It was some hours later that the three brothers met in the family house in Belfast. They came together in sadness.

Outside, it was raining. If Dublin was still bathed in evening sunshine, up here, eighty miles to the north, a wet wind from the west was dragging a pall of grey cloud over the Mountains of Morne, and a dreary rain was falling over the great port of Belfast beyond.

A month had passed since their father had died, that sound, God-fearing old Ulster Scot. They had buried their mother ten years ago. There was nobody left in the family now but Henry, and John, and Samuel Law.

Henry observed his brothers. We are decent young men, he thought. We love each other as best we can; and when love is difficult, loyalty always remains. We cling to that.

"Well, Samuel, no doubt you've made up your mind. What's it to be?" John, the eldest, straight to the point. Tall and dark-haired like their father. Hardworking, the undisputed head of the family now.

Samuel smiled. Perhaps because he was the youngest, he was the most easygoing. He was built differently, as well. He was considerably shorter than his brothers, even a little chubby. His hair was sandy, flecked with red-an inheritance from their mother's side, Henry supposed. But he knew what he wanted. Always had. In his genial way, considered Henry, he's just as stubborn.

"I'm going," he said. "There's a good ship leaving next week. I'm going to America."

John nodded. If a man left for America, the chances were that you would never see him again.

"We shall miss you," he said quietly. That was a lot, coming from John, the man who never gave way to his emotions. Even then, Henry noted, he did not say "I shall miss you," but "we." That made it a statement of family duty rather than personal feeling. Henry smiled to himself. John never changed. Just like their father. "But I think you are right, Samuel," John continued gravely. "I believe I'd go myself, except for . . ." There was no need to finish the sentence. John was the only one married as yet, and they all knew that his wife had made her feelings very clear. She had a large family in Ulster and no intention of being parted from them. "I am sure that it's God's will, and that you'll prosper there," John added.

"It isn't just for myself that I'm leaving," said Samuel. "But if God grants me a family one day, I'll not bring them up in Ireland."

And no one could blame him for that, thought Henry. For under Ireland's English rule, the Law family lived under humiliating disadvantages. Not because they were Catholic but, on the contrary, because they were Protestant.

If there was one thing the Ascendancy believed it had learned from the past, it was that religious disputation led to bloodshed. The disputes must therefore end. The official Church, with its compromise liturgy and its bishops, might not be perfect, but it represented order. It was to be established once and for all, and any other groups, whether papist, dissenters, sectaries, or anything else, were to be rendered impotent. Even the stern Elect of God were now to be humbled. "We had enough of those damned Presbyterians before, especially the Scotch ones," the gentlemen of the Ascendancy parliaments declared. So their legislation was directed not only against Catholics but all dissenting Protestants as well. "Join the established Church," they were told, "or be second-class subjects." And so the Scots Presbyterians who formed the most vigorous part of the Protestant community in Ulster were therefore debarred from civic and public life, and humiliated.

It was three generations since the Law family had come to Ulster. Hardworking, respectable Lowland Scots, their great-grandfather had proudly taken the Covenant; it had been a younger son, looking to make his fortune, who had come over to Ulster. There he had prospered in the wool trade, conducted through the growing port of Belfast, and raised his family in the Presbyterian faith. The Law family had been horrified when Catholic King James came to the throne, and delighted when King William beat him. And after the Battle of the Boyne, they had assumed that the new Protestant regime would be the end of their troubles, not the beginning of them.

When the English showed their loyalty to their fellow Protestants in Ireland by destroying their wool trade, the Law family had suffered a grievous financial blow. But it took more than that to defeat their sturdy Scottish enterprise.

None of the three brothers would forget the day-they had still been boys at the time-when their father had called them into the cobblestone yard and shown them a small barrel.

"This was just landed, from America," he told them. "And it will save us. Do you know what is in it? Flaxseed."

For from flax came linen.

There had been linen in Ireland from time immemorial. But the opening of the New World had now provided a vast potential supply of cheap flaxseed. As the wool trade declined, enterprising men like Law saw an opportunity. They started making linen instead of woollen cloth, and since the English themselves were not much engaged in that commodity, they had no need to destroy the livelihood of their Irish friends in this new trade.

And no one was more active in promoting the linen business than the Law family. They did not simply trade in finished linen. Soon Mr. Law had a network of a dozen farmers whom he provided with seed, spinning wheels, anything else they needed for making the yarn. With supplies guaranteed, he devoted himself first to making the linen and then to selling it. By the time King George came to the throne, Law had his own warehouse on the wharf at Belfast, and shares in half a dozen ships. He also had three sons who were thoroughly trained in the business.

The Laws were a typical family of their kind. Their faith, though it derived from the Calvinism of the century before, was of a gentler nature. They found inspiration in the simple affection of their family, in praying, or better yet, singing, the beloved Psalms together. And they were not without humour.

Nonetheless, they were tough Scots, with a strict Presbyterian church, and they believed firmly in the virtue of hard work and frugal living. They had, all of them, a sharp eye for profit and a dislike of unnecessary costs. Mr. Law had been able to acquire a handsome town house in Belfast; but when his wife had suggested she'd like some fine silk curtains for the parlour, she had been told that the old tapestry ones left by the previous owner, with only a small amount of mending-her husband kindly got down on his knees to show her how easily the thing could be done-might perfectly well be made to serve another twenty years. And since a display of silk would, in any case, be vanity and ostentation, religion dictated what her husband desired, and so there had been no need for the matter ever to be raised again.

Close-knit, churchgoing, sober, healthy, frugal, debt-free: this was the Law family. And, there could be no doubt, the Presbyterian faith was of particular assistance for a manufacturer of dry goods. But since that heritage meant that they would not bow the knee to a bishop, the Ascendancy could not accept them; and so, in a strange irony, the fact that they were strict Protestants meant that they must be treated, almost, like papists.

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the Presbyterians of Ulster had been leaving. Being intrepid Scots, whole families would often go together, so that thriving colonies of Ulster Presbyterians had sprung into existence in the New World with remarkable speed-colonies where a new arrival like Samuel Law would find a ready welcome in a godly congregation.

Not that the Law brothers were blind to the other reasons for going. They were businessmen, after all. "Land is to be had cheaply in America," Samuel had pointed out. "The opportunities for trade are sure to grow." They had also discussed where he should go. Many families they knew had settled in New England, others in Delaware, New York, or even down as far as southern Carolina. There were Ulster settlers all the way down the Eastern Seaboard. But Samuel had expressed a preference for Philadelphia.

"You are still determined upon Philadelphia?" John now enquired. He had not entirely approved of Samuel's choice, objecting: "The place is run by Quakers."

"There are Presbyterians there," Samuel reminded him.

Henry decided to come to his aid.

"Philadelphia is a good choice," he agreed. "It has a fine future. The city has many attractions." It had not escaped Henry's notice that a family they knew who had emigrated there some months before had a very pretty daughter. And he gave his younger brother a wink that their brother John failed to see. "But I shall miss you," he added. "And if you ever change your mind and return, I shall rejoice to have you back again."

Samuel grinned. If he secretly preferred Henry to their older brother John, it was understandable. As tall as his brother, Henry had thick brown, wavy hair and was always judged to be the most handsome of the three. He was the athlete, too. Hardly any of the young men in Belfast could keep up with him in a race. Though he worked just as hard as John, Henry was easygoing. Yet he was also more adventurous. The women all liked him. Samuel knew a dozen girls who'd be glad to marry Henry, and several times he'd thought his brother was going to choose one of them; but it had seemed to Samuel that something was holding Henry back. It was as if his brother had a plan-no one knew what it was-but something that he meant to accomplish before he settled down.

