The Almighty God reward you, and may it be to your good health. He drinks.

NORA giving him a pipe and tobacco [from the table]. I've no pipes saving his own, stranger, but they're sweet pipes to smoke.

TRAMP. Thank you kindly, lady of the house.

NORA. Sit down now, stranger, and be taking your rest.

TRAMP filling a pipe and looking about the room. I've walked a great way through the world, lady of the house, and seen great wonders, but I never seen a wake till this day with fine spirits, and good tobacco, and the best of pipes, and no one to taste them but a woman only.

NORA. Didn't you hear me say it was only after dying on me he was when the sun went down, and how would I go out into the glen and tell the neighbours and I a lone woman with no house near me?

TRAMP drinking. There's no offence, lady of the house?

NORA. No offence in life, stranger. How would the like of you passing in the dark night know the lonesome way I was with no house near me at all?

TRAMP sitting down. I knew rightly. He lights his pipe so that there is a sharp light beneath his haggard face. And I was thinking, and I coming in through the door, that it's many a lone woman would be afeard of the like of me in the dark night, in a place wouldn't be as lonesome as this place, where there aren't two living souls would see the little light you have shining from the glass.

NORA slowly. I'm thinking many would be afeard, but I never knew what way I'd be afeard of beggar or bishop or any man of you at all. She looks towards the window and lowers her voice. It's other things than the like of you, stranger, would make a person afeard.

TRAMP looking round with a half-shudder. It is surely, God help us all!

NORA looking at him for a moment with curiosity. You're saying that, stranger, as if you were easy afeard.

TRAMP speaking mournfully. Is it myself, lady of the house, that does be walking round in the long nights, and crossing the hills when the fog is on them, the time a little stick would seem as big as your arm, and a rabbit as big as a bay horse, and a stack of turf as big as a towering church in the city of Dublin? If myself was easily afeard, I'm telling you, it's long ago I'd have been locked into the Richmond Asylum, or maybe have run up into the back hills with nothing on me but an old shirt, and been eaten with crows the like of Patch Darcy – the Lord have mercy on him – in the year that's gone.

NORA with interest. You knew Darcy?

TRAMP. Wasn't I the last one heard his living voice in the whole world?

NORA. There were great stories of what was heard at that time, but would anyone believe the things they do be saying in the glen?

TRAMP. It was no lie, lady of the house ... I was passing below on a dark night the like of this night, and the sheep were lying under the ditch and every one of them coughing, and choking, like an old man, with the great rain and the fog ... Then I heard a thing talking – queer talk, you wouldn't believe at all, and you out of your dreams, – and ›Merciful God,‹ says I, ›if I begin hearing the like of that voice out of the thick mist, I'm destroyed surely.‹ Then I run, and I run, and I run, till I was below in Rathvanna. I got drunk that night, I got drunk in the morning, and drunk the day after, – I was coming from the races beyond – and the third day they found Darcy ... Then I knew it was himself I was after hearing, and I wasn't afeard any more.

NORA speaking sorrowfully and slowly. God spare Darcy, he'd always look in here and he passing up or passing down, and it's very lonesome I was after him a long while she looks over at the bed and lowers her voice, speaking very clearly, and then I got happy again – if it's ever happy we are, stranger – for I got used to being lonesome. A short pause; then she stands up. Was there anyone on the last bit of the road, stranger, and you coming from Aughrim?

TRAMP.