stepped aside and caught Quinlan, as he stumbled past, full behind
the ear. He pitched forward on his face and did not move. The battle
was over.

"And I'll serve just the same any that sez a word against me
father!"

Not a boy said a word.

"Fighting O'Connell" he was nicknamed that day, and "Fighting
O'Connell" he was known years afterwards to Dublin Castle.

When he showed his mother his bruised knuckles that night and told
her how he came by them, she cried again as she did two years
before. Only this time they were tears of pride.

From door to door he went.

"St. Kernan's Hill at three," was all he said. Some nodded, some
said nothing, others agreed volubly. On all their faces he read that
they would be there.

On through the village he went until he reached the outskirts. He
paused and looked around. There was the spot on which the little
cabin he was born in and in which his mother died, had stood. It had
long since been pulled down for improvements. Not a sign to mark the
tomb of his youth. It was here they placed his father that bleak
November day--here by the ditch. It was here his father gave up the
struggle. The feeble pulse ebbed. The flame died out.