PEGEEN, radiantly, wiping his face with her shawl.
Well, you're the lad, and you'll have great times from this out when you could win that wealth of prizes, and you sweating in the heat of noon!
CHRISTY, looking at her with delight.
I'll have great times if I win the crowning prize I'm seeking now, and that's your promise that you'll wed me in a fortnight, when our banns is called.
PEGEEN, backing away from him.
You've right daring to go ask me that, when all knows you'll be starting to some girl in your own townland, when your father's rotten in four months, or five.
CHRISTY, indignantly.
Starting from you, is it? (He follows her.) I will not, then, and when the airs is warming, in four months or five, it's then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin in the dews of night, the times sweet smells do be rising, and you'd see a little, shiny new moon, maybe, sinking on the hills.
PEGEEN, looking at him playfully.
And it's that kind of a poacher's love you'd make,
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