the like token, they do the same too in the English House of
Commons. Saltpetre in Ireland's wounds is what they give us."

"Is he much hurt?" asked Angela.

"Well, they've broken nothin'. Just blackened his face and made a
few holes in his skin. It's buckshot they used. Buckshot! Thank the
merciful Mr. Forster for that same. 'Buckshot-Forster,' as the Irish
reverently call him."

Angela flushed with indignation as she looked at the crippled man.

"What a dastardly thing to do," she cried.

"Ye may well say that, Miss Kingsnorth," said the merry little
doctor. "But it's betther than a bullet from a Martini-Henry rifle,
that's what it is. And there's many a poor English landlord's got
one of 'em in the back for ridin' about at night on his own land.
It's a fatherly government we have, Miss Kingsnorth. 'Hurt 'em, but
don't quite kill 'em,' sez they; 'and then put 'em in jail and feed
them on bread and wather. That'll take the fine talkin' and
patriotism out of them,' sez they."

"They'll never take it out of me. They may kill me, perhaps, but
until they do they'll never silence me," murmured O'Connell in a
voice so low, yet so bitter, that it startled Angela.

"Ye'll do that all in good time, me fine boy," said the busy little
doctor. "Here, take a pull at this," and he handed the patient a
glass in which he had dropped a few crystals into some water.