"With the two of you here, I'm not really needed," Samuel remarked. "But once I'm established in Philadelphia, I hope we may conduct business together across the Atlantic."

Henry nodded. Though Samuel did not know it, he and John had already agreed to stake him by sending him a shipload of free goods. As for the business in Ireland, it was true that he and John made a formidable pair. They both knew every aspect of the linen trade, but in recent years John had attended to the supply and manufacture, and Henry to the selling, which reflected their particular talents. If Samuel wants to trade in other commodities, Henry thought, it'll be me that sees the opportunity, and John who'll need persuading.

"I must return to my lodgings soon," said Samuel. "It's amazing how much there is to do before I leave."

"Let us pray together, then," said John Law, "for God's blessing upon your journey, and all that you may undertake."

And so, with quiet affection, the three brothers prayed together for a little while, as they had always been taught to do.

After Samuel had gone, Henry remained with his brother.

It was quiet. Neither man spoke for a time. Henry watched his brother thoughtfully. Though John never showed his emotions, it was clear that he was melancholy. Perhaps he had been secretly hoping that Samuel would not go. Henry had never been in any doubt that Samuel was leaving, but you never knew with John. He stayed awhile, therefore, to keep him company.

And for another reason, also.

He had been wondering all day whether to give his brother the other piece of unwelcome news, or whether to wait. On balance, he thought it was kinder to let him absorb all the bad news at once.

"We shall have to consider how best to carry on the business when Sam is gone," he said at last.

"Yes." John nodded.

"I believe Dublin will be important for us."

The linen trade had been growing rapidly not only in Ulster, but down in Leinster also. The new Linen Hall in Dublin was already a thriving centre of the trade, and in recent months Henry had made a number of visits to the capital. "There is even more linen being shipped out of Dublin nowadays than out of Belfast," he had reported. "I think we should have a second business down in Dublin as well," he now continued. "You have everything so well in hand here, John, that you scarcely have need of me; but if I went down there, we could greatly expand our affairs."

Since all this was entirely true, there was no need to say that, without the presence of Samuel to act as a buffer between them, Henry would have found his brother's solemn and sometimes overbearing presence too difficult to live with.

"So you, too, are leaving me." John nodded slowly.

"Not leaving, John."

"There is much truth in what you say," John continued quietly. "I don't deny it." It was clear that he was not deceived. He knew very well that, behind his brother's genial charm, there was also an ambitious mind, just as ruthlessly determined as he was, and who would find it irksome to take orders from an elder brother. He knew he should not be hurt. "I should come to Dublin to help you set up the manufacture," he could not help adding.

"Ah." Realising the hint of reluctance in his own voice, Henry added quickly: "There is no man who could give me better advice, John, in all Ireland."

"It will be strange not to have you here," John said sadly.

"Dublin is not far from Belfast. I shall be coming back and forth all the time."

"There is another consideration." John's voice showed his concern. "It is easier by far to be a Presbyterian in Ulster than it is in Dublin. Here we are many, and strong, whereas in Dublin . . ." He looked at Henry searchingly. "It will be hard for you, Brother."

Henry returned his gaze evenly. He had given this part of the matter much thought. He gave him a reassuring smile.

"I shall be in God's hands," he said.

It wasn't exactly a lie.

It was Tidy who saw them coming down the lane. He recognised Walsh at once. Fortunatus was riding a handsome chestnut gelding and leading a packhorse. He wore a long coat and a battered old three-cornered hat. But you could see at once, thought Tidy, that he was a gentleman.

