He used to go for long walks on the hills, and one day, lying in the furze amid the rough grass, his eyes following the course of the ships in the bay, he said: “Was it accident or my own fantastic temperament that brought me back from Cuba?” It seemed as if a net had been thrown over him and he had been drawn along like a fish in a net. “For some purpose,” he said. “But for what purpose? I can perceive none, and yet I cannot believe that an accident brought me to Ireland and involved me in the destiny of Ireland for no purpose.”
And he did not need to take the book from his pocket, he knew the passage well, and he repeated it word for word while he watched the ships in the bay.
“We were friends and we have become strangers, one to the other. Ah, yes; but it is so, and we do not wish to
