ldiers seized me, and I was marched away towards Dublin. About
noon the party halted, and the soldiers lay down and chatted on a patch
of grass, while my own thoughts turned sadly back to the friend I had
known.

Suddenly I heard a song sung by a voice I knew, and afterwards a loud
clapping of hands. Darby M'Keown was there in the midst of the soldiers,
and as I turned to look at him, my hand came in contact with a
clasp-knife. I managed with it to free my arms from the ropes that
fastened them, but what was to be done next?

"I didn't think much of that song of yours," said one of the soldiers.
"Give us 'The British Grenadiers.'"

"I never heard them play but onst, sir," said Darby, meekly, "and they
were in such a hurry I couldn't pick up the tune."

"What d'you mean?"

"'Twas the day but one after the French landed, and the British
Grenadiers was running away."

The party sprang to their legs, and a shower of curses fell upon the
piper.

"And sure," continued Darby, "'twasn't my fault av they took to their
heels. Wouldn't anyone run for his life av he had the opportunity?"

These words were uttered in a raised voice, and I took the hint. While
Darby was scuffling with the soldiers, I slipped away.

For miles I pressed forward without turning, and in the evening I found
myself in Dublin. The union with England was being debated in the
Parliament House; huge and angry crowds raged without. Remembering the
tactics De Meudon had taught me, I sought to organize the crowd in a
kind of military formation against the troops; but a knock on the head
with a musket-butt ended my labours, and I knew nothing more until I
came to myself in the quarters of an old chance acquaintance--Captain
Bubbleton.

Here, in the house of this officer--an eccentric and impecunious man,
but a most loyal friend--I was discovered by Major Barton and dragged to
prison. I was released by the intervention of my father's lawyer, who
claimed me as his apprentice.

For weeks I lived with Captain Bubbleton and his brother officers, and
nothing could be more cordial than their treatment of me. "Tom Burke of
'Ours,'" the captain used proudly to call me. Only one officer held
aloof from me, and from all Irishmen--Montague Crofts--through whom it
came about that I left Ireland.

One day an uncouth and ragged woman entered the barracks, and addressed
me. It was Darby M'Keown, and he brought me nothing less precious than
De Meudon's pocket-book,