"Well, surely that strong instinct of fair play, that sense of justice so peculiarly British, of which we have all heard in the school-books, would——"
"Drop it," said Lord Constantine fiercely. "In war there's nothing but the brute left. The Fenians—may the plague take them ... will be hung, shipped to Botany Bay, and left to rot in the home prisons, without respect to law, privilege, decency. Rebels must be wiped out, doncheknow. I don't mind that. They've done me enough harm ... put back the alliance ten years at least ... and left me howling in the wilderness. Livingstone will let every Fenian of American citizenship be tried like his British mates ... that is, they will get no trial at all, except inform. They will not benefit by their American ties."
"Why should he neglect them like that?"
"He has theories, of course. I heard him spout them at some beastly reception somewhere. Too many Irish in America—too strong—too popish—must be kept down—alliance between England and the United States to keep them down——"
"I remember he was one of your alliance men," provokingly.
"Alas, yes," mourned his lordship. "The Fenians threatened to make mince-meat of it, but they're done up and knocked down. Now, this Livingstone proposes a new form of mincing, worse than the Fenians a thousand times, begad."
"Begad," murmured Arthur. "Surely you're getting excited."
"The alliance is now to be argued on the plea of defense against popish aggressions, Arthur. This is the unkind cut. Before, we had to reunite the Irish and the English. Now, we must soothe the prejudices of bigots besides. Oh, but you should see the programme of His Excellency for the alliance in his mind. You'll feel it when you get back home. A regular programme, doncheknow. The first number has the boards now: general indignation of the hired press at the criminal recklessness of the Irish in rebelling against our benign rule. When that chorus is ended, there comes a solo by an escaped nun. Did you ever hear of Sister Claire Thingamy——"
"Saw her—know her—at a distance. What is she to sing?"
"A book—confessions and all that thing—revelations of the horrors of papist life. It's to be printed by thousands and scattered over the world. After that Fritters, our home historian at Oxford, is to travel in your county and lecture to the cream of society on the beauty of British rule over the Irish. He is to affect the classes. The nun and the press are to affect the masses. Between them what becomes of the alliance? Am I not patient? My pan demanded harmonious and brotherly feelings among all parties. Isn't that what an alliance must depend on? But Livingstone takes the other tack. To bring about his scheme we shall all be at each other's throats. Talk of the Kilkenny cats and Donnybrook fair, begad!"