At the garden entrance stood a trooper on guard, who brought his gun to the port and demanded what I wanted, "I am here to see his honour, at his bidding." "What is your name?" "Barry Gallagher." The soldier gave a whistle, and a comrade from within approached, to whom he spoke a few words. "Wait there!" said the sentinel to me, closing the gate as if I were a beggar, and resuming his pacing to and fro. I swallowed my pride as best I could. If I had been fool enough to flatter myself I was to be welcomed with open arms and made much of for yesterday's exploit, this was a short way of undeceiving me. For a quarter of an hour I kicked my heels on the narrow causeway, looking up sometimes at the windows of the house for a chance glimpse of my little lady. How would she meet me after all these years? Would it be mere graciousness to one who had done her a service, or something more? I should soon know. The sentinel presently opened the gate and beckoned me to approach. "Pass, Gallagher," said he, motioning me to follow his comrade. The latter conducted me up the garden, and round the house to the yard, where a strange scene met my eyes. A soldier stood on guard at each doorway. In the middle of the open space was a table, and at it three chairs, in which sat his honour, another gentleman, and a choleric-looking man in the uniform of a captain of horse. Standing before the table handcuffed, and in the custody of three policemen, stood Flanagan and his comrade, whom I had last left back to back on Black Hill Road. His honour recognised my arrival with a cold nod, and Flanagan, who was apparently under examination at the moment, scowled viciously. The other prisoner, who seemed as much fool as knave, looked with white face first at his judges, then at the doors, and finally with a listless sigh straight before him. "How many does your society consist of?" his honour's fellow-magistrate was inquiring of Flanagan as I arrived. "Och, your honour, there you puzzle me," began the shifty informer; "it might be--" The officer brought his fist down on the table with a sound which brought all the soldiers about the place to attention, and made the prisoners start. "Speak out, sir, or you shall swing on that hook on the wall in two minutes." "Arrah, colonel dear, sure I'm telling you. There's forty-eight sworn men, and that's the truth." "You are the secretary," said the magistrate. "Give me a list of their names." "'Deed, sir, my memory is not what it was, and the book--" "Here 'tis, captain," said a soldier, advancing with a salute, and holding out a small copy-book; "it was found on him." "That will do," said the magistrate, putting it down without examining it. "Who is your captain or leader?" "Who's the captain?" repeated the prisoner vaguely. "You hear what I say," replied the magistrate. "Answer the question at once!" "The captain? Sure, sir, it's Tim Gallagher, own brother to the man who's standing there."