It's his son is talkin', Father Cahill, and it's his son WILL talk while there's breath in his body to keep his tongue waggin'.

It's a precious legacy of hatred Michael O'Connell left his son, and there's no priest, no government, no policeman or soldier will kape that son from spendin' his legacy." The man trembled from head to foot with the nervous intensity of his attack.

Everything that had been outraged in him all his life came before him.
Father Cahill began to realise as he watched him the secret of the tremendous appeal the man had to the suffering people.

Just for a moment the priest's heart went out to O'Connell, agitator though he was.
"Your father died with all the comforts of the Holy Church," said the priest gently, as he put his old hand the young man's shoulder.
"The comforts of the church!" scoffed O'Connell.

"Praise be to heaven for that!" He laughed a grim, derisive laugh as he went on: "Sure it's the fine choice the Irish peasant has to-day.