Come, Bell:
We’d best be making tracks: there’s nothing here:
So let’s be going.
Bell:
Going, Peter, where?
Peter:
There’s nothing to bide here for: we’re too late.
Jim’s stolen a march on us: there’s no loot left.
Bell:
And you would leave a woman, lying dead;
And an old blind cripple who cannot do a hand’s-turn,
With no one to look after them—and they,
Your father and mother?
Peter:
Little enough I owe them:
What can we do for them, anyway? We can’t
Bring back the dead to life: and, sooner or later,
Someone will come from Rawridge to see to the sheep:
And dad won’t hurt, meanwhile: he’s gey and tough.
Bell: