nt at which Grandval
entered the Netherlands, his steps were among snares. His movements were
watched; his words were noted; he was arrested, examined, confronted
with his accomplices, and sent to the camp of the allies. About a week
after the battle of Steinkirk he was brought before a Court Martial.
Ginkell, who had been rewarded for his great services in Ireland with
the title of Earl of Athlone, presided; and Talmash was among the
judges. Mackay and Lanier had been named members of the board; but they
were no more; and their places were filled by younger officers.

The duty of the Court Martial was very simple; for the prisoner
attempted no defence. His conscience had, it should seem, been suddenly
awakened. He admitted, with expressions of remorse, the truth of all
the charges, made a minute, and apparently an ingenuous, confession, and
owned that he had deserved death. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn
and quartered, and underwent his punishment with great fortitude and
with a show of piety. He left behind him a few lines, in which he
declared that he was about to lose his life for having too faithfully
obeyed the injunctions of Barbesieux.

His confession was immediately published in several languages, and was
read with very various and very strong emotions. That it was genuine
could not be doubted; for it was warranted by the signatures of some of
the most distinguished military men living. That it was prompted by the
hope of pardon could hardly be supposed; for William had taken pains to
discourage that hope. Still less could it be supposed that the prisoner
had uttered untruths in order to avoid the torture. For, though it was
the universal practice in the Netherlands to put convicted assassins to
the rack in order to wring out from them the names of their employers
and associates, William had given orders that, on this occasion, the
rack should not be used or even named. It should be added, that the
Court did not interrogate the prisoner closely, but suffered him to tell
his story in his own way. It is therefore reasonable to believe that his
narrative is substantially true; and no part of it has a stronger air of
truth than his account of the audience with which James had honoured him
at Saint Germains.

In our island the sensation produced by the news was great. The Whigs
loudly called both James and Lewis assassins. How, it was asked, was it
possible, without outraging common sense, to put an innocent