link were found the man must be released. The
grey wigs moved about vexed and uneasy. The
judge peered through his spectacles, loth to lose
his prey. The constables scratched their heads
—the prisoner flashed out triumph and defiance
from under his scowling brows. He was all but
free—the last chain was dropping from his limbs.

The public prosecutor, twirling his gown
tighter round him, got up with angry, bloodshot
eyes, and said, throwing down his papers, "My
Lord, I am compelled to own that the case
against the prisoner, Dennis Sullivan, has been
but imperfectly made out. I will, therefore, not
trouble your Lord——"

A stir in court, a bustle at the door,
disturbed the speech.

The judge looked round, angry at the
disturbance.

"Make way for the witness," shouted the
crier.

A woman who had been repeatedly called
for, without avail, ascended the steps, and sat in
the witnesses' chair.

Every one looked surprised but the prisoner;
his face was stone, and he reeled from the bar
with a convulsive groan, saying, "I am sold."
He stood to listen then with livid lips, tightly
compressed, hands clenched, and a cold dew
rising on his forehead.

The woman filled up every nook of evidence.
She proved the blood shed, and the presence and
blows of the prisoner. As she left the table,
the man caught her eye, and gave a withering
look, pregnant with deadly revenge, "fruitful of
murder;" and as the judge put on the blackcap
and pronounced sentence, he collected all his
energy, and poured on her a curse with the
violence of a maddened demon. He was
sentenced to death, and but few days of respite
were given him.

The morning of his execution, his friends, who
had tried in vain to drown their sorrow in
whisky, came "to see him off." The scene
that took place was horrible, yet ludicrous.
Presently the sheriff's signal came, and the
procession moved on to the drop in front of the
gaol, where Cartridge and the soldiers were
drawn up. Here the murderer parted with his
drunken friends.

"Here, Murty," said he to an old fellow
Croppy, "take these brogues"—he shuffled off
his shoes—"take them, honey; no hangman
rascal shall get an O'Sullivan's shoes."

The friends now collected, frenzied with drink
and sorrow, came out to the plot of grass
between the soldiers and the drop.

When the Croppy came out, he approached
the door leading to the drop, and pushed
forward to the edge of the platform to address the
people. The hangman, however, forced him
back, and put the rope round his neck. He
then stepped forward boldly, and said, in a loud,
brave voice:

"This is no crime for which I suffer. God
bless dear Ireland!"

A murmur of assent arose from the crowd,
and Murtagh roared out:

"Ah, poor Andy! and the shoes of him off
too!" sinking down on the grass as he spoke in
the violence of his passion; but suddenly
recovering himself, he rose up and waved his hand
to the wretch, now standing like a statue on the
drop:

"Die hardy, Andy! Andy, jewil, die like a
man!"

The people fell on their knees and prayed for
the soul of their red-handed martyr about so
soon to part, and the next moment Andy flung
the handkerchief from his hand fiercely, and was
thrown into the murderer's world that awaited
him.

The receival of six months arrears of Peninsular
pay quite upset Cartridge's regiment. The
soldiers were as mad and reckless as sailors just
paid off after a long war. Jaunting-cars and gigs
were hired, and when adorned with ribbons and
handkerchiefs, were driven off in search of
adventures into the country, the women shouting,
the children capering, the dogs barking, and the
pigs running, as if the town were being sacked.
The sociables and cars flew down every street,
scarlet with soldiers clinging outside them, to
the imminent danger of their necks. One
laggard, who could not get a seat even on a turf-
cart, jumped into a large buttermilk-churn, such
as the countrywomen bring into the towns
lashed to their cars, and in this huge wooden
case, that hid him up to the neck, he was driven
off to the country amid general enthusiasm.

Much to the surprise of the waiter, Cartridge
and a friend went off to drink a bottle of wine
together at the principal hotel in the town.
They were scarcely seated before two officers of
Cartridge's friend's regiment entered, and
Cartridge asked them to drink.

"Of course I will," said one of the officers,
who was much liked by the men; "shall I
forget that hot march in Spain, when we were all
dying of thirst and you gave me the last sup in
your canteen?"

Cartridge whispered his friend, and asked him
why he did not invite the other officer to drink.

"Devil a sup," said the friend, quite loud;
upon which the officer coloured with rage, and
left the room.

"Who is he?" asked Cartridge.

His comrade told him the story. "It was
Captain Johnson, who in Spain had caused the
death of poor Hobson, a boy in the regiment.
Hobson was a sickly boy, who, finding himself,
from want of stamina, unable to keep up in the
long marches, reported himself as sick to the
doctor. The doctor, finding no symptoms of
disease in him, struck him off the sick-roll, and
roughly sent him back to the line of march. The
next day Hobson fell by the roadside and was
left behind. Captain Johnson, riding up and
finding a lad whom he considered a sham lagger,
swore he would have him flogged by the provost
if he did not march. Next day he again
reported himself sick, was again examined by the
same doctor, and again sent on to march with
his company as a schemer. As before, he fell,
and was given in charge to the rear-guard by the