“But you do not understand. You have not heard all.”
“I understand. I have heard everything. You took the oath, and while men are arming everywhere, and the revolution that will make Ireland a Republic like France and like America is setting into motion you are playing the part of a truant and a dreamer.”
“But my promise was given to the dying—I might almost say, dead.”
“Then go amongst the graves and keep it.”
“But this is too cruel, Rosette—Rosey—little Rose. Tell me, if I were to—to join the United ranks again, would you count me a soldier of liberty?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Every Irish soldier of liberty is one now.”
“And if I did would there be hope for me? You know what I mean, Rosette.”
“Green is the colour of the United Men,” she answered, “and you have heard, I’m sure, how, when Camille Desmoulines, in the gardens of the Palais Royal in the beginning of the Revolution, plucked a leaf from one of the trees, he decked himself with it, crying out: ‘Green is the colour of hope.’”
Her eyelids drooped a little as he looked at her with an ardent gaze.
“And may I hope?” he asked.