I say to you that while I live all I am is yours, fair and foul, good and bad." He touched his breast with his right hand.

"In here is the soul of Ireland that leps up for the things that matter.

There's a song--but never mind about a song; this is no place for songs.

It's a prison-house, and you're a prisoner charged--" "Not charged yet, not charged," interrupted Dyck; "but suspected of and arrested for a crime.

I'll fight--before God, I'll fight to the last! Good-bye, Michael; bring me food and clothes, and send me cold water at once." When the door closed softly behind Michael Clones, Dyck sat down on the bed where many a criminal patriot had lain.