They made a rule that no one should utter the word surrender on pain of death, and the word was never spoken. They had some prisoners of high rank in the town, and till now they had treated them kindly. But after Rosen's cruel conduct, they put up a gallows on the walls, and sent word that the prisoners should be hung up there, if the poor Protestants under the walls were not allowed to go away to their own homes. Every one was disgusted with Rosen; his own officers, with tears of pity and anger, begged him to let the poor creatures go. Still for two days he persisted in his cruelty, and many of the miserable Protestants died of their sufferings. Then when Rosen saw that his cruelty did not make Londonderry yield, he at last let the rest of the poor wretches go away. After this the gallows on the walls of Londonderry were taken down again.

Even James, a cruel man himself, was angry when he heard what Rosen had done. He called him away from the command of the army, which was given to an Irishman, Hamilton. The sufferings of the wretched men in Londonderry were growing terrible. The fire of the besiegers went on constantly, and with difficulty could the walls that had been knocked down in the day be rebuilt during the night. The fighting men were so weak that they could hardly stand at their posts. The grain that was still left had to be given out by mouthfuls, and men tried to satisfy their hunger by gnawing salted hides. Dogs were the greatest delicacy that could be got, but few could afford to buy them, for a dog's paw was sold for five shillings and sixpence. People died so

fast that no one could be found to bury them. Despair was beginning to creep into the hearts of many. They could still see the sails of the English fleet, but the sight only added to their anguish, since nothing was done to help them. At last everything seemed at an end. It was impossible to make their provisions hold out for more than two days longer. Just at this time an order was sent from England to Kirke, the commander of the fleet, telling him that he must wait no longer, but force his way into Londonderry at once. Two ships, laden with provisions, that were with the fleet were eager to go to the help of Londonderry. The captain of one of them, Browning, was a native of the town, and they were now sent with a war-ship to force their way up the river.

It was late on a summer evening at the end of July. The sun had set, and the starving people of Londonderry were just coming out of the cathedral, where they had been listening to the preacher who tried to comfort their despairing hearts. Just then the sentinels on the tower caught sight of three sails making their way up the mouth of the river. The besiegers, too, had seen them, and were on the watch all along the banks of the river. The ships were in great danger. There was little water in the river, and they could only get along slowly. But Leake, the commander of the men-of-war, protected the other ships as well as he could, and answered the fire of the Irish on the banks with his guns. Across the river the Irish had made a great boom of wood to prevent ships from sailing up. Browning's ship dashed boldly at the boom, which cracked and gave way, but the ship, as it bounded back from

the shock, stuck in the mud. The Irish shouted with triumph, and, rushing to their boats, prepared to board her. But Leake, by the fire from his ship, disturbed them for the moment, and the third ship passed safely through the break in the boom. The tide was rising fast, and it lifted Browning's ship out of the mud and carried it safely through the broken boom. At the very moment when he was carrying deliverance to his fellow-townsmen, a ball struck Browning, and he died with the knowledge that he had saved Londonderry. It was already dark when the ships passed the boom, but the flash and noise of the guns had told the besieged what was going on. They had waited in terrible anxiety; and when at ten o'clock the ships reached the quay, the whole town was there to greet them, and watch the unloading of the stores of provisions that had come to put an end to their hunger. That night bonfires blazed along the walls, and the church bells rang out merry peals in answer to the guns of the besiegers. For three days the besiegers continued their attack, but on the third night flames were seen rising from their camp, and when morning dawned their huts stood deserted and blackened with smoke, whilst in the distance the retreating army could be seen. The siege had lasted a hundred and five days. Londonderry has never forgotten it, and on a lofty pillar rising from her walls may be seen the statue of Walker, who so bravely kept up the courage of his countrymen in those terrible days.

XLV.

THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.

A.D. 1692.

THE last men who held out for the cause of James II. were the clans who lived in the Highlands of Scotland. The Highlanders were for the most part wild lawless people, but they were warm-hearted and faithful to their chiefs. They had not suffered by the misgovernment of James II., and it was natural to their loyal natures to be willing to fight for the cause of their King, when they heard that he had been forced to flee from his throne and his country.

When the other parts of the kingdom were in order, William III. was anxious to do something to put a stop to the disturbances in the Highlands, and make the Highland clans obedient to the law. James could do nothing for the Highlanders; they had spent all they had in his service and were in great poverty, and he had no money to give them. William III. was told by his Scottish advisers that if he were to offer a sum of money and a free pardon to those chiefs who would take an oath of allegiance to him, and cause their clans to lay down their arms before a certain day, they would probably all submit. William agreed to this proposal, and the 31st December 1691 was

fixed as the day before which the Highlanders must accept his conditions.

The Highland chiefs were very proud, and it caused them a severe struggle before they could make up their minds to yield. But by degrees, feeling how hopeless their cause was, one after another gave in. The last to give in was MacIan, the chieftain of a small tribe called the Macdonalds of Glencoe. This tribe lived in a desolate valley near Loch Leven and Ben Nevis. There were only few of them, but they were a fierce wild race; the soil of their valley was unfruitful, and they lived almost entirely by plundering the lands of the Campbells, which lay round them, and driving away their herds of cattle. The Campbells very naturally hated them, and longed to destroy them as a nest of troublesome robbers. MacIan was an old man-very proud and fierce; he could not make up his mind to give in to the Government. But when he knew that all the other chiefs had given in, his pride was satisfied by thinking that he had held out the longest. On the very last day he went to Fort William to take the oaths. He found that there was no one there who could receive them, and now he became terrified at the risk he was running, The nearest place where he could take the oaths was Inverary, and he set off with haste to go there. He had to pass through a wild mountainous country in the midst of winter, and his journey was delayed by snowstorms. The old man travelled with the greatest possible haste, but he did not reach Inverary till the 6th of January. The Sheriff hesitated at first to take his oaths, as the proper time was over. But MacIan begged