on, and the steel?" quoted Micah Ward,
and then, with that wonderful Puritan accuracy of reference to the
Bible, gave chapter and verse for the words--Jeremiah the 15th and 12th.

"And the spirit's not dead in you at home, is it, Micah? The breed is
pure still."

It was Micah's turn to speak. Neal sat in astonishment while his father
told of the wrongs which the northern Presbyterians and the southern
Roman Catholics suffered. Never before had he heard his father speak
with such passion and fierceness. There was a pause at last, and Donald
rose to his feet. He re-filled his glass from the punch-bowl, raised it
aloft, and said:--

"I give you a toast. Fill your glass, brother. No, that will not do.
Fill it full, and fill a glass for Neal. Stand now. I will have this
toast drunk standing. 'Here's to America and here's to France, the
pioneers of human liberty, and may Ireland soon be as they are now!'"

"Amen," said Mica h Ward solemnly.

"Drink, Neal, drink. Drain your glass, boy. I will have it," said
Donald.

"The northern iron, the northern iron, and the steel," muttered Micah.

Then the brothers drew their chairs closer together, and Micah, speaking
low, as if he dreaded the presence of some unseen listener, began to
tell of the plans of the United Irishmen. He mentioned the names of one
leader and another; told how the Government, vigilant and alert, had
already struck at the organisation; of the general dread of spies and
informers. He entered into details; told how the cannon, once given by
the Government to the Volunteers, were hidden in one place, how muskets
were stored in another, how the smiths in every village were fashioning
pike heads, how many men in each locality were sworn, how every male
inhabitant of Rathlin Island had taken the oath. Donald interrupted him
now and then with sharp questions. The talk went on and on. The tones
of the speakers grew lower still. Neal lost much of what was said. His
interest slackened. His eyes closed at last, and he fell fast asleep.

It was late, close on midnight, when his uncle shook him into
consciousness again. The candles were burned down. The fire was out. The
atmosphere of the room was heavy with tobacco smoke. The punch-bowl was
empty, and the two bottles, empty also, stood beside it. It seemed to
Neal that his uncle spoke thickly in bidding him good night, and walked
unsteadily across the room. But Micah Ward's voice was clear and his
steps were firm. O