"I am not ill," he said, "only a little tired. Queenie, my wife, you do not really think I am ill, do you?" Knowing the one weakness of his brave heart, his anger and terror at the idea of illness and of the far-off death that might divide us, I answered only that I thought he was too tired, that nothing, not even Ireland, was worth it, and I besought him now at last to give it all up, and to hide away with me till a long rest, away from the turmoil and contention, had saved him from the tiredness that would, I feared, become real illness if he went on. He lay watching me as I spoke, and, after a long pause, he answered, "I am in your hands, Queenie, and you shall do with me what you will; but you promised." "You mean I promised that I would never make you less than-----" "Less than your King," he interrupted, "and if I give in now I shall be less than that. I would rather die than give in now--give in to the howling of the English mob. But if you say it I will do it, and you will never hear of it again from me, my love, my own wife." And as I gazed down into the deep, smouldering eyes, where the little flames always leapt out to meet mine, I knew I could not say it, I knew that in the depths of those eyes was more than even my love could fathom, that in the martyrdom of our love was to be our reparation. {325} I sent him off bright and happy to the last meeting at Creggs. As he drove off to the station and Dictator rounded the corner of the house, he turned, as usual, to wave to me, and raised the white rose in his buttonhole to his lips with an answering smile. He sent me a telegram from London as he was starting from Euston Station, one from Holyhead, and another from Dublin. For the Creggs meeting he stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Mahoney, and his telegram from their house was cheerful, though he said he was not feeling very well. In the few lines I had from him here I knew he was in much pain again from the rheumatism in his left arm. He always told me exactly how he was feeling, as he knew that unless he did this I would have suffered untold misery from apprehension while he was away. From Creggs he telegraphed that he was about to speak, and it was "terrible weather." I thought with satisfaction that I had put a special change into a bag for him, and he had promised not to be parted from it, so I knew he would find means of changing his things directly after the meeting. His "good night" telegram did not reassure me; he was in bad pain from the rheumatism, but hoped to get it out with a Turkish bath on the way home. He stayed in Dublin to see about the new paper which though "going" well, was a perpetual trouble to him owing to the petty jealousies of the staff. He crossed over from Ireland feeling very ill, with violent pains all over him; he was implored to go to bed, and remain there for a few days till he felt better, before starting for England; but he only replied: "No, I want to get home; I must go home!"