The next question was what terms should be demanded.  A paper, containing propositions which statesmen of our age will think reasonable, but which to the most humane and liberal English Protestants of the seventeenth century appeared extravagant, was sent to the camp of the besiegers.  What was asked was that all offences should be covered with oblivion, that perfect freedom of worship should be allowed to the native population, that every parish should have its priest, and that Irish Roman Catholics should be capable of holding all offices, civil and military, and of enjoying all municipal privileges.125

Ginkell knew little of the laws and feelings of the English; but he had about him persons who were competent to direct him.  They had a week before prevented him from breaking a Rapparee on the wheel; and they now suggested an answer to the propositions of the enemy.  “I am a stranger here,” said Ginkell; “I am ignorant of the constitution of these kingdoms; but I am assured that what you ask is inconsistent with that constitution; and therefore I cannot with honour consent.”  He immediately ordered a new battery to be thrown up, and guns and mortars to be planted on it.  But his preparations were speedily interrupted by another message from the city.  The Irish begged that, since he could not grant what they had demanded, he would tell them what he was willing to grant.  He called his advisers round him, and, after some consultation, sent back a paper containing the heads of a treaty, such as he had reason to believe that the government which he served would approve.  What he offered was indeed much less than what the Irish desired, but was quite as much as, when they considered their situation and the temper of the English nation, they could expect.  They speedily notified their assent.  It was agreed that there should be a cessation of arms, not only by land, but in the ports and bays of Munster, and that a fleet of French transports should be suffered to come up the Shannon in peace and to depart in peace.  The signing of the treaty was deferred till the Lords justices, who represented William at Dublin, should arrive at Ginkell’s quarters.  But there was during some days a relaxation of military vigilance on both sides.  Prisoners were set at liberty.  The outposts of the two armies chatted and messed together.  The English officers rambled into the town.  The Irish officers dined in the camp.  Anecdotes of what passed at the friendly meetings of these men, who had so lately been mortal enemies, were widely circulated.  One story, in particular, was repeated in every part of Europe.  “Has not this last campaign,” said Sarsfield to some English officers, “raised your opinion of Irish soldiers?” “To tell you the truth,” answered an Englishman, “we think of them much as we always did.”  “However meanly you may think of us,” replied Sarsfield, “change Kings with us, and we will willingly try our luck with you again.”  He was doubtless thinking of the day on which he had seen the two Sovereigns at the head of two great armies, William foremost in the charge, and James foremost in the flight.126