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.