Michael (good-humouredly). Isn’t it the same whether I go for the whole night or a part only? and I’m thinking it’s a queer daughter you are if you’d have me crossing backward through the Stooks of the Dead Women, with a drop taken.

Pegeen If I am a queer daughter, it’s a queer father’d be leaving me lonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogs barking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear.

Jimmy (flatteringly). What is there to hurt you, and you a fine, hardy girl would knock the head of any two men in the place?

Pegeen (working herself up). Isn’t there the harvest boys with their tongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the east glen, and the thousand militia—bad cess to them!—walking idle through the land. There’s lots surely to hurt me, and I won’t stop alone in it, let himself do what he will.

Michael If you’re that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you. It’s the will of God, I’m thinking, himself should be seeing to you now.

They all turn on Shawn.

Shawn (in horrified confusion). I would and welcome, Michael James, but I’m afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the Holy Father and the Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I did the like of that?

Michael (with contempt). God help you! Can’t you sit in by the hearth with the light lit and herself beyond in the room? You’ll do that surely, for I’ve heard tell there’s a queer fellow above, going mad or getting his death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she’d be safer this night with a person here.

Shawn (with plaintive despair). I’m afeard of Father Reilly, I’m saying. Let you not be tempting me, and we near married itself.

Philly (with cold contempt). Lock him in the west room. He’ll stay then and have no sin to be telling to the priest.

Michael (to Shawn, getting between him and the door). Go up now.

Shawn (at the top of his voice). Don’t stop me, Michael James. Let me out of the door, I’m saying, for the love of the Almighty God. Let me out (trying to dodge past him). Let me out of it, and may God grant you His indulgence in the hour of need.

Michael (loudly). Stop your noising, and sit down by the hearth.

Gives him a push and goes to counter laughing.

Shawn (turning back, wringing his hands). Oh, Father Reilly and the saints of God, where will I hide myself to-day? Oh, St. Joseph and St. Patrick and St. Brigid, and St. James, have mercy on me now!

Shawn turns round, sees door clear, and makes a rush for it.

Michael (catching him by the coat-tail). You’d be going, is it?

Shawn (screaming). Leave me go, Michael James, leave me go, you old Pagan, leave me go, or I’ll get the curse of the priests on you, and of the scarlet-coated bishops of the courts of Rome.

With a sudden movement he pulls himself out of his coat, and disappears out of the door, leaving his coat in Michael’s hands.