right; others may take a different view.  I believe the majority of my countrymen this minute, if, instead of my being tried before a petty jury, who, I suppose, are bound to find according to British law—­if my guilt or innocence was to be tried by the higher standard of eternal right, and the case was put to all my countrymen—­I believe this moment the majority of my countrymen would pronounce that I am not a criminal, but that I have deserved well of my country.  When the proceedings of this trial go forth into the world, people will say the cause of Ireland is not to be despaired of, that Ireland is not yet a lost country—­that as long as there are men in any country prepared to expose themselves to every difficulty and danger in its service, prepared to brave captivity, even death itself if need be, that country cannot be lost.  With these words I conclude.”

On the conclusion of this address, Judge Keogh proceeded to pass sentence on the prisoner.  The prisoner’s speech, he said, was in every way creditable to him; but the bench could not avoid coming to the conclusion that, with the exception of James Stephens, he was the person most deeply implicated in the conspiracy.  The sentence of the court was that he be kept in penal servitude for a term of twenty years.  Mr. Luby heard the words without any apparent emotion—­gave one sad farewell glance to his wife and friends, and stepping down the little stairs from the dock, made way for the next prisoner.

* * * * *

JOHN O’LEARY.

While the jury in the case of Thomas Clarke Luby were absent from the court deliberating on and framing their verdict, John O’Leary was put forward to the bar.

He stepped boldly to the front, with a flash of fire in his dark eyes, and a scowl on his features, looking hatred and defiance on judges, lawyers, jurymen, and all the rest of them.  All eyes were fixed on him, for he was one of those persons whose exterior attracts attention and indicates a character above the common.  He was tall, slightly built, and of gentlemanly deportment; every feature of his thin angular face gave token of great intellectual energy and determination, and its pallid hue was rendered almost death-like by contrast with his long black hair and flowing moustache and beard.  Easy it was to see that when the government placed John O’Leary in the dock they had caged a proud spirit, and an able and resolute enemy.  He had come of a patriot stock, and from a part of Ireland where rebels to English rule were never either few or faint-hearted.  He was born in the town of Tipperary, of parents whose circumstances were comfortable, and who, at the time of their decease, left him in possession of property worth a couple of hundred pounds per annum.  He was educated for the medical profession in the Queen’s College, Cork, spent some time in France, and subsequently visited