o, I never did."

"Well, then, take the advice of an officer of the French army resident
now in Dublin," continued Boyne, laughing, "who has the honour of being
received as the friend of Mr. Dyck Calhoun of Playmore! Take your hand
in the game that's going on! For a man as young as you, with brains and
ambition, there's no height he mightn't reach in this country. Think
of it--Ireland free from English control; Ireland, with all her dreams,
living her own life, fearless, independent, as it was in days of yore.
Why, what's to prevent you, Dyck Calhoun, from being president of the
Irish Republic? You have brains, looks, skill, and a wonderful tongue.
None but a young man could take on the job, for it will require
boldness, skill, and the recklessness of perfect courage. Isn't it good
enough for you?"

"What's the way to do it?" asked Dyck, still holding on to his old self
grimly. "How is it to be done?" He spoke a little thickly, for, in spite
of himself, the wine was clogging his senses. It had been artistically
drugged by Boyne.

"Listen to me, Calhoun," continued Boyne. "I've known you now some time.
We've come in and gone out together. This day was inevitable. You were
bound to come to it one way or another. Man, you have a heart of iron;
you have the courage of Caesar or Alexander; you have the chance of
doing what no Englishman could ever do--Cromwell, or any other. Well,
then, don't you see the fateful moment has come in Irish life and
history? Strife everywhere! Alone, what can we do? Alone, if we try to
shake off the yoke that binds us we shall be shattered, and our last
end be worse than our first. But with French ships, French officers and
soldiers, French guns and ammunition, with the trained men of the French
army to take control here, what amelioration of our weakness, what
confidence and skill on our side! Can you doubt what the end will be?
Answer me, man, don't you see it all? Isn't it clear to you? Doesn't
such a cause enlist you?"

With a sudden burst of primitive anger, Dyck got to his feet, staggering
a little, but grasping the fatal meaning of the whole thing. He looked
Erris Boyne in the eyes. His own were bloodshot and dissipated, but
there was a look in them of which Boyne might well take heed.

Boyne had not counted on Dyck's refusal; or, if it had occurred to
him, the remedy, an ancient one, was ready to his fingers. The wine was
drugged. He had watched the decline of Dyck's fortunes with a