he confess the degradation of his ideal?
How could he resist the inevitable reminder that he had been warned
beforehand? Besides, not even now, after all that he had seen, could he
accept Dr. Henry's point of view. He still believed in Ireland, still
hoped to serve her, still looked for the coming of his father's captain
to lead the saints to the final victory. Miss Goold had failed him, but
he was not yet ready to enrol himself a citizen of England.

No, he must leave Dublin. But where to go? His lamp burnt dim and
expired as he sat thinking. His fire had long ago gone out. He shivered
with cold and misery, while the faint light of the dawn stole into his
room. He heard the first twitter of the birds in the convent garden
behind his lodging. Then came the noise of the earliest traffic, the
unnaturally loud rattle of the dust-carts on their rounds. A steamer
hooted far away down the river, and an early bell rang the neighbouring
nuns to prayer. Hyacinth grew desperate. Could he go home, back to the
fishing-boats and simple people of Carrowkeel? A great desire for the
old scenes seized upon him. He fought against it with all his might. He
had rejected the offer of the home life once. Now, no doubt, it would be
closed against him. The boat that might have been his was sold long ago.
He would not go back to confess himself a fool and a failure.

Gradually his mind worked back over the conversation in the hotel with
Captain Quinn. The recollection of the latter part of it, which had
meant nothing at the time, grew clear. He felt for the letter in his
pocket, and drew it out. After all, why should he not offer himself to
James Quinn? Ballymoy was remote enough to be a hiding-place. It was in
County Mayo, the Captain had said. He had never heard of the place, and
it seemed likely that no one else, except its inhabitants, knew of it
either. At least, there was no reason that he could see why he should
not go there. His brain refused to work any longer, either at planning
or remembering. His lips formed the word Ballymoy. He repeated it again
and again. He seemed to go on repeating it in the troubled sleep which
came to him.

CHAPTER XIII

The Irish get credit, even from their enemies, for being a quick-witted,
imaginative, and artistic people, yet they display astonishingly little
taste or originality in their domestic architecture. In Connaught, where
the Celtic genius may be supposed to have the freest opportunity