[She goes over and takes up the bundle.
SARAH
crying out angrily.—Leave that down, Mary Byrne. Oh! aren’t you the scorn of women to think that you’d have that drouth and roguery on you that you’d go drinking the can and the dew not dried from the grass?
MARY
in a feigned tone of pacification, with the bundle still in her hand.—It’s not a drouth but a heartburn I have this day, Sarah Casey, so I’m going down to cool my gullet at the blessed well; and I’ll sell the can to the parson’s daughter below, a harmless poor creature would fill your hand with shillings for a brace of lies.
SARAH
Leave down the tin can, Mary Byrne, for I hear the drouth upon your tongue to-day.
MARY
There’s not a drink-house from this place to the fair, Sarah Casey; the way you’ll find me below with the full price, and not a farthing gone.
[She turns to go off left.
SARAH
jumping up, and picking up the hammer threateningly.—Put down that can, I’m saying.
MARY
looking at her for a moment in terror, and putting down the bundle in the ditch.—Is it raving mad you’re going, Sarah Casey, and you the pride of women to destroy the world?
SARAH
going up to her, and giving her a push off left.—I’ll show you if it’s raving mad I am. Go on from this place, I’m saying, and be wary now.
MARY
turning back after her.—If I go, I’ll be telling old and young you’re a weathered heathen savage, Sarah Casey, the one did put down a head of the parson’s cabbage to boil in the pot with your clothes (the Priest comes in behind her, on the left, and listens), and quenched the flaming candles on the throne of God the time your shadow fell within the pillars of the chapel door.