\" He said. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. There is a small yewtree west of the church. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered.
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