The Well of the Saints

round in the muck. You need never talk again of your fine looks, Martin Doul, for the day of that talk’s gone forever. Martin Doul That’s a hard word to be saying, for I was thinking if I’d a bit of comfort, the like of yourself, it’s not far off we’d be from the good days went before, and that’d be a wonder surely. But I’ll never rest easy, thinking you’re a gray, beautiful woman, and myself a pitiful show. Mary Doul I can’t help your looks, Martin Doul. It wasn’t myself made you with your rat’s eyes, and your big ears, and your griseldy chin. Martin Doul Rubs his chin ruefully, then beams with delight. There’s one thing you’ve forgot, if you’re a cute thinking woman itself. Mary Doul Your slouching feet, is it? Or your hooky neck, or your two knees is black with knocking one on the other? Martin Doul With delighted scorn. There’s talking for a cute woman. There’s talking, surely! Mary Doul Puzzled at joy of his voice. If you’d anything but lies to say you’d be talking to yourself. Martin Doul Bursting with excitement. I’ve this to say, Mary Doul. I’ll be letting my beard grow in a short while, a beautiful, long, white, silken, streamy beard, you wouldn’t see the like of in the eastern world.⁠ ⁠… Ah, a white beard’s a grand thing on an old man, a grand thing for making the quality stop and be stretching out their hands with good silver or gold, and a beard’s a thing you’ll never have, so you may be holding your tongue. Mary Doul Laughing cheerfully. Well, we’re a great pair, surely, and it’s great times we’ll have yet, maybe, and great talking before we die. Martin Doul Great times from this day, with the help of the Almighty God, for a priest itself would believe the lies of an old man would have a fine white beard growing on his chin. Mary Doul There’s the sound of one of them twittering yellow birds do be coming in the springtime from beyond the sea, and there’ll be a fine warmth now in the sun, and a sweetness in the air, the way it’ll be a grand thing to be sitting here quiet and easy smelling the things growing up, and budding from the earth. Martin Doul I’m smelling the furze a while back sprouting on the hill, and if you’d hold your tongue you’d hear the lambs of Grianan, though it’s near drowned their crying is with the full river making noises in the glen. Mary Doul Listens. The lambs is bleating, surely, and there’s cocks and laying hens making a fine stir a mile off on the face of the hill. She starts. Martin Doul What’s that is sounding in the west? A faint sound of a bell is heard. Mary Doul It’s not the churches, for the wind’s blowing from the sea. Martin Doul With dismay. It’s the old Saint, I’m thinking, ringing his bell. Mary Doul The Lord protect us from the saints of God! They listen. He’s coming this road, surely. Martin Doul Tentatively. Will we be running off, Mary Doul? Mary Doul What place would we run? Martin Doul There’s the little path going up through the sloughs.⁠ ⁠… If we reached the bank above, where the elders do be growing, no person would see a sight of us, if it was a hundred yeomen were passing itself; but I’m afeard after the time we were with our sight we’ll not find our way to it at all. Mary Doul Standing up. You’d find the way, surely. You’re a grand man the world knows at finding your way winter or summer, if there was deep snow in it itself, or thick grass and leaves, maybe, growing from the earth. Martin Doul Taking her hand. Come a bit this way; it’s here it begins. They grope about gap. There’s a tree pulled into the gap, or a strange thing happened, since I was passing it before. Mary Doul Would we have a right to be crawling in below under the sticks? Martin Doul It’s hard set I am to know what would be right. And isn’t it a poor thing to be blind when you can’t run off itself, and you fearing to see? Mary Doul Nearly in tears. It’s a poor thing, God help us, and what good’ll our gray hairs be itself, if we have our sight, the way we’ll see them falling each day, and turning dirty in the rain? The bell sounds nearby. Martin Doul In despair. He’s coming now, and we won’t get off from him at all. Mary Doul Could we hide in the bit of a briar is growing at the west butt of the church? Martin Doul We’ll try that, surely. He listens a moment. Let you make haste; I hear them trampling in the wood. They grope over to church. Mary Doul It’s the words of the young girls making a great stir in the trees. They find the bush. Here’s the briar on my left, Martin; I’ll go in first, I’m the big one, and I’m easy to see. Martin Doul Turning his head anxiously. It’s easy heard you are; and will you be holding your tongue? Mary Doul Partly behind bush. Come in now beside of me. They kneel down, still clearly visible. Do you think they can see us now, Martin Doul? Martin Doul I’m thinking they can’t, but I’m hard set to know; for the lot of them young girls, the devil save them, have sharp, terrible eyes, would pick out a poor man, I’m thinking, and he lying below hid in his grave. Mary Doul Let you not be whispering sin, Martin Doul, or maybe it’s the finger of God they’d see pointing to ourselves. Martin Doul It’s yourself is speaking madness, Mary Doul; haven’t you heard the Saint say it’s the wicked do be blind? Mary Doul If it is you’d have a right to speak a big, terrible word