ity of purpose. He might vary
in the expression of his belief, but the belief itself was as immovable
as the mountains.

4

It was said of him that on one occasion he had taken a cheque to a bank
in Dublin to be cashed. An English editor had printed one of his poems
and had paid for it ... and he was not accustomed to receiving money for
his poems, which were printed mostly in little Irish propaganda
journals! He had endorsed the cheque in Gaelic, and the puzzled bank
manager had demanded that it should be endorsed in English.... Marsh had
given him a lecture on Irish history that lasted for the better part of
half-an-hour ... and then, because the manager looked so frightened, he
had consented to sign his name in English.

5

They left the garden and walked slowly to the top of an ascending field
where an old farm-horse, quit now of work, grazed in peace. It raised
its head as they walked towards it, and gazed at them with blurred eyes,
and then ambled to them. They stood beside it for a few moments while
Marsh patted its neck with one hand and allowed it to nuzzle in the palm
of the other. "I love beasts," he said, "Dogs and cats and birds and
horses and cows ... I think I love cows best because they've got such
big, soft eyes and look so stupid and reproachful ... except that dogs
are very nice and companionable and faithful ... but so are cats...."

"Faithful? Cats?" Henry asked.

"Oh, yes ... quite faithful if they like you. Why should they be
faithful if they don't? Poor, old chap! Poor, old chap!" he murmured,
thrusting his fingers through the horse's worn mane. "Of course, horses
are very nice, too," he went on. "And birds! ... I suppose one loves
all animals. One has to be very brutal to hurt an animal; hasn't one?"

Henry laughed. "The Irish are cruel to animals," he said, "but the
English aren't!"

Marsh flushed. "I've never been in England," he replied, looking away.

"Never?" Henry exclaimed.

"No, and I shall never go there!"

There was a sudden ferocity in his voice that startled Henry. "But why?"
he asked.

"Why?..." Marsh's voice changed its note and became quiet again. "I'm
Irish," he said. "That's why! I don't think that any Irishman ought to
put his foot in England until Ireland is free!"

Henry snapped at him impatiently. "I hate all that kind of talk," he
said.

Marsh looked at him in astonishment. "You hate all ... what talk?" he
asked.

"All that talk about Ireland being