vant of his Majesty,
and had no business with secret conspiracies. Yet, when a life so
precious to me was at stake, how could I help trying to do something to
save it? Besides (and this salved my conscience a little), had I not
promised Tim, in the last hour I was with him, to strike a blow for my
country?

For hours that morning I paced the streets of Dublin debating with
myself, trying to reconcile dishonour with honour, and love with duty;
determining one hour to fail in my appointment, in another to keep it
and report all I heard to the government.

Finally, anxiety and curiosity got the better of me, and at the
appointed hour I stood at the door of the printer's office in Marquis
Street.

No one challenged me as I entered or passed through the outer shop,
where a lad was at work folding pamphlets. But at the inner door,
leading to the press-room, a little shutter slid back and a face looked
out.

"_Pikes and hemp_," said I.

"Name."

"Barry."

"Pass, friend."

I found myself in a large apartment, in one corner of which stood the
printing-press, and in another an iron table and a can of ink.

My friend of the morning, looking restless and haggard, was there, and
greeted me, I thought, somewhat anxiously, as though he doubted the
prudence of his invitation. He did not, I am sure, feel more anxious
than I, who every moment found the act in which I was engaged more
intolerable.

At last, when about a hundred men, most of them of the class of my
friend, had dropped in silently, and stood talking in knots, awaiting
one further arrival, I could stand it no longer.

"I told you a lie this morning," said I in a low voice to my companion;
"I am not sworn."

He turned as white as a sheet.

"Then you are here to betray us?"

"No," said I. "Let me go, and no one shall hear a word of this."

"You cannot go," said he excitedly, "it would be death to me if it were
known, and to you too. Stay where you are now."

"I don't want to stay," said I; "I was a fool to come."

"You will be still more a fool to go," said he. "Sit down; eyes are on
us already. Life may be nothing to you, but it is everything to me."

He spoke so eagerly, almost piteously, that I felt sorry for him, and
for his sake more than my own took the seat at his side.

At that moment there entered the room a noble-looking young man, at
sight of whom every one present rose to his feet and uncovered.

"It's Lord Edward himself!" excla