gate, is a dead man."

There was no show of weapons, but the revolvers were there, and this the
men of Ennis knew. They also knew that it rested with themselves to
create the right and the occasion to use the revolvers, and that if the
revolvers were used they would be used to some purpose. To their credit,
be it said, as men of sense, they suddenly experienced an almost
Caledonian respect for the "Sabbath-day," and after expressing their
discontent with Mr. Stacpoole's inhospitable reception, turned about and
went back whence they had come.

This morning an orderly from Ennis brought out news of the arrest
yesterday, at the Clare Road, of Mr. Lloyd, a Labour delegate from
London, on his return from an agitation meeting at Kildysart. Harding,
the Englishman I saw awaiting his trial yesterday, became bail for
Lloyd.

In the afternoon we took a delightful walk to Killone Abbey, a pile of
monastic ruins on a lovely site near a very picturesque lake. The ruins
have been used as a quarry by all the country, and are now by no means
extensive. But the precincts are used as a graveyard, not only by the
people of Ennis, but by the farmers and villagers for many miles around.
Nothing can be imagined more painful than the appearance of these
precincts. The graves are, for the most part, shallow, and closely
huddled together. The cemetery, in truth, is a ghastly slum, a
"tenement-house" of the dead. The dead of to-day literally elbow the
dead of yesterday out of their resting-places, to be in their turn
displaced by the dead of to-morrow. Instead of the crosses and the fresh
garlands, and the inscriptions full of loving thoughtfulness, which lend
a pathetic charm to the German "courts of peace"--instead of the
carefully tended hillocks and flower-studded turf which make the
churchyard of a typical old English village beautiful,--all here is
confusion, squalor, and neglect. Fragments of coffins and bones lie
scattered among the sunken and shattered stones. We picked up a skull
lying quite apart in a corner of the enclosure. A clean round bullet
hole in the very centre of the frontal bone was dumbly and grimly
eloquent. Was it the skull of a patriot or of a policeman? of a
"White-boy" or of a "landlord"?

One thing only was apparent from the conformation of the grisly relic.
It was the skull of a Celt. Probably, therefore, not of a land agent,
shot to repress his fiduciary zeal, but perhaps of some peasant
selfishly and reckless