Poor little devils! Taught their prejudices before they know what they are doing. As soon as they can stand put into the strait-jacket of a narrow national patriotism--that thing which has had its uses, but now should be out of date. There is every reason to suppose that Kevin Barry met his death as a soldier would wish to meet it; but that is no reason why one should not look sternly at the facts of the case. The scrimmage outside the bakery was not a glorious affair. The Irish Volunteers, guns in their pockets, posed as civilians until the chosen moment, and Kevin Barry alone did not make good his escape. A woman said, in my hearing, “Was there ever a country like Ireland for the number of patriots and martyrs? Look at Kevin Barry--a boy of eighteen!” What of the two British soldiers who were killed in that skirmish, one of whom was said to be sixteen? Did they not give their lives for their country as surely as did Kevin Barry? What of the men who have perished in every corner of the Empire for generations back? Their numbers must be as the sands of the seashore. But some peoples use words more easily than others, and those who work for the inarticulate must expect their epitaph short and sharp. Before the anguish of that tragedy was over there came a new shout from the Nationalist Press: “Expectant Mother Shot Dead.” A countrywoman was killed at her cottage door by a stray bullet fired from a lorry passing along the road. “Expectant Mother Shot Dead!” The headlines struck one like a blow in the face. And all this while increasing ruin and arrest. Tales of girls’ hair cut off because they talked to the police. Tales of the police stripping men, beating them, and sending them home naked. Tales of men tied to chairs and thrown into the river. Tales of men who waited in ambush hour after hour for their quarry to come round the curve with an insatiable lust of hate. Tales of ferocious reprisals when homes were looted and the inhabitants driven into the fields to couch with fox and hare. Who dare give the story in detail: one would never be done. Deed of terror replied to by deed of terror, and never an attempt by the partisans of one side or other to reach the truth, and give that exact truth to the world, and tell that exact truth to themselves. Three furious November weeks passed away. CHAPTER X BLOODY SUNDAY Sunday, November 21st, Himself and I went to Howth, and spent all day by the sea on that wild bit of foreland, which Dublin City has not managed to tame. It was getting dusk as we came back on the tram. The ride is long, and it was too late in the year for the tops of trams. We were soon shivering and wanting to be back home. Then something happened to make us forget the wind. As we came among the houses the reflection of a great fire caught our eyes. It was on the far side of the water, a strong, clear blaze, as if a ship were on fire. “We must get along and see it,” said Himself. “What the deuce is it?”