I find in
this village," argued O'Connell.

"I've given my life to spreadin' the Light!" said the priest.

A smile hovered on O'Connell's lips as he muttered:

"Faith, then, I'm thinkin' it must be a DARK-LANTERN yer usin', yer
riverence."

"Is that the son of Michael O'Connell talkin'?"

Suddenly the smile left O'Connell's lips, the sneer died on his tongue,
and with a flash of power that turned to white heat before he finished,
he attacked the priest with:

"Yes, it is! It is the son of Michael O'Connell who died on the
roadside and was buried by the charity of his neighbours. Michael
O'Connell, born in the image of God, who lived eight-and-fifty years of
torment and starvation and sickness and misery! Michael O'Connell, who
was thrown out from a bed of fever, by order of his landlord, to die in
sight of where he was born. It's his son is talkin', Father Cahill, and
it's his son WILL talk while there's breath in his body to keep his
tongue waggin'. It's a precious legacy of hatred Michael O'Connell left
his son, and there's no priest, no government, no policeman or soldier
will kape that son from spendin' his legacy."

The man trembled from head to foot with the nervous intensity of his
attack. Everything that had been outraged in him all his life came
before him.

Father Cahill began to realise as he watched him the secret of the
tremendous appeal the man had to the suffering people. Just for a
moment the priest's heart went out to O'Connell, agitator though he was.

"Your father died with all the comforts of the Holy Church," said the
priest gently, as he put his old hand the young man's shoulder.

"The comforts of the church!" scoffed O'Connell. "Praise be to heaven
for that!" He laughed a grim, derisive laugh as he went on:

"Sure it's the fine choice the Irish peasant has to-day. 'Stones and
dirt are good enough for them to eat,' sez the British government.
'Give them prayers,' say the priests. And so they die like flies in the
highways and hedges, but with 'all the comforts of the Holy Church'!"

Father Cahill's voice thrilled with indignation as he said:

"I'll not stand and listen to ye talk that way, Frank O'Connell."

"I've often noticed that those who are the first to PREACH truth are
the last to LISTEN to it," said the agitator drily.

"Where would Ireland be to-day but for the priest? Answer me that.
Where would she be? What has my a here been? I accepted the yoke of the
Church when I w