dear. Av there's hangin' to be
done this time, 'twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!"

Barres slowly shook his head:

"This is German work. You're sticking your neck into the noose."

"Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an' 'twill
shqueeze no Irish neck!"

"You're a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting such men as you.
Where's your common sense? Can't you see you're playing a German game?
What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is
for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you
dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a
chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it
possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?"

Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and
stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.

But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched
him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin's wrongs. And this tragic
inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him
the memory of the personal and pathetic.

The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game
from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged.
And now he meant to make the world disgorge--pay up the living that it
owed him.

Barres attempted to stem the flow of volubility, but it instantly
became a torrent.

Nobody knew the sorrows of Ireland or of the Irish. Tyranny had marked
them for its own. As for himself--once a broth of a boy--he had been
torn from the sacred precincts of his native shanty and consigned to a
loveless, unhappy marriage.

Then Barres listened without interrupting. But the woes of Soane
became vague at that point. Veiled references to being "thrampled on,"
to "th' big house," to "thim that was high an' shtiff-necked,"
abounded in an unconnected way. There was something about being a
servant at the fireside of his own wife--a footstool on the hearth of
his own home--other incomprehensible plaints and mutterings, many
scalding tears, a blub or two, and a sort of whining silence.

Then Barres said:

"Who is Dulcie, Soane?"

The man, seated now on his bed, lifted a congested and stupid visage
as though he had not comprehended.

"Is Dulcie your daughter?" demanded Barres.

Soane's blue eyes wandered wildly in an agony of recollection:

"Did I say she was _not_, sorr?" he faltered. "A