I'm not going to America. I'm going to South Africa. I'm going to join
some young Irishmen to fight for the Boers and for freedom.'

'You're going out to fight--to fight for the Boers! What is it that's in
your head at all, Hyacinth Con-neally? Tell me now.'

Again Hyacinth hesitated. Was it possible to give utterance to the
thoughts and hopes which filled his mind? Could he tell anyone about
the furious fancies of the last few days, or of that weird vision of
his father's which lay at the back of what he felt and dreamed? Could
he even speak of the enthusiasm which moved him to devote himself to the
cause of freedom and a threatened nationality? In the presence of a man
of the world the very effort to express himself would have acted as some
corrosive acid, and stained with patches of absurdity the whole fabric
of his dreams. He looked at Father Moran, and saw the priest's eyes lit
with sympathy. He knew that he had a listener who would not scoff, who
might, perhaps, even understand. He began to speak, slowly and haltingly
at first, then more rapidly. At last he poured out with breathless,
incoherent speed the strange story of the Armageddon vision, the hopes
that were in him, the fierce enthusiasm, the passionate love for
Ireland which burnt in his soul. He was not conscious of the gaping
inconsequences of his train of emotion. He did not recognise how
ridiculous it was to connect the Boer War with the Apocalyptic battle
of the saints, or the utter impossibility of getting either one or the
other into any sort of relation with the existing condition of Ireland.

A casual observer might have supposed that Hyacinth had made a mistake
in telling his story to Father Moran. A smile, threatening actual
laughter, hovered visibly round the priest's mouth. His eyes had a
shrewd, searching expression, difficult to interpret. Still, he listened
to the rhapsody without interrupting it, till Hyacinth stopped abruptly,
smitten with sudden self-consciousness, terrified of imminent ridicule.
Nor were the priest's first words reassuring.

'I wouldn't say now, Hyacinth Conneally, but there might be the makings
of a fine man in you yet.'

'I might have known,' said Hyacinth angrily, 'that you'd laugh at me. I
was a fool to tell you at all. But I'm in earnest about what I'm going
to do. Whatever you may think about the rest, there's no laughing at
that.'

'Well, you're just wrong then, for I wasn't laughing nor meaning to
laugh at