“ Shipped for the Barbadoes.” 333 
are possible from victor to vanquished. Surely the days of chivalry are not yet 
past and gone, for so and no otherwise must Pierre du Terrail the Sieur de 
Bayard, chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, have demeaned himeelf at Villa 
Franca when he surprised Prosper Colonna a century before. Yet it is only six 
years forward to the Sack of Magdeburg and it is already five years since 
Count John Tzerklaes von Tilly began the Thirty Years War in Upper Austria. 
Let us look forward. The Bavarian Pappenheim blockades the great 
Protestant stronghold on the Elbe but the Maiden City, as Magdeburg is fondly 
called, subbornly resists. After some five months Tilly assumes command 
and begins a bombardment. The inhabitants are now willing t» treat but their 
Swedish commander Falkenberg succeeds in postponing the reply to the final 
summons to surrender. The delay is destined to be memorable in the history 
of man’s inhumanity to man. While Falkenberg is speaking in the Rathhaus 
to the assembled Councillors, Pappenheim crosses the Elbe from the Neustadt 
suburb and storms the walls, while elsewhere the Croatians pour in through a 
shattered gate. Falkenberg rushes from the Council Chamber and offers a fierce 
resistance but falls mortally wounded. The massacre of the Protestant garrison 
and of the citizens, both armed and unarmed, follows. By accident or design 
the whole city is burnt to the ground. How far the Imperialist leaders are 
responsible can never be fully known and possibly they may not have been able 
to restrain the fury of Croats, Hungarians and mercenaries accustomed to the 
savagery of Turkish warfare. But Europe shudders and even Wallenstein dis- 
believes the tale of horror, and Pappenheim confesses to his master, the Emperor 
Ferdinand, that no such awful visitation of God has been witnessed since the 
destruction of Jerusalem. 
CROMWELL. 
Let us look forward again. The time is 1649 and we are in the English camp 
before the Millmount of Drogheda. To the North the stately city of the Pale, 
a stronghold for centuries of English rule against the Irishry, girt with lofty 
walls and towers, bestrides the Boyne. Parliaments of the Norman colonists 
have been held here, royal favours have been showered upon its citizens, and 
only now for the firs‘ time does it stand for any Irish cause. St. Mary’s steeple 
rises close at hand above the Southern wall and on the Northern height 
beyond the river rises St. Peter's: the former is soon to be beaten down 
by a terrific cannonade and the latter will pass to history in burning 
flame. Cromwell summons the Governor, Sir Arthur Aston, to surrender, 
but the old English soldier of the Polish wars is true to histrust. Charles 
I. is in his martyr’s grave, sent thither by the iron will of this very 
General of the besiegers, but, thank God, his son lives, a prosperous gentle 
man (although not, perhaps, as yet too much so). Cromwell hauls down the 
white ensign which is flying from his headquarters and replaces it : the new 
ensign is red. Breaches are made in the South wall. Cromwell is well provided 
with the best artillery of the time and the mediaeval curtains and bastions can 
not resist his powerful batteries. The grim Roundhead columns converge upon 
the shattered wall. Their word is “ For Him that we shall find with us in 
Treland ag well as we did in England, our Lord God!” The royalist Governor 