Of all the seventeen living grandchildren of Faithful Tidy, Isaac Tidy was one of the poorest. He was short, with oily, crinkly yellow hair, and he stooped forward. But he had his standards. As a youth he had tried several occupations. He had worked for a printer, for he could read and write, but he had disliked the long hours of drudgery and the smell of printer's ink. He had looked for a position as a verger or sexton in a church. And it was while doing so that he had encountered no less a personage than the Dean of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, who had taken him on as his manservant. The position, it might be thought, was somewhat menial for a man whose grandfather, he quietly let you know, had been Chapter Clerk of Christ Church. "I would not have done it," he told his family, "for any other man." Nobody in Dublin would have denied that Dean Jonathan Swift was a man of quite particular stature. And so completely did Tidy identify with his master and his exalted position, so indispensable did he make himself, and so well aware was everybody of his own, not-to-be-sneezed-at ancestry, that when even the junior clergy addressed him as Mr. Tidy, he took it as no more than his due. And if there was one thing Isaac Tidy liked, it was a gentleman.

For Irish society, as far as Tidy was concerned, was divided into two, and only two, classes. There was "the quality," or "the gintry," as he, like many Irishmen, pronounced it; and there was the rest. This single line of demarcation, as mighty and defensive as the Great Wall of China, crossed many social terrains. Dean Swift, a man of birth and education, was gintry, and Tidy wouldn't have served him his claret otherwise. Fortunatus Walsh, the Old English, Protestant member of the Dublin Parliament, with his Fingal estate, was also, obviously, gintry, and so, therefore, was his brother Terence the doctor, despite being a papist. Indeed, even a native Irish Catholic, so long as he was a landowner, or a man of wealth with some plausible claim to princely ancestry, might qualify. But most people you met in the street did not.

He could always tell. He himself didn't always know how he did it. But Tidy usually needed only a few seconds, or at most a minute or two, with any man to sniff him out. And if that man was putting on airs and graces, but he didn't really belong to the gintry, Tidy would know it. He'd be civil enough, usually; he mightn't say anything. But he'd let that man know by subtle means that, even if the Duke of Ormond or the Lord Lieutenant had taken him for a gentleman, he, Isaac Tidy, knew him for the impostor he really was. Under his seemingly subservient gaze, even the boldest intruder began to feel awkward.

As the new arrivals approached Quilca now, Tidy's attention was fixed upon the dark-haired young man who was riding beside Fortunatus. His clothes were carelessly worn. You couldn't tell by that, though. He also was wearing an old three-cornered hat. But where did he get it? Was it his own, or had Fortunatus lent it to him? The strangest thing, though, was that while Fortunatus looked perfectly happy, this young man appeared to be paying him no attention at all. For while his horse walked beside Walsh's, he himself was busy reading a book. Now, would a member of the gintry do that? For once, Tidy wasn't sure.

As they came to Quilca, Fortunatus felt rather pleased with himself. He knew very well that, before going to France, Terence had impressed upon young Smith the need to behave himself. But it had been a stroke of genius on his own part, he considered, to keep the young man occupied with a book.

Having discovered that Garret was not yet acquainted with them, he had brought two small volumes from his own collection of the plays of Shakespeare, thinking that if the young man got bored during his time at Quilca, nobody in that household would be offended if he sat down in a corner to read. Garret, however, had begun the process a little earlier than he had intended. They had ridden quietly enough on the first day of their journey; but when they had stopped at an inn last night and sat down for supper, Garret, after allowing Fortunatus to engage him in conversation for a while, had not considered it necessary to continue their talk, but had taken out King King Lear Lear and proceeded to read it for the rest of the meal, remarking only at the end of that silent repast, "This is very good, you know." and proceeded to read it for the rest of the meal, remarking only at the end of that silent repast, "This is very good, you know."

He had finished it that night. This morning he had enquired if there would be books at Quilca, and when Walsh had answered, "Undoubtedly," he had nodded, then taken out and proceeded to read that play during their journey. He had just come to the end of the third act when they arrived.

If some people might have thought Garret a little rude for so entirely ignoring the kindly gentleman who had brought him there, Fortunatus, on the contrary, was delighted. For if the young man had such a thirst for literature, he thought, no matter what his views, he would be welcomed, and enjoy himself at Quilca.

"Put up your book now, young Garret," he cried happily. "For you are at the gates of heaven."

