now in Dublin," continued Boyne, laughing, "who has the honour of being
received as the friend of Mr. Dyck Calhoun of Playmore! Take your hand
in the game that's going on! For a man as young as you, with brains and
ambition, there's no height he mightn't reach in this country. Think of
it--Ireland free from English control; Ireland, with all her dreams,
living her own life, fearless, independent, as it was in days of yore.
Why, what's to prevent you, Dyck Calhoun, from being president of the
Irish Republic? You have brains, looks, skill, and a wonderful tongue.
None but a young man could take on the job, for it will require boldness,
skill, and the recklessness of perfect courage. Isn't it good enough for
you?"

"What's the way to do it?" asked Dyck, still holding on to his old self
grimly. "How is it to be done?" He spoke a little thickly, for, in
spite of himself, the wine was clogging his senses. It had been
artistically drugged by Boyne.

"Listen to me, Calhoun," continued Boyne. "I've known you now some time.
We've come in and gone out together. This day was inevitable. You were
bound to come to it one way or another. Man, you have a heart of iron;
you have the courage of Caesar or Alexander; you have the chance of doing
what no Englishman could ever do--Cromwell, or any other. Well, then,
don't you see the fateful moment has come in Irish life and history?
Strife everywhere! Alone, what can we do? Alone, if we try to shake off
the yoke that binds us we shall be shattered, and our last end be worse
than our first. But with French ships, French officers and soldiers,
French guns and ammunition, with the trained men of the French army to
take control here, what amelioration of our weakness, what confidence and
skill on our side! Can you doubt what the end will be? Answer me, man,
don't you see it all? Isn't it clear to you? Doesn't such a cause