I find in this village," argued O'Connell.

"I've given my life to spreadin' the Light!" said the priest.

A smile hovered on O'Connell's lips as he muttered:

"Faith, then, I'm thinkin' it must be a DARK-LANTERN yer usin', yer
riverence."

"Is that the son of Michael O'Connell talkin'?"

Suddenly the smile left O'Connell's lips, the sneer died on his
tongue, and with a flash of power that turned to white heat before
he finished, he attacked the priest with:

"Yes, it is! It is the son of Michael O'Connell who died on the
roadside and was buried by the charity of his neighbours. Michael
O'Connell, born in the image of God, who lived eight-and-fifty years
of torment and starvation and sickness and misery! Michael
O'Connell, who was thrown out from a bed of fever, by order of his
landlord, to die in sight of where he was born. It's his son is
talkin', Father Cahill, and it's his son WILL talk while there's
breath in his body to keep his tongue waggin'. It's a precious
legacy of hatred Michael O'Connell left his son, and there's no
priest, no government, no policeman or soldier will kape that son
from spendin' his legacy."

The man trembled from head to foot with the nervous intensity of his
attack. Everything that had been outraged in him all his life came
before him.