"I don't believe they can do it, master. Dublin and Ireland think more
of you than they did of Erris Boyne. There's nothing behind you except
the wildness of youth--nothing at all. If anny one had said to me at
Playmore that you'd do the things you've done with drink and cards since
you come to Dublin,

"I'd have swore they were liars. Yet when all's said and done, I'd give
my last drop of blood as guarantee you didn't kill Erris Boyne!"

Dyck smiled. "You've a lot of faith in me, Michael--but I'll tell you
this--I never was so thirsty in my life. My mouth's like a red-hot iron.
Send me some water. Give the warder sixpence, if you've got it, and send
me some water. Then go to Will McCormick, and after that to my father."

Michael shook his head dolefully.

"Mr. McCormick's aisy--oh, aisy enough," he said. "He'll lep up at the
idea of defendin' you, but I'm not takin' pleasure in goin' to Miles
Calhoun, for he's a hard man these days. Aw, Mr. Dyck, he's had a lot
of trouble. Things has been goin' wrong with Playmore. 'Pon honour, I
don't know whether anny of it'll last as long as Miles Calhoun lasts.
There'll be little left for you, Mr. Dyck. That's what troubles me. I
tell you it'd break my heart if that place should be lost to your father
and you. I was born on it. I'd give the best years of the life that's
left me to make sure the old house could stay in the hands of the
Calhouns. I say to you that while I live all I am is yours, fair and
foul, good and bad." He touched his breast with his right hand. "In
here is the soul of Ireland that leps up for the things that matter.
There's a song--but never mind about a song; this is no place for songs.