. . . 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.
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