FATHER HART
You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle;
She knows no better.

(To THE CHILD)

Child, how old are you?

                      THE CHILD

When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,
My feet unsteady.  When the leaves awaken
My mother carries me in her golden arms. 
I will soon put on my womanhood and marry
The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell
When I was born for the first time?  I think
I am much older than the eagle cock
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,
And he is the oldest thing under the moon.

FATHER HART
She is of the faery people.

THE CHILD
I am Brig’s daughter. 
I sent my messengers for milk and fire,
And then I heard one call to me and came.

(They all except SHAWN and MAIRE BRUIN gather
behind the priest for protection.)

                      SHAWN (rising)

Though you have made all these obedient,
You have not charmed my sight, and won from me
A wish or gift to make you powerful;
I’ll turn you from the house.

FATHER HART
No, I will face her.

                      THE CHILD

Because you took away the crucifix
I am so mighty that there’s none can pass
Unless I will it, where my feet have danced
Or where I’ve twirled my finger tops.

(SHAWN tries to approach her and cannot.)

MAURTEEN
Look, look! 
There something stops him—­look how he moves his hands
As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass.

FATHER HART
I will confront this mighty spirit alone.

(They cling to him and hold him back.)

THE CHILD (while she strews primroses)
No one whose heart is heavy with human tears
Can cross these little cressets of the wood.

                      FATHER HART

Be not afraid, the Father is with us,
And all the nine angelic hierarchies,
The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,
The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,
And He who died and rose on the third day,
And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.

    (THE CHILD ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels
      upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about
      her neck.)

 Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.

                        THE CHILD
  You shall go with me, newly married bride,
  And gaze upon a merrier multitude;
  White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the birds,
  Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
  Who is the ruler of the Western Host,
  Finvarra, and their Land of Heart’s Desire,
  Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
  But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song. 
  I kiss you and the world begins to fade.