The years stripped back. It seemed as yesterday. And here HE stood
grown to manhood. He needed just that reminder to stir his blood and
nerve him for the ordeal of St. Kernan's Hill.

The old order was dying out in Ireland.

The days of spiritless bending to the yoke were over. It was a
"Young Ireland" he belonged to and meant to lead. A "Young Ireland"
with an inheritance of oppression and slavery to wipe out. A "Young
Ireland" that demanded to be heard: that meant to act: that would
fight step by step in the march to Westminster to compel recognition
of their just claims. And he was to be one of their leaders. He
squared his shoulders as he looked for the last time on the little
spot of earth that once meant "Home" to him.

He took in a deep breath and muttered through his clenched teeth:

"Let the march begin to-day. Forward!" and he turned toward St.
Kernan's Hill.




CHAPTER III

ST. KERNAN'S HILL


To the summit of the hill climbed up men, women and children. The
men grimy and toil-worn; a look of hopelessness in their eyes: the