the rope made fast to the stirrup iron of
one of the trooper's horses.

"We're going to take you back into Antrim," said Captain Twinely. "I
don't deny that I'd rather deal with you here myself, but you're a
fifty-pounder, my lad, and my men won't hear of losing their share of
the reward. It'll come to the same thing in the end, any way. Clavering
isn't the man to be squeamish about hanging a rebel. Mount men and
march."

"Maybe the young cub would like to see his lass before he leaves her.
Her face is a bonny one for kissing now."

Neal shuddered, and turned sick. Beyond the hedge in the trampled grass,
among the meadow sweet and the loose strife, lay unnamable horror.
He shut his eyes, dreading lest he should be forced to look, but the
suggestion was too brutal even for Captain Twinely.

"Shut your devil's mouth," he said to the sergeant, "isn't what you've
done enough for you? If the croppy that came on you at Donegore had
broken your skull, instead of just cracking it, he would have rid the
country of the biggest blackguard in it."

"Thon's fine talk," growled the sergeant, "but who bid us strip the
wench? Is bloody Twinely turning chicken-hearted at the last?"

Captain Twinely did not choose to hear the sergeant's words, or the
grumbling of the men around him. He put his troop in motion, and trotted
off towards Antrim. Neal, running and stumbling, dazed, utterly weary
and dejected, was dragged with them.

General Clavering sat at dinner in a private room of the Massereene
Arms. He had with him Colonel Durham and several of the officers who
had commanded troops during the battle. The landlord, obsequious and
frightened, waited on the party himself. He had the best food he could
get on the table, and the best wine from the cellar was ready for
his guests. In the public room a larger party was gathered--yeomanry
officers, captains, and lieutenants of the royal troops, and a few of
the country squires who had ridden into the town after the fighting was
over. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice were in the room where they had slept
the night before. Lord O'Neill lay on one of two beds. Life was in him
still, but he was mortally wounded. Lord Dunseveric sat beside him,
holding his hand, and speaking to him occasionally. Maurice was at the
window. The laughter of the party in the room below reached them, and
the noisy talk of the troops who thronged the streets. Jests, curses,
snatches of song, and calls for wine mingled