These were the nearest thing to him in all the force--his own friends and neighbours from the Wicklow hills.

Aughrim, his post-town at the foot of his own particular valley, had its company, commanded by a friend of his, the local schoolmaster--typical of what was best in the Volunteers, a keen Gaelic Leaguer, tireless in, work for the old language and old history.

This man, well on in the forties, but mountain-bred and hardy, had thrown himself into the new movement--little guessing that a few months would see him a private in the British Army, or that he would come with honour to command a company of a famous Irish regiment on the battlefields of a European war.
If it had been only for the sake of Captain MacSweeny (he was then, of course, only a captain of Volunteers), I think Redmond would have stopped.

But it was a gathering of many friends, who pressed him to speak at a moment when his heart was full.

Grave results followed from what he said that day; but a week sooner or later he was bound to say these things, and the results were bound to follow.