yet firmly, dressed in peasant clothes, the stalwart but faded figure of
Dyck Calhoun.

Terribly changed he was. He had entered prison with the flush upon his
cheek, the lilt of young manhood in his eyes, with hair black and hands
slender and handsome. There was no look of youth in his face now. It
was the face of a middle-aged man from which the dew of youth had
vanished, into which life's storms had come and gone. Though the body
was held erect, yet the head was thrust slightly forward, and the heavy
eyebrows were like a pent-house. The eyes were slightly feverish, and
round the mouth there crept a smile, half-cynical but a little happy.
All freshness was gone from his hands. One hung at his side, listless,
corded; the other doffed his hat in reply to the salute of his two humble
friends.

As the gates closed behind him he looked gravely at the two men, who were
standing not a foot apart. There swept slowly into his eyes, enlarging,
brightening them, the glamour of the Celtic soul. Of all Ireland, or all
who had ever known him, these two were the only ones welcoming him into
the world again! Michael Clones, with his oval red face, big nose,
steely eye, and steadfast bearing, had in him the soul of great kings.
His hat was set firmly on his head. His knee-breeches were neat, if
coarse; his stockings were clean. His feet were well shod, his coat
worn, and he had still the look that belongs to the well-to-do peasant.
He was a figure of courage and endurance. Dyck's hand went out to him,
and a warm smile crept to his lips.

"Michael--ever--faithful Michael!"

A moisture came to Michael's eyes. He did not speak as he clasped the