man, at the next turn o' the next sthreet. Hurrah for the bould Croppy boys! hurrah!" and he staggered off, yelling out "Rise up. my poor Croppies, you're long enough down, Down, down, Orange, lie down!"" During this dialogue, it was with difficulty Sir William could keep in the boiling ferment of his blood, or bring his trembling lips to articulate the necessary questions. At length it seemed indeed certain that his bride was in the power of his detested rival. Nothing but an instinctive consciousness of the necessity of arming himself with information for the pursuit, had momentarily checked his turbulent fury. Now, he did not hesitate an instant in taking the only measures-t -though insanity itself might have hesitated in taking them-which his wild passions suggested. He sought his horse. The poor tired animal had found his unasssisted way to a stable, and was eagerly snatching a mouthful of food. He dragged it from this needful indulgence, mounted, and again forcing his way through the rushing crowds of insurgents, and over the trampled bodies of slain, and through the yet flaming suburb, galloped towards Wexford. But ere he had quite cleared the crowded streets of Enniscorthy, he became confusedly aware, from the explanatory clamour on every side, of the meaning of the continued shout which had attracted the notice and roused the curiosity of the first persons he had encountered at the inn. It was the expression of an agreement, on the part of the greater body of the victors, to evacuate the town, and take up their position on the rocky eminence above it, subsequently distinguished as the scene of Murtoch Kane's massacres, aided by other insurgents, who remaining there, either in cowardice, or for the satiation of highly excited revenge, perpetrated cruelties for which the mass of the peasant-army we e not accountable. The reason urged by the leaders to the licentious mob for thus abandoning the conquered town were strong. Namely, the danger that a greater force than they had yet encountered might march upon Enniscorthy, and surprise them in the midst of their riot and disorder. Yet (Sir William, ab-orbed as he was by a private question, could not fail to notice the fact,) it proved no easy matter to induce the victors to give up their conquest, and the remaining spoils of their victory. And though at length the greater number yielded to the threats, the prayers, and the actual coercion of their nominal leaders, a sufficient 'body, acknowledging no command, remained behind to continue during the night the excesses begun in the heat of triumph. The Baronet still pressed on his weary steed along the road to Wexford. We repeat, that even a madman might have shrunk from the course he was pursuing. Alone he approached a town in possession of the King's troops, and where a hundred eyes were ready to recognise him at a glance, as the rebel commander, Sir William Judkin. Yet it may be questioned if he once weighed, or even thought of the risk he ran. One purpose mastered and filled his mind: one passion possessed him. To encounter Talbot, even if he could not meet his wife, to force from him an account of her situation, and then to strike him dead at his feet. This was all that the desparing lover, husband, and rival, now lived for. Could he but once work his vengeance, the thought of instant destruction to himself after it, only called up a grim smile upon the features of Sir William. Within three miles of his destined goal, his horse sank exhausted. Revengefully spurning the gasping beast, he bounded on a-foot. The town wall of Wexford was standing in full preservation, so that none could gain ingress save through the archways, in which massive gates once stood, and which, at his approach, the panicstruck garrison were hastily barricading and blocking up. At the gate he was instantly recognised and apprehended. The large pistol he had seized the night before was still in his breast: he prepared to use it, it was wrested from him, and his life had been forfeited on the spot, but that the identical yeoman-Captain he came to seek interfered to save him. Sir William struggled hard to leave the grasp of his captors and spring upon his rival. But Talbot coolly ordered him to be conveyed by main force to the prison of the town. Notwithstanding his continued resistance, in which he evinced the strength as well as the rage of a foaming madman, half-a-dozen of athletic yeomen dragged him through the streets. With brain on fire, and the blood boiling like melted ore through his veins, he was once more a captive, better secured than even in his last dungeon, under lock, bolt, bar, and a succession of formidable doors. CHAPTER XXXII. FROM many respectable fellow-prisoners, confined like himself either upon the suspicion or the direct charge of disloyalty, Sir William, on his entrance into gaol, encountered anxious questions concerning the successes and plans of the insurrectionary force.. His fierce answers, or his sullen silence, yielded little information to the catechists, and only caused them to set him down for the maniao he actually was. After some time, however, he naturally became alive to the subject which continued to be discussed around him. Whether or not the insurgents would advance upon Wexford, and whether or not they would prove as successful in that town as they had proved in Enniscorthy, now presented, in connexion with his private interests and fate, a most important question. As he had helped to burst the gate of Euniscorthy Castle for the liberation of all, except one, pent up within its walls; so, in the event of Wexford falling into the hands of the peasant force, friends would not be wanting, or slow, to fling open the doors of his present dungeon. Thus, and thus only, he might ouce more be free to pursue the only objects for which he breathed. It would seem that he had taken up arms against the Government of his country only because, or chiefly because, that step promised, at the moment, to speed him on his course of rescuing his wife, and avenging himself and her upon Talbot. Events, however, since appeared to suggest that he had accidentally sided with the party most likely to gain predominance in the contest.It is known, that while the insurgents of the County of Wexford proceeded, as we have seen, triumphantly, from the day of their rising, all intelligence of the fate of their fellow-insurgents in other counties was shut out from them. So that, according to the easy credulity of taking for granted what we wish for similar and simultaneous success, throughout all the disturbed districts, was assumed as certain. Hence, even Sir William Judkin, particularly in his present fiery mood, might, appart from personal motives, see no reason to reget his choice of a cause. Regret were useless, too, even were there reason for; it: in occasional moments of mental recollection, he haughtily admitted the fact. He had fought against his King: death, in case of ultimate failure and apprehension, was the forfeit. Standing or falling by his party, he dared that forfeit. Perhaps something lurked in his nature to relish the prospect of bold adventure to be encountered, and deeds of valour to be accomplished in the character of a popular commander. If not, it is certain that with such stirring views his present reckless temper fully sympathized. After some sullen indulgence, therefore, of the fury and despair which had possessed him upon his first entrance into the prison, Sir William, in common with his fellow-captives, anxiously calculated the probable movements of the insurgents. No less anxiously were these movements watched by the garrison and people of the town. The capital of the county is eleven Irish miles south-west of Enniscorthy. Yet, from many points in Wexford, the dense clouds of smoke, arising out of the conflagration of that part of the conquered town which had been fired, could distinctly be viewed. The militia detachment, which had met so signal a fate upon the hill of Oulard, had advanced to the insurgent osi ion from Wexford: the wild screams of the wives and children of the slain soldiers scarce ceased to fill the ears of the inhabitants, when the defeate garrison of Enniscorthy, covered with blood and dust, and accompanied or followed by a throng of fainting fugitives, crowded their streets for shelter. Young and tender beauty, accustomed from infancy to all the conveniences and little vanities of affluence, tottered in a-foot, gladly clinging for support to the arm of the common soldier. Mothers, respectable too, clasping their babes to their breasts, were just able to stagger through the gates, when they dropped, covercome by fatigue and terror. Both had escaped, perhaps after witnessing the massacre of father or of husband, and in the wild instinct of self-preservation, had rushed, unconsciously, through flame, and shot, and shou, and groan, many miles along a dusty road, and under the meridian rays of a burning sun. The numbers of the insurgents, too great to be opposed; their frantic courage, and murderous ferocity; all was exaggerated by the panic-stricken fugitives to their Wexford friends. And while such accounts sent some of the shuddering hearers to terrify their families with fearful forebodings, others, secretly combined in the United Irish cause, listened in different feelings and anticipations and stealthily withdrew to arrange amongst their confederates the best means of effectually assisting their triumphant brethren, in case of an attack upon the town. As has been seen, when Sir William Judkin reached one of the gates, some measures were also being taken to fortify the place. We have noticed also that the town-wall stood in co nplete preservation. And it was defended by square castles, differing. in more points than merely that of their form, from other more ruinous fortresses of the kingdom, yet, together with the solid walls, affording good means of resistance, even by a small garrison, against any number of such irregular besiegers as were now expected to approach. If vigorous precaution had been taken, and a vigorous defence made, there can be little doubt that Wexford would have defied the impetuous insurgents, at least for a sufficient length of time to allow of the advance of a relieving force. Nay, had its wise men only left the insurgents to themselves, to contend with their own distracted and uproarious councils, and even with their doubts of their own ability, however hitherto successful, to attempt so serious an affair as the attack of a County town, it is very probable that the good Wexfordians might have remained at peace till the end of the shortlived campaign. But the terror of the pike-head, or the itch for diplomacy, ordered matters otherwise. In what manner, as well as for proof of the assertions just made, we must turn back to their noisy foes to explain. The lower town of Enniscorthy is situated at different si es of the Slaney, and is connected by a rude bridge. Above that portion of it, upon the eastern bank of the river, and at about a quarter of a mile's distance, appears the a'most conical eminence of the not uncelebrated Vinegar-hill. To its base is a gradual ascent from the town. Then it rises suddenly, presenting a surface, partly of grey rocks, some swelling out in large masses, some balf-clothed with dwarf furze, and partly of intervening patches of spare grass, which draw from the scanty mould, during winter's moisture only, their verdant livery; while in summer they become parched into a russet colour, blending with the general barrenness of the hill side. The morning before the attack on Enniscorthy, a pleasing and peaceful view might have been enjoyed from the top of Vinegarhill. It seemed standing in the midst of an extensive amphitheatre of sister eminences, of different elevations and forms, and which receded over one another to different distances, each more or less tinted, according to its remoteness or nearness, with the atmospheric hue which, better than any other finesse of nature. suggests the relative places of large objects. Of these many encircling heights, some had a soft, undulating shape, some the hard, rugged outline, that proclaims a rocky brow. Beyond the near and middle ones, the whole rural panorama, only varied by swell or hollow, presented an almost universal character of sloping cultivation. Yet other objects relieved the scene. To the north, at a distance of many |