As might have been expected, Theobald fell into the snare. His lieutenants were locked up. Undismayed, he prated, with increased vehemence, of a bondage worse than that of Egypt, called on the men of Ulster to break down the Penal Code; pointed out that the oppressor was as vicious as an Eastern despot, that the oppressed was disfigured into the semblance of a beast. The awakened Presbyterians answered to his call; and, when they had sufficiently committed themselves, the watchful chancellor put down his claw on them. Tone's career was short. Very soon he too was cast into gaol, while small fry were allowed to flap their wings till their mission, too, should be accomplished. But Mr. Pitt, if a strong, was not an ungenerous foe. He respected the young man, who was made of the stuff which makes heroes. By his command Theobald was incarcerated in Newgate for a brief space, to chew the cud of his vain imaginings, and then was given back his liberty on condition of departing from the country which he loved. Sadly he accepted the boon which was tossed to him--for choice lay 'twixt exile and the Kilmainham minuet; despatched his faithful wife before him to America; and (Mr. Pitt and the chancellor permitting) called his closest friends around him once again ere he shook their hands for the last time. He stands in the gloaming now, bareheaded, to pour out a last burning exhortation to his disciples as we take up the clue of this our chronicle, whose thread shall no more be broken. It is the lovely evening of the 12th of July, 1795. The scene a triangular field known as 'The Garden' on the shore of Dublin Bay, from whence may be duskily distinguished on the one side the cupolas and spires of the city; on the other, at the end of a promontory jutting out into the sea, the ivy-clad walls of Strogue Abbey, bowered in umbrageous woods. Joy-chimes are wafted on the breeze, and now and again a puff of smoke shows as a white spot across the bay, and a second later the boom of a royal salute shakes the hollyhocks and causes the little group to shiver. It is the anniversary of William, who saved us from wooden shoes. Mr. Curran--apart from the rest--beats his cane testily upon the ground, and murmurs: 'Lord Clare is justified in despising them. The pack of fools! Jigging round Juggernaut at this minute with orange lilies and foolish banners! Even so Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Will my countrymen learn wisdom? Of course not. Never.' The evening light shines full on the face of the young enthusiast, marking in relief the deep cuts chiselled by premature sorrow on his cheek. He is effeminate-looking but genteel, with long lank hair simply caught back behind. His thin figure appears more slight than usual, his pale face more wan, in the anxious eyes of his companions; his hands more thin and feverish as one by one he clasps with a lingering pressure those that are held out to him.