ngers pushed back the lock of dark hair
which hung over his forehead. His face grew stern, and there was a look
of determination in his dark eyes. A frown gathered in deep wrinkles on
his forehead. At last he spoke.

"You are on your way to Belfast. I shall give you a letter to Felix
Matier, who keeps the inn with the sign of Dumouriez in North Street.
You will find him easily. His house is a common meeting-place for
members of the society. I shall tell him to have a careful watch kept on
Finlay, and to communicate with you."

"I'll deal with the man," said Donald, "as soon as I have anything more
than suspicion to go on."

"Deal uprightly, deal justly," said Hope. "Ours is a sacred cause. It
may be God's will that we are to be victorious, or it may be written in
His book that we shall fail. He alone knows the issue. But, either way,
our hands must not be stained with crime. We must do justly, aye, and
love mercy when mercy can be shown without imperilling the lives of
innocent men."

"Traitors must be dealt with as traitors are in all civilised States,"
said Donald.

"Ay, truly, when we are sure that they are traitors."

"I shall make sure," said Donald, "and then----"

"Then------," Hope sighed deeply. "Then---- you are right. There is no
help for it. But remember, Donald Ward, that you and I must answer for
our actions before the judgment seat of God. Remember, also, that our
names and our deeds will be judged by posterity. We must not shrink from
stern necessities laid upon us. But let us not give the enemy an excuse
to brand us as assassins in the time to come."

"God damn it, man, you speak to me as if you thought me a hired
murderer. I take such language from no man living, and from you no
more than another, James Hope. You shall answer for your words and your
insinuations."

Donald stood up as he spoke. His face was deeply flushed. He had drunk
heavily during the evening. Even the best men, the leaders of every
class and section of society drank heavily in those days. He was an
exceptional man who always went to bed in full possession of his
senses. Donald Ward was no worse than his fellows. But the man whom
he challenged was one of the few for whom the wine bottle had no
attractions. He was also one of those--rare in any age--who had learnt
the mastery of self, whom no words, even insulting words, can drive
beyond the limits of their patience.

"If I have spoken anything which hurts or vexes you, D