ly 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. He was a figure of courage and endurance. Dyck's hand went out
to him, and a warm smile crept to his lips.

"Michael--ever--faithful Michael!"

A moisture came to Michael's eyes. He did not speak as he clasped the
hand Dyck offered him. Presently Dyck turned to old Christopher with a
kindly laugh.

"Well, old friend! You, too, come to see the stag set loose again?
You're not many, that's sure." A grim, hard look came into his face, but
both hands went out and caught the old man's shoulders affectionately.
"This is no day for you to be waiting at prison's gates, Christopher;
but there are two men who believe in me--two in all the world. It isn't
the killing," he added after a moment's silence--"it isn't the killing
that hurts so. If it's true that I killed Erris Boyne, what hurts most
is the reason why I killed him."

"One way or another--does it matter now?" asked Christopher gently.

"Is it that you think nothing matters since I've paid the price, sunk
myself in shame, lost my friends, and come out with not a penny left?"
asked Dyck. "But yes," he added with a smile, wry and twisted, "yes, I
have a little left!"

He drew from his pocket four small pieces of gold, and gazed ironically
at them in his palm.

"Look at them!" He held out his hand, so that the two men could see the
little coins. "Those were taken from me when I entered prison. They've
been in the hands of the head of the jail ever since. They give them to
me now--all that's left of what I was."

"No, not all, sir," declared Michael. "There's something left from
Playmore--there's ninety pounds, and it's in my pocket. It was got from
the sale of your sporting-kit. There was the boat upon the lake, the
gun, and all kinds of riffraff stuff not sold with Playmore."

Dyck nodded and smiled. "Good Michael!"

Then he drew himself up stiffly, and blew in and out his breath as if
with the joy of living. For four hard years he had been denied the