 The theater presents Don McNeil and Roddy McDowell. The mutual network in cooperation with Family Theater presents Roddy McDowell in The Flame and the Sword. To introduce the drama, your host, Don McNeil. Thank you, Tony Lafranco. Family Theater's only purpose is to bring to everyone's attention a practice that must become an important part of our lives. If we're to win peace for ourselves, peace for our families, and peace for the world. Family Theater urges you to pray. Pray together as a family. Tonight, Family Theater takes great pleasure in presenting The Flame and the Sword, starring Roddy McDowell as Hugh O'Donnell, with Dan O'Hurley as the narrator. Victory lies not in senseless armor, nor in the vain din of cannon, but in living and courageous souls. The fathers of the 16th century, leaderless, invaded by England, with even some of her own nobles betraying her by pledging their loyalty to Queen Elizabeth. Aaron was prone until, in the North, a smoldering fire flamed forth again. The predestined boy had come, whose advent at Thier Connell's Sear had long ago foretold. The long-promised leader of Aaron, young Hugh O'Donnell, A. O'Rour, the golden-haired, golden-voiced, deadly foe of England, whose flaming star rose to brighten the dark skies of Ireland. Elizabeth knew what to do. Young Hugh was captured, and along with Art O'Neill, imprisoned in Dublin Castle, the seat of English rule in Aaron. For four long years, they languished in chains, and then, on one snowy Christmas Eve in 1591, the guards and soldiers of the Queen were gathered together in the banquet hall to celebrate the Yuletide. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, let the wind blow. The Storm-Raw! There's warmth, food, drink, and good cheer in Dublin Castle tonight. For all same, our noble prisoners, the sons of Kings! Ha-ha-ha! Bob Bear! O'Donnell and O'Neill should congratulate themselves that they're out of the storm. It's no fit night for two so young! Ha-ha-ha! Even their royal blood would run bluer and colder in the storm! Make no mistake, gentlemen. It's worth our heads to see that those same prisoners do stay within Dublin Castle. Well, they're in chains and us to guard them. Who dare to attempt to free the lads, my captain? There are men enough in there into attempts at a mad deed. Tia Connell awaits his coming, and his mother has devoted her life freeing him. Much good that will do her. She'll need as many lives as a cat to see Hugh O'Donnell free again. Ha-ha-ha! Well, in spite of that opinion, when the watchman cries the midnight hour, the guard will visit the boys again to wish them a ripe merry Christmas. Ha-ha-ha! I'll refile Hugh. The Elizabethans hear nothing but the voice of their own appetites. More to eat, more to drink, is the loud cry of their bellies. Aye. Shall I hold a lamp closer? Nave, it is almost done out. This is the last link on your chain and mine. There. And now, stand free. Oh, how fine it is to be rid of that iron weight. God bless the friend that managed to send the file to us. I'll never forget him. Nor will I ever forget every second nor Neil and O'Donnell were in chains. They'll pay dearly for every penny weight of that iron art. We're not out of Dublin Castle yet. You may begin collecting that just debt once we are free of these gloomy walls. Right, Tia Connell. We'll rip the hangings from the bed. There. And then? Not them together, not them true and strong. There's no guard in the courtyard below, Hugh. I thought as much. The soldiers of the Queen have no love for discomfort, especially on the eve of our Saviour's birth. That's true. Here, now. I'll aid you in spending up the rope. Daniel Capehart, it's better whether to go a journey and merely double up and hose. Aye. It's on. Now, let me get that rope. No, I'll go first to test its strength. But, Hugh, let me go first. I'll have it. I'll cause enough confusion to allow you to vanish in the storm. You must be safe. We'll both be safe, my friend. It's by no accident that we flee Dublin Castle on Christmas Eve. That's true. Come then, Art, and follow me down the wall away from the castle and death. Oh, it looks so far down to the courtyard. I fear we'll fall. Art, take courage, my friend. Let yourself down. It is not far to freedom. Only the wind and snow make it seem so. Art! Art, what is it? A stone came loose. It stuck my leg. You're not hurt too badly. It pains. But not enough to stop me here to be found swinging like a puppet on a string. Spoken like an old needle. Come, lad. It's not much further. I'm down. That feet rest on solid ground. And here I come. You are hurt. That cursed rock. Oh, nay, Hugh. Forget my little pain. Do you see any of the guards? No. We'll be free as birds once we're across that moat. That water looks dreadful black and cold. It's no colder than our prison friend. Come now. Let's have it. What have you seen, Hugh? Milards, I'll give you a hand to help you up. My friend first. I'll boost him from below. Careful now. And up he comes. Now, Hugh. Aye, sir. Ready, Milard? Ready. Give me your hand, boy. Here, sir. Here I am. Now for the horses. Oh, it is freezing cold in only double the hose. I need her for warmer quarters. Aye, I have a confession, O'Donnell, sir. The horses were discovered and taken away. Oh, no. I fear such a thing. Ah, but we're free art. And you, boy, you have some other plan of escape. I brought you good stout shoes for the two of you. It was all I could muster, Milard. I wish I had warm cloaks for you. Well, the shoes are enough. We've good stout legs that we'll have to help my friend, but we'll manage. I'll stay with you until you reach safety, O'Donnell. Good lad. Now, let's not tarry here any longer. They're sure to discover our escape on the next watch. Come, let us go. I don't know, O'Donnell, if quit this hell. What? Escape the chains they did and fashioned a rope from their bed hangings. Now, quick, on your feet, every man of you. They can't have strayed far enough after them. Oh, Captain, to be forced out on a night like this? After all, they're only boys. Only boys. One is the son of Shane O'Donnell, whose head we piked before the same castle. Aye. And Hugh O'Donnell is storied and hailed as Ireland's promise leader. Yeah, that is true. If ever they reach Donegal, they'll be the devil to pay and worse. We'll all have to answer to Elizabeth. Now, after them and don't return until you find them. On and on into the deeper darkness went the boys, past the outskirts of the city, on toward Sleeve Rua, the Red Mountain. With the soldiers of the Queen fastened their heels. It grew so cold in the lonely heights that the air was like a knife, stabbing deep into their lungs. Hugh's own feet were blistered, they dropped in exhaustion under the ledge of rock. It was then the horse boy mentioned the thing he had in mind. Milord, O'Donnell. Aye. I'll leave you now. I would not blame you. Blame your boy, save yourself. It is not my self I'm thinking to save, but you. I'll seek out Fear O'Brien. Fear? Oh, if you could reach him. By making haste, I may be in time to bring your help, Milord. Go then. And God speed you. That night passed. And then the second day at night, and while their furious foe tramped up and down the White Mountain in the deadly search, the helpless boys, only half protected by the rocky ledge, lay cradled in the snow. When the morning of the third day broke and art was rapidly growing weaker, O'Donnell desperately sought some sort of food for his friend, found some poor leaves, and brought them to the stricken one. Here, Art. Try to eat these. These dry leaves. Oh, no, you know. They're not much too true, but they're all we have. See, the blue animals, they feed on the poor grass and leaves when the snow flies, and they survive. Animals. True, we're rational, but we're also like animals in that we too must eat. You? I? We'll be captured again. Nay, my friend. Oh, yes. Yes, I know it. Remember, as they captured you from McSweeney, Lord of Fanat. And where else would a man be but before a good warm fire? What's the need of me, have you, Hugh? Surely not enough to show town the walls of me castle. But there's a merchant ship out in the Loch Milord, a beautiful ship, and they're puttin' to come ashore here. Well, it won't be the first nor the last merchant ship to sail into Loch Swilly, Hugh. The stewards can care for him. But may we board her? Board a stranger ship. Oh, she's beautiful, McSweeney, and filled with strange adventures, and her sails swellin' with the wind of the four corners of the earth. You've forgotten your own youth, my lord. No, no, I've not forgotten my youth, O'Donnell. Nor have I forgotten my responsibility to you. I'm fostering you to keep you safe for Aaron. But what's the harm in sampling her cargo? She carries spices and rare foods. Oh, rare foods, eh? Aye. Then we'll board her, Hugh. There's sure to be no harm if we take her retin' you. No harm at all, McSweeney, unless we eat too much. And is this in truth, Hugh, O'Donnell? That it is, Captain. And this is McSweeney, Lord of Fanard. I'm properly proud to greet you both. Take him, men! What manner of devil's courtesy is this, Captain? Infamy bears many names. To England, it's O'Donnell. What? This is an English ship? Under the Queen's orders. We've come for you, Prince Ling, to take you to Dublin Castle. No! He'll not take him! But we have... Aye, McSweeney, let me go. But you, Captain. Yes? You will free my foster father and his retin' you. With you and our trap, O'Donnell, of course. We have no further use for the Lord of Fanard. I'll have your life, Captain. That remains to be seen, McSweeney. And now, farewell. No, Art. They'll never fool me again that way. Never proffer the hand of friendship with a dagger ready and waiting for the heart. Or just wait, Art. Soon we'll be on the farms again. We'll be able to fish again. To build again. To live again and hunt. Remember our stag hunts? The bugle call? The excitement of the chaser? And then it lasts that the kill? Art. The closing twilight of that day. O'Brien's soldiers found them. Not at once. But the light of the lantern was dim. And the boys were mostly hidden by the drifted snow. They seemed as dead. The rough soldiers were deeply grieved as they uncovered the white faces and limp, motionless limbs of the noblest youths in all the land. Yes, Art was dead. But Hughes still lived, though painfully injured. They wrapped him in their