the upper classes.
Neal tried to explain to his companion what he understood of Lord
Dunseveric's opinions.

James Hope broke in on him, interrupting him.

"But the people are slaves, actually slaves, not a whit better. Are
nine-tenths of the people to be slaves to one-tenth? The thing
is unendurable. Look at the Catholics in the south, men without
representation, without power, without direct influence; men marked with
a brand of inferiority because of their religion. Look at the men of our
own faith here in the north. Our case is not wholly so bad, but it is
bad enough. We have asked, petitioned, begged, implored, for the removal
of our grievances. If we are men we must do more--we must strike for
them. Else we confess ourselves unworthy of the freedom which we claim.
They alone are fit for liberty who dare to fight for liberty. Think
of it, Neal Ward, think. It is we, the people, digging in the fields,
toiling at the looms, it is we who make the riches, who win the good
fruit from the hard ground, who weave the thread into the precious
fabric. And we are denied a share in what we create. It is from us in
the last resort that the power of the governing classes comes. If we
had not taken arms in our hands at their bidding, if we had not stood by
them, no English Minister would ever have yielded to their demands, and
given them the power which they enjoy. And they will not give us the
smallest part of what we won for them. 'What inheritance have we in
Judah? Now see to thine own house, David. To your tents, O Israel!'"

James Hope's voice rose. His eyes flashed. His whole face was
enlightened with enthusiasm as he spoke. Neal listened, awed. Here was
the devotion to the cause of suffering and oppressed men, the spirit
which had produced revolution, which had begotten from the womb
of humanity pure and noble men, which had, in the violence of its
self-assertion, deluged cities with blood and defiled a great cause
with dreadful deeds. He had no answer to make, and for a long while they
walked in silence.

Reaching Templepatrick, Hope took Neal to the house of John Birnie, a
hand-loom weaver, a cousin of his own. They were welcomed by the woman
of the house and given a share of a meal which even to Neal, brought
up as he had been without luxury in his father's manse, seemed poor and
meagre. But no thought of the hardness of their fare seemed to trouble
the mind of the weaver and his wife. Theirs was the kind of hospit