As the train moved away a moment later, these women set up a frantic lamentation.  I looked out and caught a glimpse of the wildest heads and figures I have ever seen, shrieking and screaming and waving their naked arms in the light of the lanterns.

As the night went on girls began crying out in the carriage next us, and I could hear the words of obscene songs when the train stopped at a station.

In our own compartment the sailor would allow no one to sleep, and talked all night with sometimes a touch of wit or brutality and always with a beautiful fluency with wild temperament behind it.

The old men in the corner, dressed in black coats that had something of the antiquity of heirlooms, talked all night among themselves in Gaelic.  The young girl beside me lost her shyness after a while, and let me point out the features of the country that were beginning to appear through the dawn as we drew nearer Dublin.  She was delighted with the shadows of the trees—­trees are rare in Connaught—­and with the canal, which was beginning to reflect the morning light.  Every time I showed her some new shadow she cried out with naive excitement—­

‘Oh, it’s lovely, but I can’t see it.’

This presence at my side contrasted curiously with the brutality that shook the barrier behind us.  The whole spirit of the west of Ireland, with its strange wildness and reserve, seemed moving in this single train to pay a last homage to the dead statesman of the east.

Part III

A letter has come from Michael while I am in Paris.  It is in English.

My dear friend,—­I hope that you are in good health since I have heard from you before, its many a time I do think of you since and it was not forgetting you I was for the future.

I was at home in the beginning of March for a fortnight and was very bad with the Influence, but I took good care of myself.

I am getting good wages from the first of this year, and I am afraid I won’t be able to stand with it, although it is not hard, I am working in a saw-mills and getting the money for the wood and keeping an account of it.

I am getting a letter and some news from home two or three times a week, and they are all well in health, and your friends in the island as well as if I mentioned them.

Did you see any of my friends in Dublin Mr.—­or any of those gentlemen or gentlewomen.

I think I soon try America but not until next year if I am alive.

I hope we might meet again in good and pleasant health.

It is now time to come to a conclusion, good-bye and not for ever, write soon—­I am your friend in Galway.

Write soon dear friend.

Another letter in a more rhetorical mood.

My dear Mr. S.,—­I am for a long time trying to spare a little time for to write a few words to you.