MOLLY BYRNE. _to Martin Doul._ — Would you think well to be all your life walking round the like of that, Martin Doul, and you bell-ringing with the saints of God? MARY DOUL. _turning on her, fiercely._ — How would he be bell-ringing with the saints of God and he wedded with myself? MARTIN DOUL. It’s the truth she’s saying, and if bell-ringing is a fine life, yet I’m thinking, maybe, it’s better I am wedded with the beautiful dark woman of Ballinatone. MOLLY BYRNE. _scornfully._ — You’re thinking that, God help you; but it’s little you know of her at all. MARTIN DOUL. It’s little surely, and I’m destroyed this day waiting to look upon her face. TIMMY. _awkwardly._ — It’s well you know the way she is; for the like of you do have great knowledge in the feeling of your hands. MARTIN DOUL. _still feeling the cloak._ — We do, maybe. Yet it’s little I know of faces, or of fine beautiful cloaks, for it’s few cloaks I’ve had my hand to, and few faces (_plaintively_); for the young girls is mighty shy, Timmy the smith and it isn’t much they heed me, though they do be saying I’m a handsome man. MARY DOUL. _mockingly, with good humour._ — Isn’t it a queer thing the voice he puts on him, when you hear him talking of the skinny-looking girls, and he married with a woman he’s heard called the wonder of the western world? TIMMY. _pityingly._ — The two of you will see a great wonder this day, and it’s no lie. MARTIN DOUL. I’ve heard tell her yellow hair, and her white skin, and her big eyes are a wonder, surely. BRIDE. _who has looked out left._ — Here’s the saint coming from the selvage of the wood.... Strip the cloak from him, Molly, or he’ll be seeing it now. MOLLY BYRNE. _hastily to Bride._ — Take the bell and put yourself by the stones. (_To Martin Doul._) Will you hold your head up till I loosen the cloak? (_She pulls off the cloak and throws it over her arm. Then she pushes Martin Doul over and stands him beside Mary Doul._) Stand there now, quiet, and let you not be saying a word. [_She and Bride stand a little on their left, demurely, with bell, etc., in their hands._] MARTIN DOUL. _nervously arranging his clothes._ — Will he mind the way we are, and not tidied or washed cleanly at all? MOLLY BYRNE. He’ll not see what way you are.... He’d walk by the finest woman in Ireland, I’m thinking, and not trouble to raise his two eyes to look upon her face.... Whisht! [_The Saint comes left, with crowd._] SAINT. Are these the two poor people? TIMMY. _officiously._ — They are, holy father; they do be always sitting here at the crossing of the roads, asking a bit of copper from them that do pass, or stripping rushes for lights, and they not mournful at all, but talking out straight with a full voice, and making game with them that likes it.