In his expulsion, or rather, withdrawal from College (for he had anticipated the action of the authorities), his father, of course, approved and stood by him, although Robert’s entry upon any professional career was fatally compromised. His “highly distinguished family, striking talents, and interesting manners,” could not mend that. He may even have taken at once the plain godly oath of the United Irishmen, and become an active agent for the cause. Within the twelvemonth he had bestirred himself so effectually that a warrant was actually issued for his arrest. For some reason or other it was not put in force: even thus early there began to be woven about him the web of curious cross-purposes in which, in the end, he was to be caught and strangled. It became advisable to go to France, to see the First Consul and Talleyrand on an all-important matter. It would be well to reach a quiet place beyond espionage, where inhibited rites might go on. The young conspirator had military histories in process of annotation, plans of campaign in mountainous districts to perfect, seditious conferences to hold with colleagues and subordinates, and, incidentally, even poems to commit for his sad country’s sake. And there was another excellent reason why he found it convenient to go away. One of Robert Emmet’s college mates was Richard, youngest son of the John Philpot Curran, “ugly, copious, full of wit and ardour and fire,” the Curran of “fifty faces and twice as many voices,” of Byron’s lasting admiration. Richard had a sister Sarah, aged not quite eighteen when Robert Emmet, three years her senior, fell in love with her. Sentimental invention has placed their first meeting at a ball in a Wicklow country-house; but it would rather seem as if, in the compact society of a gay little city like Dublin before the Union, they must have known each other fairly well from childhood, especially as the two families were then acquainted. That fatal mutual affection was to endure long vicissitudes and to prove invincible.