Rory is my fifteen-year-old brother, the only son.
"Rory's probably in Jail with the rest of the boys," I said. "They were all imprisoned when they surrendered. He'll be all right there. He's in good company."
We talked long into the morning. Hoping against hope, comforting each other, praying for courage, yet always despairing, we spent the night. The night was long though we tried to make ourselves as comfortable as the cramped quarters and our uneasy minds would allow.
I left the cottage early in the morning to go to Dublin to find a place where my mother and the family could stay. We wanted to be near at hand in case there would be a chance to see my father.
XIV
On Wednesday my mother and sisters came in to Dublin. Agna went up to Dublin Castle to try to see my father. She made a number of attempts to see him, received all sorts of advice, was sent chasing from pillar to post; and finally was told that no visitors would be allowed. The only news she was able to get was from a nurse who told her that Papa was very weak from loss of blood; and that he was not improving.
After that all the news we had of my father was through the newspapers. They told us that he was steadily growing weaker and that his recovery was doubtful. Then we had heard of the murder of Sheehy Skeffington. Agna had met Mrs. Skeffington when she was at Dublin Castle, and had been told the awful news of Skeffington's death. It was a dreadful shock. We had known and admired Sheehy Skeffington, and he had been a great friend of Papa's.