secret societies
and among revolutionaries, a man who appears anything less than
enthusiastic must be regarded with suspicion.

"Are you coming with us, Denis Ryan?" asked Murnihan.

There was silence in the room for a minute. All eyes were fixed on
Denis. There was not a man in the room who did not know how things were
between him and Mary Drennan. There was not one who did not feel that
Denis' faithfulness was doubtful And each man realised that his own
safety, perhaps his own life, depended on the entire fidelity of all his
fellows. Denis felt the sudden suspicion. He saw in the faces around him
the merciless cruelty which springs from fear. But he said nothing. It
was the delegate from Dublin who broke the silence. He, too, seemed
to understand the situation. He realised, at all events, that for some
reason this one man was unwilling to take part in the raid. He pointed
his finger at Denis.

"That man," he said, "must go, and must take a leading part!"

So, and not otherwise, could they make sure of one who might be a
traitor.

"I'm willing to go," said Denis. "I'm not wanting to hang back."

Murnihan drew two revolvers from his pocket. He handed one of them to
Denis.

"You'll stand over the old woman with that pointed at her head," he
said. "The minute we enter the house we'll call to her to put her
hands up, and if she resists you'll shoot. But there'll be no need of
shooting. She'll stand quiet enough!"

Denis stepped back, refusing to take the revolver.

"Do it yourself, Murnihan," he said, "if it has to be done!"

"I'm not asking you to do what I'm not going to do myself. I'm taking
the other revolver, and I'll keep the girl quiet!"

"But--but," said Denis, stammering, "I'm not accustomed to guns. I've
never had a revolver in my hand in my life. I'm--I'm afraid of it!"

He spoke the literal truth. He had never handled firearms of any sort,
and a revolver in the hands of an inexperienced man is of all weapons
the most dangerous. Nevertheless, with Murnihan's eye upon him, with the
ring of anxious, threatening faces round him, he took the revolver.

An hour later, eight men walked quietly up to the Drennan's house. They
wore black masks. Their clothes and figures were rudely but sufficiently
disguised with wisps of hay tied to their arms and legs. Two of them
carried revolvers. At the gate of the rough track which leads from the
high road to the farmhouse the party halted. There was a whispered wo