"And that's what ye are. And ye'd have others like yerself. But ye
won't while I've a tongue in me head and a sthrong stick in me
hand."

O'Connell looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in his blue-grey
eyes:

"Yer eloquence seems to nade somethin' to back it up, I'm thinkin'."

Father Cahill breathed hard. He was a splendid type of the Irish
Parish-Priest of the old school. Gifted with a vivid power of
eloquence as a preacher, and a heart as tender as a woman's toward
the poor and the wretched, he had been for many years idolised by
the whole community of the village of M--in County Clare. But of
late there was a growing feeling of discontent among the younger
generation. They lacked the respect their elders so willingly gave.
They asked questions instead of answering them. They began to throw
themselves, against Father Cahill's express wishes and commands,
into the fight for Home Rule under the masterly statesmanship of
Charles Stuart Parnell. Already more than one prominent speaker had
come into the little village and sown the seeds of temporal and
spiritual unrest. Father Cahill opposed these men to the utmost of
his power. He saw, as so many far-sighted priests did, the legacy of
bloodshed and desolation that would follow any direct action by the
Irish against the British Government. Though the blood of the
patriot beat in Father Cahill's veins, the well-being of the people
who had grown up with him was near to his heart. He was their Priest
and he could not bear to think of men he had known as children being
beaten and maimed by constabulary, and sent to prison afterwards, in