MARY DOUL -- [standing up, disguising her impatience.] -- Let you
come here to me, Timmy, and not be minding him at all. (Timmy
stops, and she gropes up to him and takes him by the coat).]
You're not huffy with myself, and let you tell me the whole story
and don't be fooling me more. . . . Is it yourself has brought
us the water?

TIMMY. It is not, surely.

MARY DOUL. Then tell us your wonder, Timmy. . . . What
person'll bring it at all?

TIMMY -- [relenting.] -- It's a fine holy man will bring it, a
saint of the Almighty God.

MARY DOUL -- [overawed.] -- A saint is it?

TIMMY. Ay, a fine saint, who's going round through the churches
of Ireland, with a long cloak on him, and naked feet, for he's
brought a sup of the water slung at his side, and, with the like
of him, any little drop is enough to cure the dying, or to make
the blind see as clear as the gray hawks do be high up, on a
still day, sailing the sky.

MARTIN DOUL -- [feeling for his stick.] -- What place is he,
Timmy? I'll be walking to him now.

TIMMY. Let you stay quiet, Martin. He's straying around saying
prayers at the churches and high crosses, between this place and
the hills, and he with a great crowd go- ing behind -- for it's