cloaks and formed the litter of their spears to bring them to the mighty house of Fierco-Briand. And O'Donnell's escape sent a thrill throughout the whole of Aeron. Enter, Connell. You, O'Donnell. The vaunted saviour of Ireland. Crippled in one leg. You, my son. Yes, Mother. Why have you locked yourself away like this, Hugh? Alone in this gloomy tower room. Your friends are asking for you. Are they? My dear, all the shouting these past days, all the rattling of swords, waving of the banners and sweet music of the pipes is for you, Hugh O'Donnell. I know. And I believe me in Yindu. I'm not ungrateful. It is we who are grateful, son. Did you not rise from your painful bed and laugh at the doctors and rescue me from Donegal Castle to drive the Enverus onto your Connell? Wasn't that the very least I could do? You've sacrificed your life for me, Doctor O'Donnell of the Ions. For you and my country. All the weary years you were in prison, I negotiated and plotted for your release. Hugh, you were born to free Aaron. It was foretold. Aye, it was foretold. Son, what pains they? Is it because of Arthur O'Donnell's death? He was my best friend. He wanted to live so much for Aaron. But there's something more. Can you not unburden your heart to me, my dear? I am your mother. It's...it's my lame leg. You were lame in the cause. I know. You would not mourn a battle scar. May I count that as a badge of prowess? Then count thy infirmity as a brighter badge of courage, my son. Let it forever remain, G, of why we are fighting. Thank ye, Inyindu. You've healed my heart. And my leg. And no, I have another matter to discuss, my son. Aye? Your father is old and ill. I know. He is tired of this world where treachery and dark ways prevail. He seeks the goal of all war-worn Irish princes, you. You mean a...a monastery? Yes, and soon. But then... You will become the O'Donnell. Your father will gladly give place to a son so fit to rule. Mother. Mother in all my grandest dreams I never thought that... It would happen so soon. God works in wondrous ways, Hugh. Soon you will stand on the Rock of Dune, the immemorial throne of the O'Donnells, and take over the wand of authority of your clan. And so it was. On a fair day in May, young Hugh stood on the Rock of Dune, the white wand in his hand. This white wand is the symbol of what your rule must be. White and straight, pure and strong. You are taking your noble title at a time of crisis in Ireland. She has great need of you, Hugh O'Donnell. Hold high your torch that others may see and follow. Dedicate thyself to thy destiny, the leader, young and valiant, who will free Aaron from the foreigner. I turn thrice from left to right, and thrice from right to left in honour of the whole eternity. I look from every point upon my territory. O'Donnell, above! The spear was flung through Tyrconil. The English invaders were driven out and the disloyal Irish lords who'd sworn allegiance to the foreigners were taught that O'Donnell was their only chief. Hugh swept through Ulster, driving out the English sheriffs, invaded Connacht, hurling Bigham's forces to destruction, and a man named Hugh O'Neill watched and wondered and finally sent for the O'Donnell. Your fame has marched before you, O'Donnell. Your star has risen and shined high in the north over Ireland. And I've heard much of you, O'Neill. You do not share my enthusiasm over our meeting? As O'Neill, I, but as the Earl of Tyrone, Nay. I did what I thought was expedient. I had to learn whether I and other men like me could love under English rule. My agency never won freedom. And what did you learn of English rule and Englishmen? I visited London to answer the charges against me. Charges accusing you of being loyal to Aaron? And why shouldn't you, an Irishman, be loyal to your country? It was not only for myself I spoke O'Donnell, but for my country. A thought perhaps there might be a... a middle ground. Appeasement. No, no, no. Diplomacy. You must be a master diplomat. You did win favour with Elizabeth. Aye, you won her for a time. But it was only a bright ribbon and a false wind. O'Neill, she's already decided upon your destruction. You have a big mouth for so young and inexperienced a chieftain, O'Donnell. Inexperienced? Hell chained and captive for four long years in Dublin Castle? Losing my best friend and your clansman art, O'Neill, in the escape? And riding, fighting, hungering, striving ever since? Do you call that inexperience, O'Neill? I'm sorry, O'Donnell. I did not bring you here to quarrel. There's been enough of that between the Irish chiefs. Well put. There's been too much. You spoke truly. I was urged to go to Dublin to answer to certain other charges against me. I remember as though it were yesterday. I walked into the council chamber as a man who had nothing to dread. You would have been arrested in that moment had not the black Earl of Ormond declared that he would not use treachery against any man. You knew that? Those were his very words. The Vixen Queen is not the only one to send spies to high places. Arman not only refused to arrest you, but warned you to leave Dublin that same night before Elizabeth's Lord Deputy arrested you. Your knowledge of that convinces me of