The earl, feeling convinced that Lord Russell, who was not much affected by honorable scruples, would obey the order from the queen and arrest O’Neill, advised the latter to fly from Dublin the very night of his arrival. The Ulster prince thought this very good advice and accepted Ormond’s friendly offices. He managed to make his way in safety to Dungannon and at once set about perfecting his preparations for open warfare with the generals of Elizabeth. The latter were not idle either, for Russell surmised O’Neill’s intention and sent Sir John Norreys (Norris), an experienced general, just returned from the wars in Flanders, to command against him. The remainder of the year 1594, as well as some of the succeeding year, was spent in useless negotiations, for both parties well knew that war was now inevitable. O’Donnell, McGuire, and some other chiefs kept up a fierce, but rather desultory, warfare, greatly annoying the English garrisons in the border strongholds. At last, in the early summer of 1595, O’Neill threw off the mask, unfurled the Red Hand of Ulster, and marched against the Castle of Monaghan, held by the enemy. In the midst of a siege but feebly carried on for lack of a battering train, he heard that Norreys, with a powerful force, was advancing northward to raise the siege. O’Neill at once decided to anticipate his movement and moved to Clontibret, about five miles off, and there took post. Norreys soon appeared, and, being a hot soldier, attacked at once. He was met with a veteran firmness that astonished him, and both he and his brother, Sir Thomas Norreys, were wounded in the main attack on the Irish battle-line. At the moment when all seemed lost for England, Colonel Segrave, an Anglo-Norman of Meath, charged the Irish home, with a body of horse, and, for a time, restored the battle. Segrave, himself, rushed madly on O’Neill and the two leaders fought hand to hand for some time, while both armies stood still to witness the result. Mr. Mitchel thus eloquently describes what followed: “Segrave again dashed his horse against the chief, flung his giant frame upon his enemy, and endeavored to unhorse him by the weight of his gauntleted hand. O’Neill grasped him in his arms, and the combatants rolled, in that fatal embrace, to the ground. ‘Now, gallant Saxon! hold thine own— No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel.’