For a full hour, now sitting in his chair, now raging up and down the room, now in a voice deep, calm and terrible, now broken and hoarse with sobs, he recounted deeds of blood and fire that made Ireland's struggle and Ireland's wrongs seem nursery rhymes.
Timothy listened to the terrible story in an ecstasy of alternating joy and fury, according to the nature of the episode related.

It was like living again the glorious days of the moonlighters and the rackrenters in dear old Ireland.

The tale came to an abrupt end.
"An' thin what happened ?" cried Timothy.
"Then," said the Russian quietly, "then it was Siberia." "Siberia! The Hivins be about us!" said Tim in an awed voice.
"But ye got away ?" "I am here," he replied simply.
"Be the sowl of Moses, ye are! An' wud ye go back agin ?" cried Tim in horror.
"Wud he!" said Nora, with ineffable scorn.

"Wud a herrin' swim?
By coorse he'll go back.

An' what's more, ye can sind the money to me an' I'll see that the childer gets the good av it, if I've to wring the neck av that black haythen, Rosenblatt, like a chicken." "You will take the money for my children ?" enquired the Russian.
"I will that." He stretched out his hand impulsively.