At last I found myself on the banks of a river. I knew it must be the Tolka. I had no place to seek shelter. My one aim was to put some distance between me and my pursuers. I could not go out on the road to seek a bridge. I had to cross the river, and there was only one way of doing it. Fortunately it was not deep and as I waded through the cold piercing water I could feel it trickling through my leg where some of the bullets had made a clear passage through my flesh. I cannot say that I felt the cold too keenly. I suppose there are times when nature is dead to minor feelings. When I got to the other side of the river I saw that I was close to some houses. I knew they must be the houses in Botanic Avenue and that I was at the back. I could struggle no further. Blood was pouring from me all the time. My only hope, if I was not to drop down and die of exhaustion and exposure, was to seek the shelter of some one of these roofs. I do not know what instinct impelled me, but I selected one particular back door. It was as if an angel whispered that that door and that only held out hope to me. I knocked. I realised well enough what a spectacle I must present now, at 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning, half-clad, dishevelled and covered with blood. A second time I knocked. A man opened the door. My appearance was sufficient explanation, but I mumbled a few words to say that I needed shelter. He did not ask me who I was, or how I had received my wounds. He simply said, “Come in. Whatever we can do for you we’ll do it.” He and his wife took me in. The latter quickly summoned Nurse Long, who lived nearby. They dressed my wounds and gave me some stimulant, which the nurse procured from my friends, the Flemings, at imminent danger to her own life, having to pass twice through the excited cordon of soldiers in the small hours of that morning. Then I learned who my good Samaritan was. He was Mr. Fred Holmes, whose sympathies, I believe, were on the other side. But he and his wife tended me that morning with care and attention that they might have bestowed upon a son or brother. There was no need to tell them how I had come to be in that plight. Yet they took me in and saved my life. Gratitude is but a poor word to express my feelings towards that family. In the morning I told them who I was. They assured me that everything in their power would be done to enable me to recover and to get to a place of safety, for I knew I could not stay long in a house which was not half a mile from the scene of the battle. CHAPTER XXII. MISSED BY INCHES. Early in the morning—still October 12th, 1920—Mrs. Holmes at my request took a note to Phil Shanahan’s, with a message for Dick McKee. I wanted to be removed as soon as possible. I also wanted to report to Headquarters that Sean Treacy had been killed in the same engagement.