MERCHANT. We saw a man,
Heavy with sickness in the bog of Allen,
Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head
We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed
In the dark night; and not less still than they,
Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea.

CATHLEEN.. My thanks to God, to Mary and the angels,
That I have money in my treasury,
And can buy grain from those who have stored it up
To prosper on the hunger of the poor.
But you've been far and know the signs of things,
When will this yellow vapour no more hang
And creep about the fields, and this great heat
Vanish away, and grass show its green shoots?

FIRST MERCHANT. There is no sign of change--day copies day,
Green things are dead--the cattle too are dead
Or dying--and on all the vapour hangs,
And fattens with disease and glows with heat.
In you is all the hope of all the land.

CATHLEEN. And heard you of the demons who buy souls?

FIRST MERCHANT.
There are some men who hold they have wolves' heads,
And say their limbs--dried by the infinite flame--
Have all the speed of storms; others, again,
Say they are gross and little; while a few
Will have it they seem much as mortals are,
But tall and brown and travelled--like us--lady,
Yet all agree a power is in their looks
That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net
About their souls, and that all men would go
And barter those poor vapours, were it not
You bribe them with the safety of your gold.

CATHLEEN. Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels
That I am wealthy! Wherefore do they sell?

FIRST MERCHANT. As we came in at the great door we saw
Your porter sleeping in his niche--a soul
Too little to be worth a hundred pence,
And yet they buy it for a hundred crowns.
But for a soul like yours, I heard them say,
They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more.

CATHLEEN. How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul?
Is the green grave so terrible a thing?

FIRST MERCHANT. Some sell because the money gleams, and some
Because they are in terror of the grave,
And some because their neighbours sold before,
And some because there is a kind of joy
In casting hope away, in losing joy,
In ceasing all resistance, in at last
Opening one's arms to the eternal flames.

In casting all sails out upon the wind;
To this--full of the gaiety of the lost--
Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone.

CATHLEEN. There is something, Merchant, in your voice
That makes me fear. When you were telling how
A man may lo