tle stone columns of the roof railing of
Trinity College, machine guns poked out their cold snouts.

"Smoke bombs were dropped over Mount street bridge today," said Harry
Boland with a shrug of his shoulders when I arrived at Sinn Fein
headquarters to ask if the reception would still be held. "What can we do
against a force like theirs?"

But there was a strained feeling at headquarters as if the decision had
been made after a hard fight. Alderman Thomas Kelly, one of the oldest of
the Sinn Feiners, told me that he had backed DeValera in his refusal to
countenance a needless loss of life, and that it was only after a good
struggle that their point had won.

"DeValera's just beyond the town," whispered Harry Boland to me when he
decided that we would leave to see the president at seven--the hour the
executive was due to appear at the bridge. "They're searching all the cars
that cross the canal bridges. If there is any trouble as we pass just say
that you are an American citizen--that'd get you through anywhere."

Knots of still expectant people were gathered at the Mount street bridge.
Squads of long-coated military police patrolled the place. Children called
at games. The starlight dripped into the canal. At Portobello bridge we
made our crossing. Nothing happened. The constables did not even punch the
cushions of our car as they did with others to see if munitions were
concealed therein. We swooped down curving roads between white walls hung
with masses of dark laurel. We stopped dead on a road arched with trees. We
got out, clicked the car door softly shut, turned a corner, and walked some
distance in the cool night. As we walked I made I forget what request in
regard to the interview from young Mr. Boland, and with the reverent regard
and complete obedience to DeValera's wishes that is characteristic in the
young Sinn Feiners--a state of mind that does not, however, prevent calling
the president "Dev"--he said simply: "But I must do what he tells me." At
the door of a modestly comfortable home whose steps we mounted, a thick-set
man blocked my way for a moment.

"You won't," he asked, "say where you came?"

"I'm sure," I returned, "I haven't an idea where I am."

DeValera was giving rapid, almost breathless, orders in Irish to some one
as I entered his room. His thin frame towered above a dark plush-covered
table. A fire behind him surrounded him with a soft yellow aura. His white,
ascetic, young--he is thirty-