he spurned the thought, walking round his cell as swiftly as heavy irons would permit. Courage, forsooth! He lacked not courage. 'Twere better that the two should meet no more on this accursed soil. In another world they would wander together in perpetual sunshine, by purling brooks, under softly waving trees--but would they? Was there another world? The spirit of the young man was so bruised that he hoped there might not be; and, his illusion being gone, he yearned for _rest_ only--unceasing--eternal--the long unbroken sleep without a waking. He shrank from the occasional visits of Lord Clare, who had brought his country to this pass--even deprecated those of his friend Curran with a new-born peevishness; for in the face of his old ally he could trace tell-tale lines of weary watching and despondency, which spoke with eloquent meaning of the darkness outside the prison walls; whispering of the universal sorrow he would so gladly have forgotten. Curran became nervous about him, fearing lest his mind should give way. Solitude, and such thoughts to brood over as his were, are good for no man. It was with a sense of relief therefore that the little man heard one day that a companion was to be quartered on the councillor. Who that comrade was to be he wist not; any companionship would be better for him than none. When that comrade came, Terence was feeding on his griefs, as usual. The door opened with the clatter and craunch of keys and bolts which no longer vexed him; a slight figure in a full-skirted coat was pushed in without ceremony, who groped his way and stumbled in the half-obscurity as the door clanged-to again. Terence looked up with the slow glance of one whose faculties are corroded--rough with rust. His eyes met other eyes from which the light of hope had fled. It was Theobald who was to be Terence's new companion. This unexpected meeting, under auspices so different from those which smiled upon their parting two short years before at Brest, unmanned them both. With sobs they were locked in one another's arms. Then, sitting side by side and hand in hand each told his tale in whispers. Which of the two stories was the saddest? Both their young lives were equally undone, and for nothing. True sympathy is like the brush of an angel's wing. They communed far on into the night, and the hearts of both were lightened. From the moment of his capture, Tone felt a conviction that his race was run. On his road to Dublin indignities were heaped on him--he was heavily ironed, as though so frail an unarmed creature could beat down bristling bayonets. He knew that as an _émigré rentré_ he must suffer, and accepted his fate with calmness.