels of gold they were, rising to the sky. MARTIN DOUL. Is it talking now you are of Knock and Ballavore? Ah, it’s ourselves had finer sights than the like of them, I’m telling you, when we were sitting a while back hearing the birds and bees humming in every weed of the ditch, or when we’d be smelling the sweet, beautiful smell does be rising in the warm nights, when you do hear the swift flying things racing in the air, till we’d be looking up in our own minds into a grand sky, and seeing lakes, and big rivers, and fine hills for taking the plough. SAINT. _to People._ — There’s little use talking with the like of him. MOLLY BYRNE. It’s lazy he is, holy father, and not wanting to work; for a while before you had him cured he was always talking, and wishing, and longing for his sight.