The good lawyer trotted back to Dublin. For a whole day he interviewed influential persons--strove to obtain votes and money; but the torpor of fear chilled every heart. Not a finger would any of the cits stir for Tone--who had sacrificed his all for them. Then Councillor Curran, determined not to be beaten, went to the Sessions-House alone, and summoned my Lord Kilwarden, by virtue of his office, to claim the body of his godson. My lord gladly responded to the challenge. He despatched his sheriff to the provost-marshal, demanding that the culprit should be resigned to him; but that functionary declined to give up his prisoner. Curran groaned in spirit. His last chance was the Viceroy; but his excellency refused to interfere. There was nothing more to be done--absolutely nothing! The little lawyer wended his way back to Strogue in the evening, quite exhausted. Doreen listened as he unfolded his budget, and, the last remnant of her artificial apathy melting away, girded up her loins for a struggle. She was not prepared, she said, to see the game so tamely given up. Tone first--then Terence! No, not without a supreme effort to save them. He of the silver tongue had failed? Well, then, she would even go now herself, and try what a simple woman's pleading could accomplish. She rose up straightway--it would not do to go quite alone--and bade Sara put on her habit. The two girls would force themselves into the presence of Lord Cornwallis, and wring those precious lives from the executioner. In the first instance they would importune the chancellor. Perhaps he would go with them and add his weight. Though it was growing dark, Curran offered no resistance. It was a last chance; their sacred mission should protect the maidens. Out of delicacy he had refrained from telling them that Theobald was cast for execution on the morrow. But Doreen remained not long in ignorance. First she directed her course to the provost, at whose forbidding portals she found a stout woman quarrelling with a sentry. On perceiving the riders the woman rushed into the road, and clung to Doreen's skirts. 'They'll kill him in the morning, acushla!' she cried, weeping, 'and then they'll kill the other! It's your cousin that they'll be murdering, and his wicked old mother sits like a carved stock. I know your purty face, though we've never spoke a word. Sure, ye're the judge's child. Go, now, and spake with him. Stay! I'll go too, for it's the gift of the gab that comes from heaven. They'll be clever if they beat the two of us!' It was Madam Gillin, who had been refused admittance to the cell of her _protégé_ because his comrade lay under sentence of death, and had not yet been removed to solitude.