CHRISTY.
loudly.—A murdered da?
PEGEEN.
coming in again and crossing right.—There was not, but a story filled half a page of the hanging of a man. Ah, that should be a fearful end, young fellow, and it worst of all for a man who destroyed his da, for the like of him would get small mercies, and when it’s dead he is, they’d put him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him round, and pour down quicklime on his head, the way you’d see a woman pouring any frish-frash from a cup.
CHRISTY.
very miserably.—Oh, God help me. Are you thinking I’m safe? You were saying at the fall of night, I was shut of jeopardy and I here with yourselves.
PEGEEN.
severely.—You’ll be shut of jeopardy no place if you go talking with a pack of wild girls the like of them do be walking abroad with the peelers, talking whispers at the fall of night.
CHRISTY.
with terror.—And you’re thinking they’d tell?
PEGEEN.
with mock sympathy.—Who knows, God help you.
CHRISTY.
loudly.—What joy would they have to bring hanging to the likes of me?
PEGEEN.
It’s queer joys they have, and who knows the thing they’d do, if it’d make the green stones cry itself to think of you swaying and swiggling at the butt of a rope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God bless you! the way you’d be a half an hour, in great anguish, getting your death.
CHRISTY.
getting his boots and putting them on.—If there’s that terror of them, it’d be best, maybe, I went on wandering like Esau or Cain and Abel on the sides of Neifin or the Erris plain.
PEGEEN.
beginning to play with him.—It would, maybe, for I’ve heard the Circuit Judges this place is a heartless crew.