His eyes, as he talked of you, shone like the secret hill-fires
where the peasants make illegal drink.

"Look you," he said to me, "I care not what a jury decides. I know
my man; and I also know that if the fellow Boyne died by his hand,
it was in fair fight. I have read Dyck Calhoun's story in the
stars; and I know what his end will be. It will be fair, not foul;
good, not bad; great, not low. Tell him that from me, miss," was
what he said.

I also will not believe that your fate is an evil one, that the law
will grind you between the millstones of guilt and dishonour; but if
the law should call you guilty, I still will not believe. Far away
I will think of you, and believe in you, dear, masterful, madman
friend. Yes, you are a madman, for Michael Clones told me--faith,
he loves you well!--that you've been living a gay life in Dublin
since you came here, and that the man you are accused of killing
was in great part the cause of it.

I think I never saw my mother so troubled in spirit as she is at
this time. Of course, she could not feel as I do about you. It
isn't that which makes her sad and haggard; it is that we are
leaving Ireland behind.

Yes, she and I are saying good-bye to Ireland. That's why I think
she might have let me see you before we went; but since it must not
be, well, then, it must not. But we shall meet again. In my soul
I know that on the hills somewhere far off, as on the first day we
met, we shall meet each other once more. Where are we going? Oh,
very far! We are going to my Uncle Bryan--Bryan Llyn, in Virginia.