as he stood before Father Cahill and looked him straight through
with his piercing eye, shoulders thrown back, and head held high, he
looked every inch a born leader of men, and just for a moment the
priest quailed. But only for a moment.

"Not a member of my flock will attend yer meetin' to-day. Not a door
will open this day. Ye can face the constabulary yerself and the few
of the rabble that'll follow ye. But none of my God-fearin' people
will risk their lives and their liberty to listen to you."

O'Connell looked at him strangely. A far-away glint came into his
eye, and the suspicion of a tear, as he answered:

"Sure it's precious little they'd be riskin', Father Cahill; havin'
NO liberty and their lives bein' of little account to them."

O'Connell sighed as the thought of his fifteen years of withered
youth in that poor little village came up before him.

"Let my people alone, I tell ye!" cried the priest. "It's contented
they've been until the likes of you came amongst us."

"Then they must have been easily satisfied," retorted O'Connell, "to
judge by their poor little homes and their drab little lives."

"A hovel may be a palace if the Divine Word is in it," said the
priest.

"Sure it's that kind of tachin' keeps Ireland the mockery of the
whole world. The Divine Word should bring Light. It's only darkness