"Seven minutes, an' he'll be out, God bless him!" "And save him and
protect him!" said Michael. "He deserved punishment no more than I did,
and it's broke him. I've seen the grey gather at his temples, though
he's only been in prison four years. He was condemned to eight, but
they've let him free, I don't know why. Perhaps it was because of what
he told the government about the French navy. I've seen the joy of life
sob itself down to the sour earth. When I took him the news of his
father's death, and told him the creditors were swallowing what was left
of Playmore, what do you think he did?"

Old Christopher Dogan smiled; his eyes twinkled with a mirth which had
more pain than gaiety. "God love you, I know what he did. He flung out
his hands, and said: 'Let it go! It's nothing to me.' Michael, have I
said true?"

Michael nodded.

"Almost his very words you've used, and he flung out his hands, as you
said.

"Aye, he'll be changed; but they've kept the clothes he had when he went
to prison, and he'll come out in them, I'm thinking--"

"Ah, no!" interrupted Michael. "That can't be, for his clothes was
stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn't
have him wear my clothes--he a gentleman! It wasn't fitting. So I sent
him a suit I bought from a shop, but he wouldn't have it. He would leave
prison a poor man, as a peasant in peasant's clothes. So he wrote to me.
Here is the letter." He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and
spread it out. "See-read it. Ah, well, never mind," he added, as old