Perhaps when compulsory a holiday loses some of its charm. Beyond the display of flags, I could see no particular signs of rejoicing. Indeed, most of the inhabitants appeared distinctly glum. The closing of the two public-houses-contrary to the usual holiday custom-might have caused some depression; but it is more likely that the men, mostly small landholders and working farmers, were uncomfortably aware that their farms must suffer from continual enforced holidays at the busy spring season, and that arrears of work were accumulating which they could scarcely hope to get even with.

And they had yet another reason for secret dismay. The holiday, ordered by Sinn Fein authorities, celebrated the release of hunger-striking political prisoners-men suspected of connivance and responsibility in murders and outrages which were condemned by all except a small band of extremists. Yet not one of the Carrigarinka villagers would have dared express disapproval of the release any more than he would have ventured to work that day. Each man feared his neighbour and mistrusted his oldest friend. Those whose fears were keenest flew the largest flags and flaunted their patriotic badges the most obtrusively.

I stopped my car at the post-office near the end of the long straggling street.

Inside I found Mrs Moylan, the postmistress, and

her

daughter Bridgie engaged in low-voiced conversation with two neighbours. The latter, drawing their shawls over their heads, departed quietly through the back door. Bridgie and her mother turned perturbed yet expectant faces to me. Evidently my visit betokened something of more interest than a request for stamps. It was evident, too, that Bridgie Moylan had been crying.

Mrs Moylan, bending low as she handed the change, murmured apparently to the counter

"Did ye get anny account of Mike Dinneen? The poor fellow"

She stopped abruptly and busied herself with the stamp drawer. I saw that a young man carrying a rebel flag had entered the little shop.

He belonged to a type which has come into existence in Ireland during the last few years-undefinable as to class, well dressed, well drilled, exuding arrogance and self-satisfaction. No vestige of the national indolence clings to the exponents of this type, and they have lost all traces of the national good nature. Indeed, they seem to have acquired something of the bearing that characterised their "glorious German ally."

He made no attempt to remove his hat in my presence, though he stepped aside perfunctorily to allow me to pass, dispelling any illusion of politeness by raising his flag and giving it an aggressive flutter.

His expression openly indicated contempt for my class, and triumph at the Government's latest surrender to Sinn Fein.

I drove away feeling ruffled, for when one's curiosity is aroused it is annoying to be unable to gratify it, and doubly so when the hindrance is in itself objectionable.

I resolved to call again at the post-office on my way home and find out more about Mike Dinneen.

But ill-luck pursued me that afternoon. Owing to the holiday the parcels office at the railway junction was closed, so I was unable to transact my business. Nor did I succeed in questioning Mrs Moylan about Dinneen, for I did not get within two miles of Carrigarinka.

At the steepest pitch of a long hill leading to the crossroads surmounted by the little rock of the dancing, there was a swishing sound in the bushes by the roadside. Four men with blackened faces sprang out, and raising revolvers barred my way. I had no choice but to apply the brakes. A fifth man, tall and well-dressed, wearing a black cloth mask, stepped leisurely from the fir plantation opposite. At a sign from him I was pulled unceremoniously out of the car. I stood in the road with a revolver against each side of my head. The muzzles felt cold and very hard.

I was both angry and startled, but anger had the upper hand.

"Let ye be quiet and ye'll not be hurted," said one of the men warningly. I realised it would be futile to struggle, and submitted to being placed on the bank beneath the fir-trees.

The leader examined the car in a rapid and practical manner. He experimented with the gears and self-starter, glanced into the petrol tank, and pronounced himself satisfied.

"The Republic requires the use of your car," he said coolly; "we have no objection to your returning home on foot. You may spare yourself the trouble of ringing up the police or the military, because the wires have been cut."

His voice was brisk and decisive, with a slight hint of an American twang.

His companions replaced their revolvers in side-pockets, and packed themselves into the car. The ease with which the leader started it against the steep hill showed he was well accustomed to the work.

A few minutes later the sound of the engine had died away round a bend in the road, and I was alone with my helpless fury.

Such episodes are common in Ireland. But though one hears of them continually, one scarcely expects to experience them oneself. The civilised habit of mind still persists, though the country is overrun by forces of disorder. Consequently my anger was mingled with a sense of unreality. I was obliged to lay my bare hand over the moss-covered

stones on the bank, and I stared hard at the fir-trees and bright green fields to convince myself I was really awake.

My shortest way home lay across country. In any other circumstances I should have enjoyed the walk down the sloping fields overlooking wide brown bog-lands, now transformed by the evening light into a fairy realm of soft and glowing colours.

That fairies really exist is a common belief in Ireland. In spring, when the leprechaun's gold is spread over the furze bushes, when bare rocks are transformed into opals and every ridge of hill holds its own rainbow, it is easy to share this belief.

With the country people, however, the unseen world, whether of fairies or ancient gods or Christian saints, is always close at hand-a concrete fact to be reckoned with in daily life. And it is said that even some up-to-date patriots who have shaken off the restraints of religion have been unable to free themselves from a disquieting belief in fairies.

The path wound downwards amongst rough boulders of granite to a sheltered hollow, where bluebells spread like a mist over the steep sides of an ancient rath.

A voice came unexpectedly from the rath, expressing a fervent hope that the speaker might meet me in heaven, and adding sadly that it would be a bad place if none of the old

stock of gentry were found there.

