was the man who would cauterize the long-standing sores.  There was a soldier in Ireland at last who understood the work that was to be done, and the way to set about it.  Beloved by the soldiers, admirable alike for religion, nobility, and courtesy, altogether the queen’s, and not bewitched by the factions of the realm, the governor of Ulster had but to be armed with supreme power, and the long-wished-for conquest of Ireland would be easily and instantly achieved.’

These feelings were not unnatural to the party in Dublin, now represented by the men who recently declared that they rejoiced in the election of a Fenian convict in Tipperary, and declared that they would vote for such a candidate in preference to a loyal man.  But how did Queen Elizabeth receive the news of the treacherous and atrocious massacre at Belfast?  She was not displeased.  ’Her occasional disapprobation of severities of this kind,’ says Mr. Froude, ’was confined to cases to which the attention of Europe happened to be especially directed.  She told Essex that he was a great ornament of her nobility, she wished she had many as ready as he to spend their lives for the benefit of their country.’

Thus encouraged by his sovereign, and smarting under the reproach of cowardice cast on him by Leicester, Essex determined to render his name illustrious by a still more signal deed of heroism.  After an unprovoked raid on the territories of O’Neill in Tyrone, carrying off cattle and slaughtering great numbers of innocent people whom his soldiers hunted down, he perpetrated another massacre, which is certainly one of the most infamous recorded in history.  A great number of women and children, aged and sick persons, had fled from the horrors that reigned on the mainland, and taken refuge in the island of Rathlin.  The story of their tragic fate is admirably told by Mr. Froude:—­’The situation and the difficulty of access had thus long marked Rathlin as a place of refuge for Scotch or Irish fugitives, and, besides its natural strength, it was respected as a sanctuary, having been the abode at one time of St. Columba.  A mass of broken masonry, on a cliff overhanging the sea, is a remnant of the castle in which Robert Bruce watched the leap of the legendary spider.  To this island, when Essex entered Antrim, M’Connell and other Scots had sent their wives and children, their aged and their sick, for safety.  On his way through Carrickfergus, when returning to Dublin, the earl ascertained that they had not yet been brought back to their homes.  The officer in command of the English garrison (it is painful to mention the name either of him, or of any man concerned in what ensued) was John Norris, Lord Norris’s second son, so famous afterwards in the Low Countries, grandson of Sir Henry Norris, executed for adultery with Anne Boleyn.  Three small frigates were in the harbour.  The summer had been hot and windless; the sea was smooth, there was a light and favourable air from the east; and Essex directed Norris to take a company of soldiers with him, cross over, and—­’