A PEASANT
We were under the tree where the path turns,
When she grew pale as death and fainted away.
And while we bore her hither cloudy gusts
Blackened the world and shook us on our feet;
Draw the great bolt, for no man has beheld
So black, bitter, blinding, and sudden a storm.
(One who is near the door draws the bolt.)
CATHLEEN
O, hold me, and hold me tightly, for the storm
Is dragging me away.
(OONA takes her in her arms. A woman begins to wail.)
PEASANT
Hush!
PEASANTS