MICHAEL. _singing outside_— The jailor and the turnkey They quickly ran us down, And brought us back as prisoners Once more to Cavan town.
There we lay bewailing All in a prison bound....
[_He sees Christy. Goes and shakes him drunkenly by the hand, while Pegeen and Shawn talk on the left._]
MICHAEL. _to Christy._—The blessing of God and the holy angels on your head, young fellow. I hear tell you’re after winning all in the sports below; and wasn’t it a shame I didn’t bear you along with me to Kate Cassidy’s wake, a fine, stout lad, the like of you, for you’d never see the match of it for flows of drink, the way when we sunk her bones at noonday in her narrow grave, there were five men, aye, and six men, stretched out retching speechless on the holy stones.
CHRISTY. _uneasily, watching Pegeen._—Is that the truth?
MICHAEL. It is then, and aren’t you a louty schemer to go burying your poor father unbeknownst when you’d a right to throw him on the crupper of a Kerry mule and drive him westwards, like holy Joseph in the days gone by, the way we could have given him a decent burial, and not have him rotting beyond, and not a Christian drinking a smart drop to the glory of his soul?
CHRISTY. _gruffly._—It’s well enough he’s lying, for the likes of him.
MICHAEL. _slapping him on the back._—Well, aren’t you a hardened slayer? It’ll be a poor thing for the household man where you go sniffing for a female wife; and (_pointing to Shawn_) look beyond at that shy and decent Christian I have chosen for my daughter’s hand, and I after getting the gilded dispensation this day for to wed them now.
CHRISTY. And you’ll be wedding them this day, is it?
MICHAEL. _drawing himself up._—Aye. Are you thinking, if I’m drunk itself, I’d leave my daughter living single with a little frisky rascal is the like of you?
PEGEEN. _breaking away from Shawn._—Is it the truth the dispensation’s come?
MICHAEL. _triumphantly._—Father Reilly’s after reading it in gallous Latin, and “It’s come in the nick of time,” says he; “so I’ll wed them in a hurry, dreading that young gaffer who’d capsize the stars.”
PEGEEN. _fiercely._—He’s missed his nick of time, for it’s that lad, Christy Mahon, that I’m wedding now.
MICHAEL. _loudly with horror._—You’d be making him a son to me, and he wet and crusted with his father’s blood?