Quilca: the country retreat of Doctor Thomas Sheridan, Church of Ireland clergyman, friend of Dean Swift, Irishman, and the greatest educator in all Ireland.

It lay beside still waters. A habitation had existed there a long time, for the grass-covered circle of an ancient rath still occupied the site, and was used by Sheridan as an outdoor theatre. But at some time more recently, a modest gentleman's house had been constructed next to the rath, with a commodious stone-walled garden down to the water, where you might almost have supposed yourself at the house of some scholarly canon in one of the great cathedral closes of England, rather than in County Cavan, surrounded by miles of bog land. This was Sheridan's temple of the muses.

It was not in good repair. The roof was missing several slates, the gaps having been obligingly filled by the birds with what appeared to be permanent nests. On the walls, ivy had hastened to make good the many deficiencies of the masonry, covering the crevices which, it was clear, Sheridan himself was never going to trouble about. Whether his head was too full of the classics of Greece and Rome, or whether he had inherited a fine carelessness as to small things from the Irish chieftains from whom he was descended, it would probably never have occurred to Sheridan to dislodge the birds from the roof, which, he doubtless considered, was as much theirs as his own.

And it was Sheridan now, accompanied by the Dean of Saint Patrick's, who came out to greet them.

They were a striking pair. Swift was the older man by twenty years, in his midfifties now. His face, which had once been round with a jaunty chin, had been drawn down to a longer, graver repose. His mouth, once puckish, was thin and ironic; his eyes, still humorous but somewhat sad. Something in his manner indicated that, though disappointed in his hopes of higher English office, he was still Dean of Saint Patrick's, and conscious of the dignity of his office.

Sheridan, beside him, though a person of some consequence himself, was too vague to remember it, and so full of good humour that you suspected he might dig the Dean in the ribs at any moment- which would cause the Dean affectionately to reprove him-or at least attack the older man with an outrageous Latin pun, at which the dean's gravity would probably collapse. With bright eyes and a broad brow, he looked what he was, a merry scholar.

"Who's this, O Fortunate?" he cried, indicating young Smith.

"A kinsman of mine," replied Fortunatus cheerfully, and introduced young Garret to the company.

"He reads while he rides," said Sheridan. "But what, when he rides, does he read?"

"Macbeth, today," said Walsh after Garret had failed to answer.

"Indeed?" Doctor Sheridan turned his kindly eyes upon Garret so that he could not escape them. "I have never known anyone to read Macbeth Macbeth on a horse before, Mr. Smith. The sonnets perhaps, but never on a horse before, Mr. Smith. The sonnets perhaps, but never Macbeth Macbeth. Might I enquire if you like it?"

Garret eyed him warily. He wasn't going to be patronised into any kind of submission.

"It's English, but it's good enough to be Irish," he said quietly. His even gaze offered neither respect nor friendship.

Swift gave Walsh a bleak look. But Sheridan seemed delighted.

"It is," he cried. "It is. Spoken like a true Irishman." He turned to the others. "It really ought to be translated into Irish, you know." He turned back to Garret. "Are your own abilities enough, do you think," he asked him seriously, "to attempt such a task yourself?"

"Perhaps," allowed Garret. "I suppose I might try."

"Capital!" cried Doctor Sheridan. "A young Irish scholar. Welcome, my dear Mr. Smith, to Quilca. Let us go in."

As the party entered the house, only Isaac Tidy remained outside. He had been observing the young man closely.

With his sallow face and his mass of dark hair, this young fellow had not impressed him at all. He must be about twenty, but he had no manners at all. He might be related to Walsh, but even a fine gentleman like that could possess a kinsman without quality. Besides, he'd seen through the young man easily enough. Why was he rude? Because he was defensive. Always a giveaway, that. No, Tidy gathered his observations together, totalled them, arranged them in order, and, in his mind, put young Smith in a box and closed the lid. He was not a gentleman. Never was and never would be. There was something else he didn't like about him, too. He had strange green eyes.

