 | The Tricolour |  |
II
Out of poverty and misery from some dark corner of the slums she had hurried at the
What did she deem her mission in the fighting world of soldiers? What could she teach?
She was seen kneeling in the danger zone saying her rosary. What was she praying for at such a moment? Was it for herself or for someone dear to her? Listen, and I will tell you why she hurried her black beads through her fingers for fear God would not give her time to finish. Great was her prayer. She prayed for the success of the revolution.
Think of it, meditate on this sacred prayer, for here is the spirit of Ireland. This is the spirit of patriotism—the love that survives all things.
Without hope of gain, without hope of honour, without love of life, without fear of death, who mourned for nobody, for whom nobody would mourn, she knelt in the streets in the danger zone and prayed for the success of the revolution.
With the fire in her old veins revived, with the patriotic heart, she, too, held her place in the ranks, hearing the wonderful call that had come to her countrymen. When all seemed quenched of youth and young heroic dreams, poor and nameless, she threw off the rags that poverty held about her and was beautiful in the tricolour of faith, hope, and love.
Oh, Sean-Bhean Bhocht, the spirit of your land was not more fair than you—you who knelt in the gun-swept streets of your city to pray for the success of the revolution.
She lay some hours later in the morgue, her chill hands still clasping her rosary beads folded over her brave, unconquered heart. God rest you, sister. Sleep well, nor dream that you have failed; for such love as yours holds ever aloft the flag of liberty, and of such fine clay as yours is our island made.
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