Old Bat Cronin, who owned the adjacent farm, was standing, hat in hand, just above me on the slope of the rath.

His shrewd grey eyes surveyed me keenly, noting, no doubt, the cumbrous fur coat and motor gauntlets with which I was burdened.

"Faith, the gintry is bothered by their convaniences," he said earnestly as he replaced his hat.

I noticed a knot of Sinn Fein colours pinned to the soft crown. Yet Cronin's loyalty was above suspicion, and he had lost two sons in the war.

"There's some that rides horses and motor-cars that has a right to it," he announced in the well-modulated tones of a practised orator. "But there's some that's not good enough to be riding a donkey, and, faith, 'tis themselves does be sitting aisy in the motorcars in place of the quality."

Experience had taught me the impossibility of checking Bat Cronin's eloquence. I sat down on a boulder and let him have his say uninterrupted.

""Tis the notions they'd be collecting that'd destroy the country entirely," he went on, coming nearer, and lowering his voice. "Their thrade unions and sthrikes and republican holidays! Tell me, ma'am, did ye ever hear the like of three holidays in the week, and the crows and pigeons to be ating the mangolds and seeds on account of

us a gun to shoot with? What will we be coming to at all tell me, now? And tell me,' And tell me," he added in a whisper, "did ye get anny account of Mike Dinneen ? "

I tried to appear indifferent, knowing I might defeat my own ends if I betrayed much curiosity.

I told him vaguely that I understood Mike Dinneen had been hurt.

Cronin clenched his right fist and thumped vigorously upon the palm of his left hand.

"He's been done to death, ma'am," he hissed between closed teeth.

The tale that followed, however, made it clear that, though badly injured, Dinneen at any rate was still alive; and there even was some prospect of his recovery. All had gone well with him until the hungerstrike of political prisoners. Then a national strike or holiday being ordered by Sinn Fein, work ceased everywhere, even in some Government offices.

Dinneen, however, stuck to his post throughout, and at night snatched what sleep he could on the floor of the telegraph office.

On the third day, with the news that the Government had capitulated, the strike ended, and Dinneen's troubles began. In spite of an urgent message from the postmaster to the authorities, no protection was available for Dinneen. Upon leaving the office in the evening he found an angry crowd

through the streets. Outside the town threats turned to action. Dinneen was pelted with stones and mud, and finally knocked down and beaten with heavy blackthorns. He lay by the roadside till a passing car chanced on him and conveyed him to hospital.

"He thought to screech when he heard the motor coming," said Cronin; "but the teeth was rattling about his head, and anny attempt he'd make would be apt to drive them back on him down his throat. The people that was watching him from the windows thought he'd be dead every minute from the bating he had and the way he was lying with his head below in the ditch."

"Do you mean to say that though there were people actually watching him from the windows, nobody went out to help him?" I asked incredulously.

"That's thrue, ma'am," replied Cronin with composure. "Sure, they thought he'd be stretched for a corpse and no throuble at all about it. Mind now, I'm not saying they hadn't a right to call a priest, but, bedad, they were in dread even to do that."

"Cowards!" I exclaimed. Cronin continued in tones of mild reproof.

"Indeed, ma'am, 'tisn't everybody is an officer's widow and 'ud have the courage that yourself has! Sure, the neighbours does be in dread all the

time, and I never goes along the road meself without looking this way and that and expecting to lose me life! What can we do at all with them Sinn Fein blagyards spying on us, and they with their balls of death handy to be pelting us day or night? Maybe 'tis your farm or your motor-car or your life they'd be wanting, and, faith, 'tis aiqual to them what they'd take."

"That's quite true, Cronin,' I said; "we all hold our possessions on sufferance-Sinn Fein sufferance. But the Government ought to provide protection for special cases."

He waved his hand in the direction of his farm.

"Twenty years back the fairies put a pishogue on me land," he said with apparent irrelevance. "Divil a decent crop ever came off it since, and the bastes-the creatures! not ating what'd keep the life in them! And indeed, ma'am, I'm thinking 'twas a good turn the fairies done me, for 'tis the dread of the pishogue that does be previnting the Sinn Feiners from taking me farm. Believe me, the fairies'd give ye better protection than ever ye'd get from the English Governmint."

In the face of his utter seriousness it was impossible to laugh.

"We must look after Dinneen when he comes out of hospital," I said, rising from the boulder and gathering up my coat. "I shall be in England for the next few weeks, but do you keep your ears open while I'm away."

I nodded good-night to the old man.

He took off his hat again, holding it against his chest with the Sinn Fein badge discreetly hidden.

"Me own two boys is dead and buried, glory be to God," he said solemnly. "They died under the flag, and, indeed, they're safe where they are. But wouldn't it be very unthankful of me if I didn't be helping them soldiers that's living yet-yes, and be cursing their torminters ? God bless all the poor brave fellows, and may the divil catch the others with a curse on their black souls and roast every one of them the same as ye'd roast a potato."

Glancing round, I saw him reverently bent, as though in prayer, standing knee-deep in bluebells.

The missing motor was found next day on a road near my house.

An extravagant quantity of mud plastered it both inside and out, bearing witness to

the pace and distance it had been driven. There was an unmistakable bullet mark through the back, but beyond this and a few new scratches on the dash-boards, it was uninjured.