And he'd bear watching. Like as not, Tidy thought, he'll try to steal the silver.

Fortunatus was watching him, too.

As soon as they had been shown their chamber, with an oak bed for himself and a couch on which Garret could perfectly well sleep, it was clear that Sheridan was anxious to take them round his domain, and so they soon gathered outside again with Sheridan and the Dean, and proceeded into the walled garden. As they walked down to the water's edge, Sheridan was in a bubbling mood.

"Those roses, Walsh, are new since your last visit. The lavender has a powerful scent, does it not? I had it from a gentleman in London. Over there, Mr. Smith, I mean to plant a cedar of Lebanon, when I can get one."

Indicating the landscape of woods, drumlins, and bogs all around, he informed Garret: "All this was Sheridan country. The name is one of the oldest in Ireland, you know. The O'Sioradains came from Spain, they say, soon after the time of Saint Patrick. We had the great castle of Togher before the coming of Strongbow, and our lands extended," he gave a fine wave of his arm, "right across Cavan." It was clear to Fortunatus, from a faint look of irony on Swift's face, that the Dean had heard this speech before. "We are descended from the O'Rourkes, princes of Leitrim, the princes of Sligo and Tyrone, from O'Conor Don. . . . I tell you this so that you may know that here you will find the very heart and soul of ancient Ireland."

"I can't see how, when you're a Protestant," said Garret Smith rudely.

Fortunatus was ready to intervene and rebuke the young man, but Sheridan waved him back.

"You are right. It is strange, for most of the Sheridans are Catholic. But I'll tell you how it came about. More than a century ago, my ancestor Donnchaid O'Sioradain was orphaned and taken in by a kindly English clergyman who brought him up in his own religion. My forbear became a clergyman himself, and a close associate of Bishop Bedell of Kilmore." He was in full flood now. "Did you hear of Bedell? He was the only English bishop who preached in the Irish tongue, and even translated the Old Testament into Irish as well. He was a good man, and well loved in Cavan. So much so that when the great rebellion came in '41, not a hair of his head was touched. When the rebels came to his house, they told him he had nothing to fear and that he should be the last Englishman ever put out of Ireland. When he died, half of those who walked beside his coffin were Catholic Irish chiefs." He smiled. "Our history, you see, Garret, since it is the story of people, is not always as simple as we might suppose it to be. And it was inspired by him that my Protestant branch of the Sheridans, which has included several clergymen, tried to make the Church of Ireland a Gaelic church here in Cavan." He sighed. "But circumstances were against us."

Garret said nothing, and Fortunatus had no idea what he thought of the Sheridan family history.

"Come," said Sheridan, "let me show you the rath."

Garret seemed to like the rath. Sheridan's enthusiasm for the theatrical possibilities of the old earthwork was infectious, and he even managed to draw the young man out a little.

"Come, Garret, stand by me here, and let us recite the great speech from Macbeth Macbeth. No need for the book. I'll teach it to you. 'Is this a dagger that I see before me?'" And he proceeded to recite the next thirty-three lines from memory-a feat which quite impressed the young man. "Shakespeare's very well," he announced after they had finished, "but it's Greek drama that should be performed in a circular space like this. So you know Sophocles, Euripides? No? Read them. I'll lend them to you. They say the ancient Irish were a Mediterranean people," he went on, "and I believe it to be so. Look out at the waters of Dublin Bay, Garret, look south down the coast past those volcanic hills, and whom do you see arising from the soft waters? Manannan mac Lir, our Irish sea god. And who is he, if not Poseidon himself, sea god of the Greeks, under another name? We are Greeks, Garret, Greeks," he cried, adding in a lower voice, "taken over by Jesuits." He gave the young man a sly glance when he said this. "I suspect you are a Jesuit in spirit, Garret," he said, gently teasing. "You have a mind like a knife."