“Russia,” said the man with dignity, “my native land.”

“Rooshia!  An’ a bloody country it is,” answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick with scorn.

“Yes, Russia,” he cried, “my bloody country!  You are correct.  Red with the blood of my countrymen, the blood of my kindred this hundred years and more.”  His voice was low but vibrant with passion.  “You cannot understand.  Why should I tell you?”

At this juncture Timothy sprang to his feet.

“Sit ye down, dear man, sit ye down!  Shut yer clapper, Nora!  Sure it’s mesilf that knows a paythriot whin I sees ’im.  Tear-an-ages!  Give me yer hand, me boy.  Sit ye down an’ tell us about it.  We’re all the same kind here.  Niver fear for the woman, she’s the worst o’ the lot.  Tell us, dear man.  Be the light that shines! it’s mesilf that’s thirsty to hear.”

The Russian gazed at the shining eyes of the little Irishman as if he had gone mad.  Then, as if the light had broken upon him, he cried, “Aha, you are of Ireland.  You, too, are fighting the tyrant.”

“Hooray, me boy!” shouted Tim, “an’ it’s the thrue word ye’ve shpoke, an’ niver a lie in the skin av it.  Oireland foriver!  Be the howly St. Patrick an’ all the saints, I am wid ye an’ agin ivery government that’s iver robbed an honest man.  Go on, me boy, tell us yer tale.”

Timothy was undoubtedly excited.  The traditions of a hundred years of fierce rebellion against the oppression of the “bloody tyrant” were beating at his brain and in his heart.  The Russian caught fire from him and launched forth upon his tale.  For a full hour, now sitting in his chair, now raging up and down the room, now in a voice deep, calm and terrible, now broken and hoarse with sobs, he recounted deeds of blood and fire that made Ireland’s struggle and Ireland’s wrongs seem nursery rhymes.

Timothy listened to the terrible story in an ecstasy of alternating joy and fury, according to the nature of the episode related.  It was like living again the glorious days of the moonlighters and the rackrenters in dear old Ireland.  The tale came to an abrupt end.

“An’ thin what happened?” cried Timothy.

“Then,” said the Russian quietly, “then it was Siberia.”

“Siberia!  The Hivins be about us!” said Tim in an awed voice.  “But ye got away?”

“I am here,” he replied simply.

“Be the sowl of Moses, ye are!  An’ wud ye go back agin?” cried Tim in horror.

“Wud he!” said Nora, with ineffable scorn.  “Wud a herrin’ swim?  By coorse he’ll go back.  An’ what’s more, ye can sind the money to me an’ I’ll see that the childer gets the good av it, if I’ve to wring the neck av that black haythen, Rosenblatt, like a chicken.”

“You will take the money for my children?” enquired the Russian.

“I will that.”

He stretched out his hand impulsively.  She placed hers in it.  He raised it to his lips, bending low as if it had been the lily white hand of the fairest lady in the land, instead of the fat, rough, red hand of an old Irish washer-woman.