is big hungry body. The
man that swung for the murder was as innocent as yourself, and more
betoken, though he was great on war and revolutions, would no more
fire on a man out of the dark night than you would yourself. He had
little feeling for sin and crime, always barring the secret societies,
by some considered a sin.

It was beautiful to hear Murty Meehan,--that was his name, God rest
his soul!--having it out with old Father Phil on that same question.
Why, he told the priest that he himself belonged to a secret society,
for the matter of that, and the most powerful secret society of them
all. Father Phil used to end it up with a laugh, for he was fond of
Murty. He nearly broke his heart over the man when he was in jail,
waiting to go to the gallows, and wouldn't open his lips to clear
himself. Murty had been in every 'movement' from the '48 onwards. But
like all the other old Fenians, he thought worse of the League than
Mr. Ramsay-Stewart himself. His ideas were high-flown ones, and he
could put them in beautiful language, about freeing his country, and
setting her in her rightful place among the nations. But not by the
League methods. There was a bit of poetry of Davis he was fond of
quoting:

For Freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train,
And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again.

Many a time he hurled it at the Leaguers' heads, but they bore him no
malice; the worst they did was to call him a crank. I often think that
when Murty died on the gallows for a crime he hated, it was a
sacrifice of more than his life. Well, God be good to him!

Murty hadn't a soul in the world belonging to him. His father and
mother died in the black '47, and the little girl he had set his heart
on sailed in a coffin-ship for New York with her father and mother in
the same bitter year, and went down somewhere out on the unkindly
ocean. She had hung round Murty's neck imploring him to go with her,
but Murty was drilling for the rising of the following year, and could
see no duty closer than his duty to his country. He promised to follow
her and bring her back if there were happier days in Ireland, but the
boat and its freight were never heard of after they left Queenstown
quay in that September of blight and storm. And so Murty grew with the
years into a pleasant, kindly old bachelor, very full of whimsies and
dreams, and a prophet to the young fellows.

Now Mr. Ramsay-