I had brief time for consideration. To try the ford, guarded as it was, were idle; and to take the bridge, was to select as awkward a leap as ever proved the proverbial courage of a Roscommon rider. The latter only afforded any chance of escape; for I should inevitably be knocked upon the head at the ford, while floundering through the river. Accordingly, I nerved myself’ for the effort--took my mare in hand;--she was the sweetest fencer that ever carried an Irish gentleman!--the spur was answered by a rush at speed,--the bridge cleared at stroke--and we landed in sporting style, a full length beyond the chasm. [Illustration: 0051] So far “the work went bravely on.” Although vigorously attacked by several assailants, blows from sticks and stones failed in unhorsing me, and I nearly succeeded in running the gauntlet safely. Two of these brigands were still to be passed, and I charged them at a slashing gallop. They retreated to either side, and avoided the threatened collision; but as I came thundering past, a rope dexterously thrown over the horse’s head, caught me across the chest, and threw me from the saddle on the road with stunning violence. Before I could recover, I was seized, tied hand and foot, a sack thrown over me, lifted on a horse, and an intimation given, that on the slightest effort at outcry or escape, I should be consigned to the deep, _sans cérémonie_. The better portion of valour is discretion--and I determined to keep quiet--for however loose in keeping ordinary pledges these excellent persons might be, when a drowning match was in the ease, I felt assured that they would redeem their promise to the letter. CHAPTER V. I AM MISTAKEN FOR A GAUGER IN IRELAND, A GREAT MISTAKE. “It was a wild and strange retreat As ere was trod by outlaws’ feet.”--Scott. As I hail no ambition to make a Turkish exit, and cause a vacancy in the Twenty-first Fusileers, to use a bull, “even before it was filled,” I submitted with Christian fortitude, and held my peace accordingly. Unresisted, the captors bore me across a shingly beach; for I heard the loose stones rattle as their hurried steps displaced them. In a few minutes they reached a boat, and bundled me in with scanty ceremony, as “honest Jack” was ejected into Datchet Mead. Directly, several men jumped across the thwarts--the keel grated on the gravel--the oars fell rapidly on the water--and away we went, Heaven knew whither! On leaving the beach, my captors appeared to consider a longer silence unnecessary; for they laughed and jested with each other, although what seemed marvellous good fun to them, was death to me. “Good night, Tom,”--said a pleasant gentleman from the shore,--“God bless the venture! sure it’s the first ye carried of the kind!” “Don’t,” observed a second, “make mistakes; men are not malt; and be sure ye don’t give the contents of yonder sack a steeping.”