there were difficulties, and he must not throw his chances away. Dyck
was in a position where, with his inflammable nature, he could be
captured.

"Well, I'll tell you, Calhoun. I don't know which is worse--Ireland
bloody with shootings and hangings, Ulster up in the north and Cork in
the south, from the Giant's Causeway to Tralee; no two sets of feet
dancing alike, with the bloody hand of England stretching out over the
Irish Parliament like death itself; or France ruling us. How does the
English government live here? Only by bribery and purchases. It buys
its way. Isn't that true?"

Dyck nodded. "Yes, it's true in a way," he replied. "It's so, because
we're what we are. We've never been properly put in our places. The
heel on our necks--that's the way to do it."

Boyne looked at the flushed, angry face. In spite of Dyck's words, he
felt that his medicine was working well.

"Listen to me, Calhoun," he said softly. "You've got to do something.
You're living an idle life. You're in debt. You've ruined your
independent fortune at the tables. There are but two courses open to
you. One is to join the British forces--to be a lieutenant, a captain,
a major, a colonel, or a general, in time; to shoot and cut and hang and
quarter, and rule with a heavy rod. That's one way."

"So you think I'm fit for nothing but the sword, eh?" asked Dyck with
irony. "You think I've got no brains for anything except the army."

Boyne laughed. "Have another drink, Calhoun." He poured out more wine.