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his companions, Sirr had no alternative but to fire, and, aiming his pistol deliberately, he lodged the contents in Lord Edward's right arm near the shoulder. The wound for a moment staggered him; but, as he again rallied and was pushing towards the door, Major Sirr called up the soldiers; and so desperate was their captive's struggles that they found it necessary to lay their fire-locks across him before he could be disarmed or bound so as to prevent further mischief. A surgeon was at once sent for, and pronounced Lord Edward's wound as not dangerous, to which he calmly replied, "I'm sorry for it." It was found that in the mêlée Ryan had received a mortal stab, while Swan's wounds though numerous were not fatal.

From Thomas Street the unfortunate rebel was taken in a sedan chair to the castle, where papers of a most implicating nature were found on him. After his wound was dressed he was removed to Newgate.

On the 31st of May Captain Ryan died of his wounds, which added greatly to the poignant anguish of mind which Lord Edward was suffering, and though hopes were entertained of his recovery, he died, lingering on to the 1st of June, 1798, after making a will by which he left everything to his wife, Pamela, and their children. On the 2nd he became delirious, and had to have a keeper from a mad-house with him; on the 3rd reason returned, but he was very weak, and on the 4th, at two o'clock in the morning, the spirit of this rash but brave young man departed.

The body was interred in the cemetery of St. Werburgh, after the inquest, in as private a manner as possible, to avoid any exhibition of popular feeling. And his brief carcer was ended at the age of thirty-five. He appears to have been a very goodlooking man. Moore describes him thus: "Though I saw him but this once, his peculiar dress, the elastic lightness of his step, his fresh heathful complexion, and the soft expression given to his eyes by their long dark lashes, are as present and familiar to my memory as if I had intimately known him.”

From a picture I have seen of Lord Edward, his eyes, indeed, must have been peculiarly beautiful, and his expression winning and amiable. His face was rather round, with a longish nose and pouting lips, while his brows were dark and well defined, and his hair glossy and abundant.

Though he was careful to make his will before dying, he had little to leave his wife and children. His fortune had been squandered in supporting the rebellion, and urged by poverty, shortly after his death, his beloved Pamela went to Hamburg, as living was cheap there, and it was in that city she met Mr. Pitcairn, the American Consul, whom she afterwards married, and from whom she soon separated, this second marriage being anything save a happy one.

She died, almost in want of common necessaries, in 1831, thirty-three years after the death of Lord Edward. When I was at Plas Newydd, two or three years ago, the late owner showed me some carved apes over the mantel-piece in the bedroom which had been Lady Eleanor Butler's, supposed to be presents from Lord Edward Fitzgerald, apes, with the motto Crom a Boo being the crest and supporters in the armorial bearings of the house of Leinster. I was also shown a window, canopied with beautiful carved oak, called the garden window, through which it is said he escaped, when he paid his last visit to Plas Newydd, after he had escaped being arrested in Dublin' in 1798. The story runs that he walked over the hills from Brynkinallt (Lord Dungannon's seat near Chirk) to see the ladies of Llangollen, who were then quite unconscious of the terrible fact that a thousand pounds was offered by the Crown for his arrest at that time. He thought he was watched, fancying he saw a shadow pass the front window of the library, and. so fled precepitately through the little narrow garden window.

This story may be true, but it seems to me, after a careful study of all accounts published at the time, that this unfortunate. young nobleman never left Ireland atter the 12th of March, when the provincial Leinster delegates were arrested at Oliver Bond's house, and a price set on his head, but remained hiding in the widow's house, at Murphy's, and other places in or near Dublin, until he was shot, arrested, and conveyed to Newgate, to languish there in agony of mind and body, until death mercifully released him from all earthly troubles.

Drawn Blank.


Author of "THE M. F. H.'S DAUGHTER," "£100,000 VERSUS GHOSTS," "THE CRITON HUNT MYSTERY," etc., etc.



THERE was only one thing to be done under these remarkably trying circumstances! Brave the matter boldly out!

Afterwards, in thinking over that scene, often and often did Mary wish that it had not been necessary that she should have appeared at so great a disadvantage in the eyes of the only man. whose opinion she had ever cared much for one way or the other.

