THE TRICOLOUR
sound of the shooting—the old woman who had no place in the revolution—where the young, the hopeful, the idealists were fighting. What could she do then, this weak and trembling old creature, this Sean-Bhean Bhocht, useless, and in the way in the gun-swept streets of the blazing city?
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.
3
