He found the roads round Donegore Hill guarded by sentries. The camp on the top of the old rath had all the appearance of being held by disciplined troops. There was little sign of the disorganisation and panic which often follow defeat. The men were calm, self-possessed, and reasonable, but they were hopeless. Neal realised that this army, at least, would do no more serious fighting. The men were anxious to make terms for themselves and for their leaders. They were perfectly well aware that they were beaten, and could not expect to make any head against their enemies. Neal found James Hope, and was warmly greeted by him. “When I discovered that we’d left you behind,” said Hope, “I made up my mind that you must have been shot down along with your uncle and the fine fellows who made a stand with him. Ah, Neal, we’ve lost many--your uncle, Felix Marier, poor Moylin, and many another. One killed here, another there, but all of them in doing their duty. But we mustn’t talk of these things, lad. Tell me, what brings you here?” “Need you ask?” said Neal. “I am come to fight it out to the last.” “Take my advice and slip off home. There’s no good to be done by stopping with us. Things are desperate. Most of our people are going home to-day. M’Cracken and a handful--not more than a hundred--are going to Slievemis in the hope of being able to join Monro in County Down, or perhaps to get through to the Wexford men.” “I will go with you.” “No, no, lad, you’ve done enough. You’ve done a man’s part. Go home now.” “What are you going to do?” “I? Oh, I’m only a poor weaver. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m going on with M’Cracken.” “So am I. Listen to me, James Hope, till I tell you what is in my mind--till I tell you what has happened to me since yesterday.” They sat on the grassy slope of the old rath. The wide plain stretched before them--green, well wooded, beautiful. There lay Adair’s plantations, the Six Mile Water winding like a serpent among the fields, the woods of Castle Upton, and the young trees on Lyle Hill, with the distant water of Lough Neagh glistening in the sunlight. Nearer at hand thatched farmhouses smoked, signs that the yeomen were enjoying the fruits of victory. Hope pointed to Farranshane, where William Orr’s house was burning--a witness to a malignity so bitter that it wreaked the vengeance from which the dead man was safe on his widow and his orphans. Neal told his story, and spoke of the passionate desire for revenge which burned in him. Hope listened patiently to every word. Then he spoke.