I returned to my office, decided that I would close it for the day.  The men were very relieved when I came in, and were more relieved when I ordered the gong to be sounded.  There were some few people in the place, and they were soon put out.  The outer gates were locked, and the great door, but I kept the men on duty until the evening.  We were the last public institution open; all the others had been closed for hours.

I went upstairs and sat down, but had barely reached the chair before I stood up again, and began to pace my room, to and fro, to and fro; amazed, expectant, inquiet; turning my ear to the shots, and my mind to speculations that began in the middle, and were chased from there by others before they had taken one thought forward.  But then I took myself resolutely and sat me down, and I pencilled out exercises above the stave, and under the stave; and discovered suddenly that I was again marching the floor, to and fro, to and fro, with thoughts bursting about my head as though they were fired on me from concealed batteries.

At five o’clock I left.  I met Miss P., all of whose rumours coincided with those I had gathered.  She was in exceeding good humour and interested.  Leaving her I met Cy——­, and we turned together up to the Green.  As we proceeded, the sound of firing grew more distinct, but when we reached the Green it died away again.  We stood a little below the Shelbourne Hotel, looking at the barricade and into the Park.  We could see nothing.  Not a Volunteer was in sight.  The Green seemed a desert.  There were only the trees to be seen, and through them small green vistas of sward.

Just then a man stepped on the footpath and walked directly to the barricade.  He stopped and gripped the shafts of a lorry lodged near the centre.  At that instant the Park exploded into life and sound; from nowhere armed men appeared at the railings, and they all shouted at the man.

“Put down that lorry.  Let out and go away.  Let out at once.”

These were the cries.  The man did not let out.  He halted with the shafts in his hand, and looked towards the vociferous pailings.  Then, and very slowly, he began to draw the lorry out of the barricade.  The shouts came to him again, very loud, very threatening, but he did not attend to them.

“He is the man that owns the lorry,” said a voice beside me.

Dead silence fell on the people around while the man slowly drew his cart down by the footpath.  Then three shots rang out in succession.  At the distance he could not be missed, and it was obvious they were trying to frighten him.  He dropped the shafts, and instead of going away he walked over to the Volunteers.

“He has a nerve,” said another voice behind me.

The man walked directly towards the Volunteers, who, to the number of about ten, were lining the railings.  He walked slowly, bent a little forward, with one hand raised and one finger up as though he were going to make a speech.  Ten guns were pointing at him, and a voice repeated many times: