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men with children that they had lost themselves in the joy of giving would always have that joy of giving me feel strange, shameful though I had no breasts
And it made
"I must have been a little insane then, Shane. I would go along the streets, looking at people, and saying, "Those persons look as if they would understand,' and thinking of stopping them with, 'please, a moment; there is something wrong with me.' But I knew they would n't understand . . would n't believe it real Even if they were kind, all they would say was, 'It's all imagination,' as if imagination were not the most terrible thing in the world
forget it all. I was made
I thought I could
I was to play. Lady Macbeth in Nottingham. "You know how she enters, Shane. She comes in reading a letter. She is alone on the stage, in Macbeth's castle of Inverness: "They met me in the day of success," she reads,Macbeth is writing of the witches in the desert place, and I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge.' I came on as I always came on And the moment I left the wings, Shane, saw the audience, a strange thing happened Illusion died; not died but was dead . And then I was supposed to be reading a letter that had never been written by people who had never possibly an existence, before an audience who had paid a little money to be amused I could n't read it. I just
"Behind me in the wings they were prompting, whispering fiercely But I could n't. . I stood there And then I said, 'I 'll go off the stage.' But I could n't do that even My feet were shackled to the ground seemed to have been charmed
"I tell you: no, Shane." She grew vehement. "It 's a cruel country, England. And Shane, they hate us Irish. As long as we are pleasant, witty, as long as we are buffoons . but let us be human beings, Shane, and they hate us"
"Don't be silly, Granya!"
"I'm not silly, Shane. I know. They hate us because we have something they have not. The starved Irish peasant is higher than the English peer. He has a song in his heart, a gay song or a sad song, and his eyes see wonders."
"But, Granya, we are only a little people, and they all but rule the world You are wrong. They don't
“Do you remember Haman, Shane, Haman who had everything:
"And Haman told them of . . . all the things wherein the king had promoted him; and he said: 'All these things availeth me nothing as long as
I see Mordecai the Jew sitting in the king's gate.'
"Shane, do you remember how Haman died?" "Granya!"
She rose, her hands stretched out to the Irish hills. Her voice took on the throbbing of drums:
"O! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
Wake many a glen serene
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My dark Rosaleen!
My own Roseleen!"
"Poor Granya!" he said. He caught and kissed her hand.
She let her other fall on his shoulder for an instant.
"Good night, Shane!" she said abruptly. She moved swiftly toward the house through the yew-trees. In her pale frock, against the moonlit turf, between the dark trees, she was like some old, heart-wringing ghost
If it had been the Jacobite times, or ninety-eight or even forty-eight, he would not have minded. The Irish night call these Irish rebellions, but in reality they were world affairs. James and the Prince of Orange were the clash of the ideal of courtliness and tradition worn to a thin blade and of the stubborn progress of pulsing thought. And ninety-eight was the echo of the surge for liberty-the frenzy of France and the stubborn Yankee steel eight was another breathing of the world Even sixty-seven he would not have minded. Sixty-seven was a gallant romantic rally, a dream of pikes amid green banners, and men drilling by a moonlit river
But to-day was different Revenge was in the air, and revenge was no wild justice, as an old writer had said. Revenge was an evil possession an exhausting, sinister mood The men who would fight this modern battle, if battle there was to be one, were dark, scowling men The amenities of battle, the gallantry of flags meant nothing to them. They would shoot from behind ditches in the dark In America was talk of dynamite
an idealist using a
no gallantry that way
And, besides, it was n't an Irish war. It was a matter of agriculture A war of peasants against careless landlords-Irish themselves, in the main, who had fled to England to avoid the suicidal monotony of Irish country life, and lost their money in the pot-houses and gambling-dens of London, and turned to their tenants for more, forgetting in the glamour of London the poverty of the Irish bogs It was contemptible to squeeze the peasants as a money-lender squeezes his victims; but the peasants' redress, the furtive musket and horrible dynamite, that was terrible God! what a mess! And had Granya been caught into that evil problem, a kingfisher among cormorants?
And if she had, what was he going to do about it?
What could he do? What right had he to meddle with her destiny? Friendly they had become, close, sweet friends.
sweet friends. The thought of her was like the thought of the hills purple with heather; but friendship and destiny are a sweet curling wave and a gaunt cliff. They were two different people, Shane Campbell and the Woman of Tusa-h Erin.
She had been distraught all the evening, merry, feverishly merry at times, and again silent, her eyes far off, her mouth set. She rose suddenly from the piano she was playing and looked at him. Standing above the light of the candles, her face and head were like some dark, soft flower.
"Shane, you are a very true friend of mine, aren't you?"
"Yes, Granya," Shane had answered. "If I wanted a very great favor, would you consider it?"
"Not consider; do it."
Shane," she smiled quietly,-"my present."
With a terrific smash of the fist he broke in the top of the piano. The
"Yes, but the risk," she faltered. wires jangled in pandemonium. The
"I hardly dare"
"What risk? What are you talking about, Granya?" A thought struck him. "Is it money? Don't be silly and talk about risk! Anything I can give you is yours, and welcome!"
"It's not money, Shane. And thank you! It's this"
"It 's this, Shane. Would youwould you bring a ship for me from St. Petersburg to Lough Foyle, very quietly?"
"What kind of a ship?"
"A ship, just a ship, a sailing ship."
"No, Granya, I won't."
"Oh, well," she sat down. "I should n't have asked.”
"Granya," he walked over and caught her shoulder,-"don't be foolish."
"I'm not foolish, Shane. If I am, July morning, with the sun high it's done now." She smiled And they sailed west sou'west The air crashed out beneath her down the Gulf of Finland, until Dago fingers. Her voice rang:
"In came the captain's daughter-the
captain of the Yeos
Island was on their port quarter
And they rolled down the Baltic Sea, sailing sou'-sou'west, until they
Saying: Brave United Irishmen, we 'll passed Gotland, and they edged west
ne'er again be foes.
One thousand pounds I'll give to you, and go across the sea;
again, leaving Bornholm to port And they sailed past Malmo into the sound, heading north for the Cattegat They turned the Skaw and swung her into the Skage-rack "You'll not move one foot from And the wind held Tusa-h Erin!"
And dress myself in man's attire and and fight for liberty!"
And once out of there, they pointed her nose nor'west by nor', as though Iceland were only a buoy in a yacht race. . . And the wind held.
"Oh, Shane, it's wonderful." She had come on deck in her man's clothing She was so tall, so slim, her legs so long, it seemed some pleasant feminine fancy of hers, not a material adaptation of the life on board ship. "The wind will hold until we get there."
"I don't like it," Shane grumbled. "Why, Shane? Why don't you like it?”
"We 're too lucky."
"It is n't luck, Shane. It's the will of God."
"I've just been thinking. Why could n't you conspirators have chosen a better time of year than August for landing your arms? There's only about two hours of night."
"Because, Shane, the arms must be ready for autumn, when the harvest is in. That's the best time time for a revolution. And the arms must be distributed. And the men must drill a little. Now is our only time." "H-um-m."
"Oh, Shane, I wish you would be a little enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic? At forty-nine!" "Are you forty-nine, Shane? You don't seem thirty-nine. None could tell but for the little gray in your hair And, Shane