“Sure, all’s fair in war. The girl’s safe enough.” (Here Martin laughed in a sinister fashion.) “And now that all is settled up with Maurice Gorman at last—”
“Is Maurice Gorman dead, then?” asked Tim, controlling himself with a mighty effort, as was plain by his white lips and flashing eyes.
“He is so. We had him watched day and night, and on Sunday came our chance. He’s gone to his account; and it’s not six hours since he was put out of harm’s way under the turf. By Saint Patrick, but it’s a grand day for Ireland this.”
“And you mean to tell me,” said Tim, in a voice which made his hearers shift on their feet uncomfortably—“you mean to tell me that you dare to commit murder and outrage like this in the name of Ireland?”
“Why, what’s amiss? Wasn’t it yourself was saying with your own lips the Gorman was a dirty coward?” retorted one of the group testily.
“And that means the same to you as saying a man should be shot in the dark without a word of warning, and his innocent daughter carried off, who never did a hand’s turn in the place that wasn’t kindly and good?”
Guess who it was that loved Tim as he spoke those words?
“It’s no time to be squeamish,” persisted the man who had first spoken. “It’s a blow for the good of the country, and there’s them will give us credit for it, if you don’t.”
“You curs! I give you credit for being the meanest cowards unhung. And I don’t mind telling anybody as much. Pray, is it you and the like of you I’m captain to?”
“When we chose you, we thought you were for the people,” snarled Martin.