He spoke with a glow on his cheeks and a fire in his eyes that quite took me aback, and made it hard to recognise the Tim of old days.
“I could tell you something about this glorious freedom in France,” said I, with a jerk of my head in the direction of that accursed land.
“You shall; and mark me, Ireland will not be a pace behind her.”
“God forbid!” said I.
“But you haven’t told me your story yet,” said he, carrying the lamp back to its place, as if he were the seaman and I at the helm the officer.
Then I told him all, not omitting my love for Miss Kit, or my disgust for the Republic One and Indivisible.
He heard me with evident disquiet.
“I am sorry about the girl,” said he bluntly. “She may be all you say, but Ireland wants you heart and soul just now. It is no time for dancing attendance on ladies.”
“For all I know she lies buried under the guillotine,” said I.
“Oh no, she does not,” said Tim. “She and her mother are back at Knockowen, so I was told a month ago, before we sailed on this voyage.”