On the train from Thurles to Knocklong Sergeant Wallace never ceased taunting Hogan with his plight. Repeatedly on the way he asked with savage mockery, “Where is Breen now?” and to add to the unhappiness of his helpless prisoner he accompanied each question with a prick of his bayonet. These are some of the things the world did not know, when it looked upon us for a long time as cold-blooded murderers. Many of our men can tell such tales, and produce their own bodies as the evidence, just as poor Hogan’s condition testified to us when we rescued him. Even as the train steamed into Knocklong, Wallace once more repeated his derisive question—“Where are Breen and Treacy now? They sold you to get you hanged.” Ere he had finished his question Breen and Treacy supplied him with the answer—an answer which he did not expect, and one which debarred him from further promotion in this world. And now to resume my narrative. When the last shot had been fired, and when Constable Reilly had fled from the scene, we moved from the platform. The people were terror-stricken. Many had fled in terror from the station. Others had taken shelter by the walls and the gatepiers. A few who were too dumfounded to take flight looked at us in amazement. None dared to approach us, and I am not surprised, for never before had old Galteemore looked down on such a strange party at a hitherto quiet and peaceful country station. There were nine of us all told, one a handcuffed prisoner and four of us wounded and bespattered with the blood of ourselves and our enemies.