or not, but at this hour all is not over. Shots are ringing all around
and down my street, and the vicious crackling of these rifles grow at
times into regular volleys.




CHAPTER VII.

SUNDAY.


The Insurrection has not ceased.

There is much rifle fire, but no sound from the machine guns or the
eighteen pounders and trench mortars.

From the window of my kitchen the flag of the Republic can be seen
flying afar. This is the flag that flies over Jacob's Biscuit Factory,
and I will know that the Insurrection has ended as soon as I see this
flag pulled down.

When I went out there were few people in the streets. I met D.H., and,
together, we passed up the Green. The Republican flag was still flying
over the College of Surgeons. We tried to get down Grafton Street (where
broken windows and two gaping interiors told of the recent visit of
looters), but a little down this street we were waved back by armed
sentries. We then cut away by the Gaiety Theatre into Mercer's Street,
where immense lines of poor people were drawn up waiting for the
opening of the local bakery. We got into George's Street, thinking to