nding tone; "but it is not
pleasant to think that after a century and a half the tomb of political
prisoners in Dartmoor should be repaired by the hands of political
prisoners."

"Not pleasant, but natural, Duke," said Mr. Sydney; "so long as there
are principles, there must be men to suffer for them."

"Whose monument is this?" asked Featherstone; "I am all in the
dark--tell me."

Geoffrey, who had been employed in the office of the Governor of the
prison, and who had, on hearing this old monument was to be repaired,
volunteered on behalf of the three others to do the work, now told the
story of the old monument as he had learned it from the prison records
which he had been transcribing.

"In the wars of the Great Napoleon," Geoffrey said, "the French
prisoners captured by England were confined in hulks on the seacoast
till the hulks overflowed. Then this prison was built, and filled with
unfortunate Frenchmen. In 1812 the young Republic of America went to war
with England, and hundreds of American captives were added to the
Frenchmen. During the years of their confinement scores of these poor
fellows died, and one day the Americans mutinied, and then other scores
were shot down in the main yard. This field was the graveyard of those
prisoners, and here the strangers slept for over half a century, till
their bones were washed out of the hillside by the rain-storms. There
happened to be in Dartmoor at that time a party of Irish rebels, and
they asked permission to collect the bones and bury them securely. The
Irishmen raised this cairn and obelisk to the Americans and Frenchmen,
and now, after another hundred years, we are sent to repair their loving
testimonial."

"It is an interesting story," said Featherstone.

"A sad story for old men," said the Duke.

"A brave story for boys," said Mr. Sydney; "I could lift this obelisk
itself for sympathy."

They went on, working and chatting in low tones, till an exclamation
from Sydney made them look up. Sydney was on top of the cairn, scraping
the lichens from the obelisk. The moss was hard to cut, and had formed a
crust, layer on layer, half an inch in thickness.

"What is it, my dear Sydney?" asked the Duke.

"An inscription!" cried Sydney, scraping away. "An inscription nearly a
hundred years old. I have uncovered the year--see, 1867."

"Ay," said Geoffrey, "that was the year the Irish were here."

Featherstone had gone to Sydney's assistance, and with the aid