“I am one,” replied Reilly, “who has suffered more deeply, probably, than any man here. I am without house or home, proscribed by the vengeance of a villain--a villain who has left me without a shelter for my head--who, this night, has reduced my habitation, and all that appertained to it, to a heap of ashes--who is on my trail, night and day, and who will be on my trail, in order to glut his vengeance with my blood. Now, my friends, listen--I take God to witness, that if that man were here at this moment, I would plead for his life with as much earnestness as I do for those of the men who are here at your mercy. I feel that it would be cowardly and inhuman to take it under such circumstances; yes, and unworthy of the name of William Reilly. Now,” he added, “these men will pass safely to their quarters.” As they were about to resume their journey, the person who seemed to have the command of the military said: “Mr. Reilly, one word with you: I feel that you have saved our lives; I may requite you for that, generous act yet;” and he pressed his hand warmly as he spoke, after which they proceeded on their way. That the person of Reilly was not recognized by any of these men is accounted for by a well-known custom, peculiar to such meetings, both then and now. The individuals before and around him were all strangers, from distant parts of the country; for whenever an outrage is to be committed, or a nocturnal drilling to take place, the peasantry start across the country, in twos and threes, until they quietly reach some lonely and remote spot, where their persons are not known.