SARAH
angrily.—It’s the truth she’s saying; for it’s herself, I’m thinking, is after swapping the tin can for a pint, the time she was raging mad with the drouth, and ourselves above walking the hill.
MARY
crying out with indignation.—Have you no shame, Sarah Casey, to tell lies unto a holy man?
SARAH
to Mary, working herself into a rage.—It’s making game of me you’d be, and putting a fool’s head on me in the face of the world; but if you were thinking to be mighty cute walking off, or going up to hide in the church, I’ve got you this time, and you’ll not run from me now.
She seizes up one of the bottles.
MARY
hiding behind the priest.—Keep her off, your reverence, keep her off for the love of the Almighty God. What at all would the Lord Bishop say if he found me here lying with my head broken across, or the two of yous maybe digging a bloody grave for me at the door of the church?
PRIEST
waving Sarah off.—Go along, Sarah Casey. Would you be doing murder at my feet? Go along from me now, and wasn’t I a big fool to have to do with you when it’s nothing but distraction and torment I get from the kindness of my heart?
SARAH
shouting.—I’ve bet a power of strong lads east and west through the world, and are you thinking I’d turn back from a priest? Leave the road now, or maybe I would strike yourself.
PRIEST
You would not, Sarah Casey. I’ve no fear for the lot of you; but let you walk off, I’m saying, and not be coming where you’ve no business, and screeching tumult and murder at the doorway of the church.
SARAH
I’ll not go a step till I have her head broke, or till I’m wed with himself. If you want to get shut of us, let you marry us now, for I’m thinking the ten shillings in gold is a good price for the like of you, and you near burst with the fat.
PRIEST
I wouldn’t have you coming in on me and soiling my church; for there’s nothing at all, I’m thinking, would keep the like of you from hell. (He throws down the ten shillings on the ground.) Gather up your gold now, and begone from my sight, for if ever I set an eye on you again you’ll hear me telling the peelers who it was stole the black ass belonging to Philly O’Cullen, and whose hay it is the grey ass does be eating.