The royalist commandant was amazed at what he saw. It was a Pandemonium--but one whose horrors were evanescent. He only had to wait under his shelter. One little hour of drunken madness such as this, and the day would be his after all, in spite of apparently adverse destiny. The insurgents thought no more of a foe who had only retired out of sight down a by-street. They laughed and sang, and danced, and whirled in idiot frenzy; then fell into the gutter--drunk! By three in the afternoon such of the mob as could totter were hunted out of the town--those who remained were handed over to the tormentor. In the alleys and byways bodies choked the path three deep; two thousand more were borne away on carts. New Ross remained to his Majesty King George; but the terrors of the black 5th of June were not yet over. The gates were closed on the expulsion of the rabblement so quickly that many stragglers among the royalists were left without to batter on the wood in vain. The wounded amongst them were mercilessly piked, unless by a Romanist shibboleth they could 'bless themselves.' If they could go through the formula they might be saved--if not, they would, as a natural consequence, be butchered. A woman, vagrant in the turmoil, beheld a wounded friend who was a Protestant, and knew that he could not pass the ordeal. She knelt by him, whispered some words which he repeated, and for that time was saved. But a more awful vengeance than this in the lanes around New Ross had been already wreaked away at Scullabogue. I have mentioned above that Kearnes' detachment had come from Carrickbyrne, close to which lies Scullabogue; but I did not mention that at that place there was a goodly barn--strong, well-built--which was excellently useful as a prison-house, and at this time contained some three hundred and twenty prisoners--men, women, and children. When the tide at New Ross began to turn against the insurgents, Father Roche--whose reason had toppled, who was mad in that his influence had shrivelled away from him--swore to be revenged somehow, not on his own erring flock, but on those whom the ill-conditioned god of war was permitting to win the day! It was one of those awful moments when blinding ferocity dictates unchecked, which make one almost believe in the existence of Lucifer; when the human tendency to evil seems to pile itself up into a monument of what wickedness may be able to accomplish. A messenger was despatched to Scullabogue with a command to immolate the prisoners. Their gaoler, appalled at this cold-blooded order, refused to obey it unless the directions were more explicit. These arrived in due course, very clear indeed. 'The priest says the prisoners must be put to death.' There was no disobeying this. Croppies took off their long coats to carry out the priest's decree. The handful of men were brought out and shot; the doors were firmly barred; the barn was set ablaze there is no use in going into detail.