se his soul and lose his God
Your eyes were lighted up, and when you told
How my poor money serves the people, both--
Merchants forgive me--seemed to smile.

FIRST MERCHANT. Man's sins
Move us to laughter only; we have seen
So many lands and seen so many men.
How strange that all these people should be swung
As on a lady's shoe-string,--under them
The glowing leagues of never-ending flame.

CATHLEEN. There is a something in you that I fear;
A something not of us; but were you not born
In some most distant corner of the world?

(The SECOND MERCHANT, who has been listening at the door, comes
forward, and as he comes a sound of voices and feet is heard.)

SECOND MERCHANT. Away now--they are in the passage--hurry,
For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts
With Ave Marys, and burn all our skin
With holy water.

FIRST MERCHANT. Farewell; for we must ride
Many a mile before the morning come;
Our horses beat the ground impatiently.

(They go out. A number of PEASANTs enter by other door.)

FIRST PEASANT. Forgive us, lady, but we heard a noise.

SECOND PEASANT. We sat by the fireside telling vanities.

FIRST PEASANT.
We heard a noise, but though we have searched the house
We have found nobody.

CATHLEEN. You are too timid.
For now you are safe from all the evil times.
There is no evil that can find you here.

OONA (entering hurriedly)
Ochone! Ochone! The treasure room is broken in,
The door stands open, and the gold is gone.

(PEASANTS raise a lamentable cry.)

CATHLEEN. Be silent.

(The cry ceases.)

Have you seen nobody?

OONA Ochone!
That my good mistress should lose all this money.

CATHLEEN. Let those among you--not too old to ride--
Get horses and search all the country round,
I'll give a farm to him who finds the thieves.

(A man with keys at his girdle has come in while she speaks.
There is a general murmur of The Porter! the porter!")

PORTER. Demons were here. I sat beside the door
In my stone niche, and two owls passed me by,
Whispering with human voices.

OLD PEASANT. God forsakes us.

CATHLEEN. Old man, old man, He never closed a door
Unless one opened. I am desolate,
For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart
But I have still my faith; therefore be silent
For surely He does not forsake the world,
But stands before it modelling in the clay
And moulding there His image. Age by age
The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard
For its old, heavy, dull and shapeless ease;