take His name in vain." The victory was complete. Planks were
placed on the broken arches of the bridge and pontoons laid on
the river, without any opposition on the part of the terrified
garrison. With the loss of twelve men killed and about thirty
wounded the English had, in a few minutes, forced their way into
Connaught.100

At the first alarm D'Usson hastened towards the river; but he was
met, swept away, trampled down, and almost killed by the torrent
of fugitives. He was carried to the camp in such a state that it
was necessary to bleed him. "Taken!" cried Saint Ruth, in dismay.
"It cannot be. A town taken, and I close by with an army to
relieve it!" Cruelly mortified, he struck his tents under cover
of the night, and retreated in the direction of Galway. At dawn
the English saw far off, from the top of King John's ruined
castle, the Irish army moving through the dreary region which
separates the Shannon from the Suck. Before noon the rearguard
had disappeared.101

Even before the loss of Athlone the Celtic camp had been
distracted by factions. It may easily be supposed, therefore,
that, after so great a disaster, nothing was to be heard but
crimination and recrimination. The enemies of the Lord Lieutenant
were more clamorous than ever. He and his creatures had brought
the kingdom to the verge of perdition. He would meddle with what
he did not understand. He would overrule the plans of men who
were real soldiers. He would entrust the most important of all
posts to his tool, his spy, the wretched Maxwell, not a born
Irishman, not a sincere Catholic, at best a blunderer, and too
probably a traitor. Maxwell, it was affirmed, had left his men