Presently, however, a party of the enemy who had forced their way over the wall at another point took them in rear.  Then the garrison fled in all directions pursued by their victorious enemy, who slaughtered every man they overtook.  Mike had kept close to Harry through the whole of the struggle.  He had picked up a pike from a fallen man, and had more than once, when Harry was nearly surrounded by his foes, dashed forward and rid him of one of the most pressing.  Seeing, by the general slaughter which was going on, that the Roundhead soldiers must have received orders from their general to give no quarter, Harry determined to sell his life dearly, and rushed into a church where a score of the English soldiers were taking refuge.  The door was closed and barricaded with chairs and benches, and from the windows the men opened fire upon the Roundheads, who were engaged in slaying all—­men, women and children, without mercy.  Soon, from every house around, a heavy fire was poured into the church, and several of those within fell dead under the fire.  Under cover of this, the Roundheads attacked the door with axes.  Many were killed by the fire of the defenders, but as the door yielded, Harry called these from their post, and with them ascended the belfry tower.  Here they prepared to fight to the last.

Looking from a window, Harry beheld a sight which thrilled him with horror.  Gathered round a cross, standing in an open space, were two hundred women on their knees.  Even while Harry looked a body of Cromwell’s saints fell upon them, hewing and cutting with their swords, and thrusting with their pikes, and did not desist while one remained alive.  And these were the men who had the name of God ever on their lips!  When the dreadful massacre began Harry turned shuddering from the window, and with white face and set teeth nerved himself to fight to the last.  Already the door had been beaten down, and the assailants had streamed into the church.  Then a rush of heavy feet was heard on the stairs.  Assembled round its top stood Harry and the twelve men remaining.  Each knew now that there was no hope of quarter, and fought with the desperation of men who cared only to sell their lives dearly.  Fast as the Roundheads poured up the stairs, they fell, pierced by pike, or shot down by musket ball.  For half an hour the efforts continued, and then the Roundheads, having lost over fifty men, fell back.  Three times during the day the attack was renewed, and each time repulsed with the same terrible slaughter.  Between the intervals the defenders could hear the never-ceasing sound of musket and pistol firing, as house after house, defended to the last by desperate men, was stormed; while loud, even above the firing, rose the thrilling shrieks of dying women and children.

In all the history of England, from its earliest times, there is no such black and ghastly page as that of the sack of Drogheda.  Even supposing Cromwell’s assertion that he wished only to terrify the Irish rebels to be true, no shadow of an excuse can be pleaded for the massacre of the women and children, or for that of the English Royalists who formed five-sixths of the garrison.