but solemnly denied that he was the
murderer of Foster; declaring that he had never
heard of his boast of having slain his father
until that moment, and that he did not
believe it. Nor could any witness now be
found who had ever heard of such a boast.
But the magistrates committed him; a special
commission was appointed; and, for the
second time, young Howley was to be tried
for his life.

On the day of her brother's apprehension
Ellen Howley had written to her lover
the intelligence of her new trouble, and
again imploring that assistance which had
already served to rescue him from a violent
death. But the difficulty was now greater
than before. The trial was to take place at
Wexford, instead of at Dublin; and the
inhabitants of that town were strongly against
the rioters. Roche knew that it would be
extremely dangerous to the prisoner if he were
to plead his cause a second time. He therefore
secretly instructed a barrister who was
a warm friend of his, besides being a
Protestant and a strong government man, to
proceed to Wexford, and conduct the defence.
The day of the trial arrived, and Howley's counsel
would probably have succeeded in neutralizing
the feeble testimony against his client,
but for a circumstance which, though
probably intended to save him, was undoubtedly
the cause of his destruction. On his way to
the court-house to give evidence on the trial,
the principal witness against Howley was
fired at from a plantation beside the roadway,
and wounded in the arm. The ball passed
through the flesh, without breaking the bones,
and the man, after having the wound dressed,
persisted in presenting himself at court to
give his evidence. The appearance of this
fanatic, who, whether speaking truth or
falsehood, had wrought himself to a belief
in his own statement, created a deep
impression on the audience. His pallid
countenance, his arm in a sling, his narrative
of the attack upon him by a secret assasin,
presumed to be a friend fo the accused, and
his statement—not to be shaken—of the
words used by Howley, decided the minds of
the jury. The eloquent appeal of his counsel
was often interrupted by murmurs in the
court; and the young man was found guilty
and sentenced to death.

The execution of Howley, with five others,
found guilty of taking a part in the riot, was
fixed for the afternoon of the second day after
the trial. The magistrates, apprehensive of
disturbances, had despatched a messenger to
Waterford for a small reinforcement of
soldiers; but some hours had passed since noon,
and the men had not yet arrived. It was not
until sunset that it was determined to
proceed to execution without them. A large
crowd had assembled; but the yeomanry
were in great force and well armed, and the
populace confined their marks of disapprobation
to yells and groans, until the prisoners
appeared upon the scaffold. At that moment,
some symptoms of a disposition to renew
the riot were remarked; and the executioner
was ordered to hasten with his task. Young
Howley was executed, repeating his declaration
of innocence. The six men suffered their
sentence, the mob dispersed, and no traces of
what had passed were left, all within one
hour.

Since the day of her brother's second
apprehension Ellen Howley had never rested
from her endeavours to save him. But all
hearts were steeled against her. Events
succeeded each other with terrible rapidity; and
it soon became evident that no power could
save him. On one only, of all those to whom
she applied, did the sight of her beauty and
misery make any impression. This man was
the sheriff of the county; but he had no
power to help her, and he did not even dare to
delay the execution. There was but one
favour he could procure for her—a favour
conveying to her mind so strongly, the hopelessness
of her case, that he scarcely dared to
name it. It was that—contrary to custom—
the body of her brother should be given up
to his family, to be decently interred in their
own burial place. Accordingly, about dusk
on the evening of the execution, the corpse
was privately removed, in an undertaker's
car to the house at Killowen. To avoid a
fresh occasion for disturbance it was stipulated
by the sheriff that this fact should be kept as
secret as possible, and that the burial should
take place at dark on the following night.

It was not until the day after the funeral
that Roche arrived in Wexford. Trusting
to the skill of his brother counsel, he had
proceeded to London to endeavour to
interest some powerful persons in favour of
the accused. Only on his return to Dublin
did he learn that the execution must have
already taken place. He hastened, therefore,
to Killowen, in the hope—though too late for
aught else—of consoling his unhappy friend.

It was evening when he arrived there.
Though in full summer, the place struck him
as far more desolate and lonely than it
had seemed in the dull autumnal day
when he had first visited it. The heavy
clank of the bell that hung somewhere
between him and the house, startled him as
he pulled the handle. No one answered his
summons; and seeing no light at any of the
windows, he began to fear that its inmates
had left the place. Gently pushing open the
gate, he made his way through the shrubbries
around the house. The place was quite
still; but, listening awhile, he fancied that he
heard a noise within, like a faint moaning
and sobbing, yet he doubted whether it
came from a human being. He listened and
heard it once more—this time so distinctly
that if it had been the whining of a dog or
any other animal, he could not have failed to
recognise it. Tormented by vague surmises,
he made his way back to the front of the