"Where have you come from?" asked Kathleen, looking at our travel-worn figures. Our faces were burnt red by the sun and the heat, and our boots were white with the dust of the road.
"We've come from Tyrone. We got a train to Dundalk and walked the rest. We spent last night in a field. What's the news? How are things down here?" I asked.
"How are things," she repeated in amazement. "Haven't you heard?"
"Nothing," I answered, as I shook my head,
"The boys are beaten," she cried. "They've all surrendered. They're all prisoners. The city has been burning since Thursday."
"All surrendered," I cried aghast. "Are you sure? It doesn't seem possible."
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. They're all prisoners, every one of them. The College of Surgeons was the last to surrender and it surrendered a little while ago. Madame was there," she said, meaning the Countess Markievicz.
I sat there too stunned to think or talk. I knew that there were women and men going past the window, yet I could not see them. After a while I managed to ask, "My father?"
"He's wounded and was taken a prisoner to Dublin Castle. They don't think he'll live. Though God knows maybe they'll all be killed."