"What sort av a heart have ye, at all, at all?"

"A heart!" cried the Russian, rising from his chair. "Madam,
my heart is for my country. But you would not understand.
My country calls me."

"Yer counthry!" repeated Mrs. Fitzpatrick with scorn.
"An' what counthry is that?"

"Russia," said the man with dignity, "my native land."

"Rooshia! An' a bloody country it is," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick
with scorn.

"Yes, Russia," he cried, "my bloody country! You are correct.
Red with the blood of my countrymen, the blood of my kindred this
hundred years and more." His voice was low but vibrant with passion.
"You cannot understand. Why should I tell you?"

At this juncture Timothy sprang to his feet.

"Sit ye down, dear man, sit ye down! Shut yer clapper, Nora!
Sure it's mesilf that knows a paythriot whin I sees 'im.
Tear-an-ages! Give me yer hand, me boy. Sit ye down an' tell us
about it. We're all the same kind here. Niver fear for the woman,
she's the worst o' the lot. Tell us, dear man. Be the light that
shines! it's mesilf that's thirsty to hear."

The Russian gazed at the shining eyes of the little Irishman as if
he had gone mad. Then, as if the light had broken upon him, he cried,