It was a fatal piece of stupidity, but the mischief was irretrievable. The rope-end dangled just out of Robert's reach. The men who had been watching in the inner yard closed in, and levelling their muskets, summoned them to surrender quietly. By the time Sirr's party came up with the panting dean the giant was pinioned with the unlucky rope, while Robert was in the grip of two sturdy soldiers. So much rowdiness was habitually perpetrated within Trinity--such a succession of practical jokes and madcap tricks--that none were likely to heed the hubbub of this chase. Thomas, who had so sagely recommended prudence half an hour since, stood in bitter reverie among his fellow-prisoners, reproaching himself mournfully for his blindness; wondering in self-abasement whether it was not better after all that one who had at starting shown himself so bad a chief, should be thus summarily deposed from office. For he saw at once that his fate would be the same as that of those already sacrificed--either exile beyond seas, or dreary rotting in Newgate or Kilmainham--for was not his signature appended, in the capacity of newly-elected president, to the paper which loyal Cassidy had tried to swallow? And what a covey had been captured beside himself! what gaps there would be now in the already thinned ranks of those who were prepared to win or perish! Curran's words had come true with regard to the capture--was his other assertion equally correct? Was there a Judas in their midst who was handing them over to the avenger, the while he gave the kiss of fellowship? The thought was too horrible. Whom was he to suspect? Not Cassidy, or Bond, or McLaughlin, or his fervent brother Robert--or Curran himself. None of these--who then? It must be Terence Crosbie, whom they had weakly admitted behind the veil, trusting to his honour as a gentleman. His honour! One of the semi-English aristocrats, whose brother was a Blaster--whose mother was Clare's dearest friend. Scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and he stood staring at his own folly. It was evident that Terence had coquetted with them merely to study their plans. That frank air of _bonhomie_ was assumed. He was like his brother Glandore--only more crafty and astute instead of imbecile; that was all. He was deceiving Curran now as he had deceived them, and Curran was watching over him with the solicitude of a father. It was all too horrible--the world a place of blackest infamy--Ireland the darkest spot upon its face. Yet no. His better judgment revolted against such a belief. The fresh air was balmy; the yellowing sky of surpassing loveliness. Man, if made of stuff so innately vile, would never have been placed in so fair a casket. Facts are stubborn things, though. The meeting had been betrayed by somebody. Who was the wretch?