The magistrate read the riot-act.

He, together with Father Cahill, called to the mob to stop. They
shouted to O'Connell to surrender and disperse the people.

Too late.

The soldiers formed into open formation and marched on the mob.

Maddened and reeling, with no order, no discipline, with only blind
fury and the rushing, pulsing blood--that has won many a battle for
England against a common foe--the men of Ireland hurled themselves
upon the soldiers. They threw their missiles: they struck them with
their gnarled sticks: they beat them with their clenched fists.

The order to "Fire" was given as the soldiers fell back from the
onslaught.

When the smoke cleared away the ranks of the mob were broken. Some
lay dead on the turf; some groaned in the agony of shattered limbs.
The women threw themselves moaning on the bodies. Silence fell like
a pall over the mob. Out of the silence a low angry growl went up.
O'Connell had fallen too.

The soldiers surrounded his prostrate body.

The mob made a rush forward to rescue him. O'Connell stopped them
with a cry: