hen Dyck nodded kindly.
It was as if suddenly the martyr spirit had lifted him out of rigid,
painful isolation, and he was speaking from a hilltop. "No, my friends,
what is in my mind now is that I'm hungry. For four years I've eaten the
bread of prison, and it's soured my mouth and galled my belly. Go you to
that inn and make ready a good meal."

The two men started to leave, but old Christopher turned and stretched a
hand up and out.

"Son of Ireland, bright and black and black and bright may be the
picture of your life, but I see for you brightness and sweet faces, and
music and song. It's not Irish music, and it's not Irish song, but the
soul of the thing is Irish. Grim things await you, but you will conquer
where the eagle sways to the shore, where the white mist flees from the
hills, where heroes meet, where the hand of Moira stirs the blue and the
witches flee from the voice of God. There is honour coming to you in the
world."

Having said his say, with hand outstretched, having thrilled the air
with the voice of one who had the soul of a prophet, the old man turned.
Head bent forward, he shuffled away with Michael Clones along the stony
street.

Dyck watched them go, his heart beating hard, his spirit overwhelmed.

It was not far to the Castle, yet every footstep had a history. Now and
again he met people who knew him. Some bowed a little too profoundly,
some nodded; but not one stopped to speak to him, though a few among
them were people he had known well in days gone by. Was it the clothes
he wore, or was it that his star had sunk so low that none could keep
it company? He laughed to himself in scorn, and yet there kept ringing
through his brain all the time the bells of St. Anselm's, which he was
hearing:

"Oh, God, who is the sinner's friend,
Make clean my soul once more!"

When he arrived at the Castle walls he stood and looked long at them.

"No, I won't go in. I won't try to see him," he said at last. "God, how
strange Ireland is to me! The soil of it, the trees of it, the grass of
it, are dearer than ever, but--I'll have no more of Ireland. I'll ask
for nothing. I'll get to England. What's Ireland to me? I must make
my way somewhere. There's one in there"--he nodded towards the
Castle--"that owes me money at cards. He should open his pockets to me,
and see me safe on a ship for Australia; but I've had my fill of every
one in Ireland. There's nothing here for me but shame. Well, b