Sergeant Wallace was in charge of the police party, and with him were Reilly and Ring amongst the others. They marched their prisoner to Roskeen Barracks, and at once sent word to Thurles that they had captured an armed man whose Christian name was Sean. A police van from Thurles soon arrived to escort their prisoner to that town, and one of the party recognised him as one of the much-wanted Soloheadbeg men. After his arrest one of the Meaghers ran down the road to Patrick Kinnane’s house, between Meagher’s and O’Keeffe’s, and asked him to convey word to the rest of us of Sean’s arrest. When Sean Hogan fell into their hands the Peelers adopted every subterfuge to get him to divulge information. First they tried to coax the information from him, for they saw he was but a mere boy. They failed in their efforts, and then their tactics changed. They struck him, and beat him unmercifully, but again they failed in their purpose; for if Sean Hogan was but a boy in years, he was a man in strength of character and loyalty to his comrades. Not a word would he tell even though they were to torture him to death. Then they tried still another plan. One of the policemen, pretending to be his friend and adviser, told him quietly that he had been betrayed by Breen and Treacy, who, they said, were then on their way to London, having been granted a free pardon and a huge sum of money for the information they had given. This was followed by a straight hint that if Hogan would supplement the information by whatever knowledge he had of the organisation and its plans, he, too, would be well rewarded, and would find himself helped to leave the country instead of finding himself on the way to the gallows. But J. J. knew his old comrades too well to think for a moment that they had betrayed or deserted him. All the threats and cajolery of the Peelers were in vain. He refused to answer their question, and in the end, did not pretend to hear them. At last he was put on board the train for Cork Jail on the evening of the 13th May. Thurles is only about 30 miles from Knocklong, and by the time that station was reached history was once more to repeat itself. The night before when I rode by Ballyneety my mind had gone back to the days of Sarsfield; to the historic episode of the destruction of King William’s troop train. There was no story I loved more as a boy. It was a tale of daring and of dramatic triumph, and I pictured the dismay of the English troops whose password was “Sarsfield,” when in response to their challenge came the grim reply, “Sarsfield—and Sarsfield is the man!” Often when I was a boy I dreamed of how proud I would have been, were I with Sarsfield’s little band that night riding out from Limerick to strike terror into the hearts of the invaders. [Illustration: RAILWAY STATION, KNOCKLONG.]