sorcery. Not sorcery, but faith, O'Neill. Faith that you will forsake your false title of the Earl of Tyrone and become again the O'Neill. Ireland needs you. Ireland has you, O'Donnell, the Corrieilish. I am the sword. You're the brain. The statesman who completes the politics of the nation above the politics of the clan. If you but will. I do know the root of our country's weakness. And together we can pull out that decaying root. O'Neill, won't you forsake that middle ground? Won't you join us? I will join you, O'Donnell. I'll cast off my English title and again be a free Irishman. To the death. To the death. My hand on it. And mine. O'Donnell, in spite of all my years of diplomacy and appeasement, you know, you've maneuvered me into climbing off my fence and fighting England to the death. The brain and the sword. For Ireland. For Ireland. The brain. And the flame. And the sword. And thus, O'Donnell and O'Neill marched the flaming high road to Ulster and the Yellowford. Across the plain that lay before O'Neill's camp, a deep trench had been dug and an embankment four feet high. Bugs stretched on either side of this plain and a muddy yellow stream flowed into the trench. Beyond the plain was a scattered wood of Hawthorne and Juniper. Beyond this again, pits had been dug and covered with hay and brambles by the Irish forces. A body of light-armed Irish troops were stationed in the woods. Beardless youths, about 500 armed with muskets. This was the wood through which Bagonal had to pass. They're coming now. Musket, tears and horse. Three columns of pikemen. Cavalry and a second division in their air. All right, me lads. Have at them. Those sooner had Bagonal struggled from the woods and reached the plain with the remnants of his troops. Then he saw his men falling into pits. There were skirmishers, retirements, charges and advancements and by the time they confused Elizabethans knew what they were about, they found themselves already almost routed facing O'Neill's camp across the Yellow Ford. There was the ditch lined by your men, O'Neill. And there the battle raged. The brass cannon made a breach in our ranks soon enough. Three of Bagonal's divisions got over the ditch. But the Irish pikemen formed again and rushed the musketeers. And then, then it happened. Bagonal oppressed by the weight of his armour and in the heat of battle raised his visor. And I'm proud to say that it was my bullet ended his long career. The Irish horse charged, the enemy broken thread. Or nothing on this earth could have stopped that helter-skelter, O'Neill. True to prophecy, the battle of the Yellow Ford was fought and won by Irishmen. The confederation of Ulster is a certainty. I, and won by so few, against so many. What? It proves again, O'Donnell, that victory lies not in senseless armour, nor in the vain den of cannon, but in living and courageous souls. You know that now. You taught me that. You never questioned your star. You, O'Donnell. My star is Aaron's star, O'Neill. And who could do what but follow that pure light? May God bless our beautiful land forever and ever. This is Don McNeill again. You know I could borrow a thought from the title of our drama because prayer has been called the flame of the living and the sword of the saints. But I'm going to try to develop another thought. Just the other day, I heard prayer like it not to flame or sword, but to a blind man's stick. Who of us hasn't seen the wonders that a blind man's white stick can perform? Makes every face the face of a sympathetic friend and every arm the aiding arm of a neighbor. What king scepter? What shiny knight's sword? What magic wand could instantly command as many allies as this slender, harmless, dependable white stick? There are few things that can pacify the clamour of automobile drivers at a busy intersection, but I've seen a blind man's stick do it. Traffic signals are a policeman's club having a hundredth of its power. In Times Square, on Michigan Boulevard, at Hollywood and Vine, I've seen the look it can bring to the faces of drivers who an instant before would commit mayhem for just an inch of territory. That little white stick seems to make everyone say, there but for the grace of God goes I. It silences every selfish thought. And prayer is like that. Gives us courage, confidence, direction, hope. It can pacify the clamour of an angry heart. It makes us recognize every man as a brother or neighbor. It helps us to pick our journey through life's darkness, avoiding obstacles in our path as we tap our way toward a goal that our minds tell us is and must be there, although it's often hidden from our eyes. And the unifying force of family prayer is especially needed in our times. For the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. With music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theatre by Joseph F. Mansfield. This is Tony LaFranco expressing the wish of Family Theatre that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to join us next week at the same time when Family Theatre will present Gene Lockhart and Mona Freeman in the story of the Little Tree. Join us, won't you? Broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios The Mutual Broadcasting System.