the others threw themselves between the fugitives and the police, and with levelled revolvers guarded their flight.  The Fenian leaders once safe, they scattered, and young William Allen, whose one thought had been for his chiefs, seeing them safe, fired his revolver in the air, for he would not shed blood in his own defence.  Disarmed by his own act, he was set on by the police, brutally struck down, kicked and stoned, and was dragged off to gaol, faint and bleeding, to meet there some of his comrades in much the same plight as himself.  Then Manchester went mad, and race-passions flared up into flame; no Irish workman was safe in a crowd of Englishmen, no Englishman safe in the Irish quarter.  The friends of the prisoners besieged “Lawyer Roberts’s” house, praying his aid, and he threw his whole fiery soul into their defence.  The man who had fired the accidentally fatal shot was safely out of the way, and none of the others had hurt a human being.  A Special Commission was issued, with Mr. Justice Blackburn at its head—­“the hanging judge,” groaned Mr. Roberts—­and it was soon in Manchester, for all Mr. Roberts’s efforts to get the venue of the trial changed were futile, though of fair trial then in Manchester there was no chance.  On October 25th the prisoners were actually brought up before the magistrates in irons, and Mr. Ernest Jones, their counsel, failing in his protest against this outrage, threw down his brief and left the court.  So great was the haste with which the trial was hurried on that on the 29th Allen, Larkin, Gould (O’Brien), Maguire, and Condon were standing in the dock before the Commission charged with murder.

My first experience of an angry crowd was on that day as we drove to the court; the streets were barricaded, the soldiers were under arms, every approach to the court crowded with surging throngs.  At last our carriage was stopped as we were passing at a foot’s pace through an Irish section of the crowd, and various vehement fists came through the window, with hearty curses at the “d——­d English who were going to see the boys murdered.”  The situation was critical, for we were two women and three girls, when I bethought myself that we were unknown, and gently touched the nearest fist:  “Friends, these are Mr. Roberts’ wife and daughters.”  “Roberts!  Lawyer Roberts!  God bless Roberts!  Let his carriage through.”  And all the scowling faces became smile-wreathen, and curses changed to cheers, as a road to the court steps was cleared for us.

Alas! if there was passion on behalf of the prisoners outside, there was passion against them within, and the very opening of the trial showed the spirit that animated the prosecution and the bench.  Digby Seymour, Q.C., and Ernest Jones, were briefed for the defence, and Mr. Roberts did not think that they exercised sufficiently their right of challenge; he knew, as we all did, that many on the panel had loudly proclaimed their hostility to the Irish, and Mr. Roberts persisted