PEGEEN. _glaring at Christy._—And it’s lies you told, letting on you had him slitted, and you nothing at all.
CHRISTY. _clutching Mahon’s stick._—He’s not my father. He’s a raving maniac would scare the world. (_Pointing to Widow Quin._) Herself knows it is true.
CROWD. You’re fooling Pegeen! The Widow Quin seen him this day, and you likely knew! You’re a liar!
CHRISTY. _dumbfounded._—It’s himself was a liar, lying stretched out with an open head on him, letting on he was dead.
MAHON. Weren’t you off racing the hills before I got my breath with the start I had seeing you turn on me at all?
PEGEEN. And to think of the coaxing glory we had given him, and he after doing nothing but hitting a soft blow and chasing northward in a sweat of fear. Quit off from this.
CHRISTY. _piteously._—You’ve seen my doings this day, and let you save me from the old man; for why would you be in such a scorch of haste to spur me to destruction now?
PEGEEN. It’s there your treachery is spurring me, till I’m hard set to think you’re the one I’m after lacing in my heart-strings half-an-hour gone by. (_To Mahon._) Take him on from this, for I think bad the world should see me raging for a Munster liar, and the fool of men.
MAHON. Rise up now to retribution, and come on with me.
CROWD. _jeeringly._—There’s the playboy! There’s the lad thought he’d rule the roost in Mayo. Slate him now, mister.
CHRISTY. _getting up in shy terror._—What is it drives you to torment me here, when I’d asked the thunders of the might of God to blast me if I ever did hurt to any saving only that one single blow.
MAHON. _loudly._—If you didn’t, you’re a poor good-for-nothing, and isn’t it by the like of you the sins of the whole world are committed?
CHRISTY. _raising his hands._—In the name of the Almighty God....
MAHON. Leave troubling the Lord God. Would you have him sending down droughts, and fevers, and the old hen and the cholera morbus?
CHRISTY. _to Widow Quin._—Will you come between us and protect me now?
WIDOW QUIN. I’ve tried a lot, God help me, and my share is done.
CHRISTY. _looking round in desperation._—And I must go back into my torment is it, or run off like a vagabond straying through the unions with the dusts of August making mudstains in the gullet of my throat, or the winds of March blowing on me till I’d take an oath I felt them making whistles of my ribs within?