These cautions were not neglected.  From the moment at which Grandval entered the Netherlands, his steps were among snares.  His movements were watched; his words were noted; he was arrested, examined, confronted with his accomplices, and sent to the camp of the allies.  About a week after the battle of Steinkirk he was brought before a Court Martial.  Ginkell, who had been rewarded for his great services in Ireland with the title of Earl of Athlone, presided; and Talmash was among the judges.  Mackay and Lanier had been named members of the board; but they were no more; and their places were filled by younger officers.

The duty of the Court Martial was very simple; for the prisoner attempted no defence.  His conscience had, it should seem, been suddenly awakened.  He admitted, with expressions of remorse, the truth of all the charges, made a minute, and apparently an ingenuous, confession, and owned that he had deserved death.  He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and underwent his punishment with great fortitude and with a show of piety.  He left behind him a few lines, in which he declared that he was about to lose his life for having too faithfully obeyed the injunctions of Barbesieux.

His confession was immediately published in several languages, and was read with very various and very strong emotions.  That it was genuine could not be doubted; for it was warranted by the signatures of some of the most distinguished military men living.  That it was prompted by the hope of pardon could hardly be supposed; for William had taken pains to discourage that hope.  Still less could it be supposed that the prisoner had uttered untruths in order to avoid the torture.  For, though it was the universal practice in the Netherlands to put convicted assassins to the rack in order to wring out from them the names of their employers and associates, William had given orders that, on this occasion, the rack should not be used or even named.  It should be added, that the Court did not interrogate the prisoner closely, but suffered him to tell his story in his own way.  It is therefore reasonable to believe that his narrative is substantially true; and no part of it has a stronger air of truth than his account of the audience with which James had honoured him at Saint Germains.

In our island the sensation produced by the news was great.  The Whigs loudly called both James and Lewis assassins.  How, it was asked, was it possible, without outraging common sense, to put an innocent meaning on the words which Grandval declared that he had heard from the lips of the banished King of England?  And who that knew the Court of Versailles would believe that Barbesieux, a youth, a mere novice in politics, and rather a clerk than a minister, would have dared to do what he had done without taking his master’s pleasure?  Very charitable and very ignorant persons might perhaps indulge a hope that Lewis had not been an accessory before the fact.  But that he was