She laid the blame entirely down to her "bad luck." It had been an unkind fate which had destined that she and Sir John should travel up to Town by the same train; unfortunate that she had been obliged to tell him so many untruths, and more unfortunate still that Tom should have chosen to meet her at the station. Yes! it had all been due to her habitual bad luck! Whatever she did was certain to be found out. It had been so in everything.

But it was only in thinking it over afterwards that Mary wasted any time in vain regrets. At the moment she was cool and collected, and had no thought except for the critical position in which she stood.

She gave her hand to Tom Atherton, laughing quite gaily as she did so; and then turned a smiling face to the amazed Sir John.

"Well," she exclaimed lightly, addressing him, "I hope you are prepared to grant that I have the bump of invention very strongly developed in me?"

"Perfectly," agreed Sir John, in a calm, even tone; and then having followed her out of the carriage, he said something in an aside to his valet, who had by then arrived upon the scene, and raising his hat to her, walked quietly away, leaving Mary and her lover alone.

If Sir John was surprised, Tom Atherton was hardly less so ; and his first question was a demand for an explanation of Sir John's appearance on the scene and Mary's remark to him.

"Oh, never mind just now!" was the rather curt reply. "Get my luggage, and let us get away from here. I can tell you all about it afterwards, and I do not want to see Sir John again, whatever I do."

Seeing that she was evidently a little shaken and upset, Tom Atherton had the sense to question her no further just then. Telling her he would return in a few minutes he did as she requested him without either demur or delay; and a minute later Mary found herself on the Euston platform alone, with her eyes fixed upon the distant form of the man she was to marry the following day, as he hurried off towards the luggage van.

She moved a few steps and leant up against the frame-work of the closed and deserted book-stall. She was feeling a little shaken and upset, now that it was all over; more so than even to herself she would quite have liked to own. The cold, stern expression on Sir John's face, as he had raised his hat in adieu to her, was haunting her; and she knew that it would so haunt her, not only for many days, but many years to come.

Ridiculous as it might seem, even the way in which he had raised his hat was haunting her! In spite of his displeasure and the contempt he must have been feeling, there was a polished courtesy in the performance of the action which belonged essentially to a thoroughly well-bred man of the world.

In all her own actions Mary lacked grace. Her nature lacked refinement; and she took rather a pride and delight in displaying abrupt, loud, bad manners. In her own case she thought those abrupt manners denoted downrightness, straightforwardness, and that she was a "good sort," as she herself would have called it; but nevertheless she could appreciate well enough in others attributes which she lacked herself; and in the midst of a tumult of other thoughts and emotions, that little action of Sir John's pushed itself to the fore, and persisted in being compared with a similar action performed by Mr. Tom Atherton in a very different way.

Thoughts come and go very quickly. This and many others had already crowded hurriedly through her brain, and yet she had not been standing by that desolate book-stall many seconds

before somebody approached and came to a standstill just in front of her.

It was Sir John.

"Mary," he said impressively, in a low, grave tone, calling her by her Christian name for the first time since their estrangement. "Have you thought thoroughly well what you are doing? Even now it is not too late. Are you going to break your father's heart?"

She was completely taken aback by his sudden and unexpected return; and found not a word to say for a minute in her surprise.

"I am an old friend of your uncle's and your father's, Mary," he continued quickly. Although I have not known you so very long, I cannot let you go like this without saying a word to stop you if I can. I tell you this will break your father's


"It is no use," she replied, in a hard tone. "Pray say no more, Sir John."

"But I must," he persisted earnestly. "I want to help you if I can. You are going to do a thing which you will regret all your life long. Do not do it! Come with me instead, before it is too late."

"Come with you!" she repeated, calmly enough now. "Where Sir John? Are you mad?"

"There is a train to Delton Carr in half an hour's time," he replied quickly. "Leave it all in my hands, and go back by that train."

Why he had returned, why he was now urging her to return to Delton he hardly knew. Her uncle and father were old friends of his certainly, and he would gladly have done them a good turn if he could, but the possibility of persuading her to do what he had suggested would not have struck him had not something in her manner and face led him to believe that for some unaccountable reason she was on the eve of eloping with a man she did not particularly love or wish to marry.

"That is very likely, is it not?" she replied, in the same hard, dull tone she had formerly used. "Pray do not be childish, Sir John. Cannot you see that your interference is uncalled for and unnecessary. I came up to town to marry Mr. Atherton, and I mean to do it. Good-bye."

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