Her eyes blazed down into his until their scorn cowed him.
'There is no treachery possible for an Irishman,' she said, 'except the one of fighting for England.

Any deed against England--yes, _any_ deed--is glorious, and not shameful.' Hyacinth was utterly quelled.

He ventured upon no reply.

Indeed, not only did her violence render argument undesirable--and it seemed for the moment that he would find himself in actual grips with a furious Amazon--but her words carried with them a certain conviction.

It actually seemed to him while she spoke as if a good defence might be made for Irish soldiers who murdered their officers and deserted to an enemy in the field.