GRACE O’MALLEY
PRINCESS AND PIRATE

Told by
RUARI MACDONALD
REDSHANK AND REBEL

. . The Same Set Forth . .
in the Tongue of the English
BY
ROBERT MACHRAY

CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited
London, Paris, New York & Melbourne
1898
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS.

GRACE O’MALLEY,
PRINCESS AND PIRATE.

CHAPTER I.
SAVED FROM THE SEA.

It has now become so much a matter of custom—after that familiar human fashion which causes us to turn our faces to the rising sun—to praise and laud the King, James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England and Ireland, in the beginning of whose reign over the three kingdoms—to which he has been pleased to give the name of Great Britain—this chronicle is written, that there would appear to be some danger of a wonderful truth being forgotten.

For there can be no doubt that his Highness follows upon a most remarkable age—an age which must be known throughout all time to come as the Age of Great Women.

And when I think upon Elizabeth of England, who broke the power of Spain, of Mary of Scotland, whose beauty and whose wickedness were at once the delight and the despair of her people, and of the French queens, whose talents in statecraft have never been equalled, I make bold to deny that the period of the rule of his Highness will be in any respect as glorious as that which immediately preceded his time, and in which these great women lived.

Now, whether it was from the influence and inspiration of these high and mighty exemplars, or because it was born of the pith and marrow of decreed circumstance, and so lay at the very heart of things, that women should then lead the way, and that men should give themselves up entirely to their service, I cannot say. Yet I know that there were other women of less exalted rank than those I have mentioned, whose powers, although displayed on but a small stage, were seen to be so superior to those of men that men willingly obeyed them, and lived and died for them—and living or dying were glad indeed.

And the story which I have to tell is the story of such an one.

It was my lot, for so had Destiny cast out from her urn the shell on which my name was marked, that I, Ruari Macdonald, of the Clandonald, of the family of the Lords of the Isles, both of the Outer and the Inner Seas, having been unnaturally deprived of my home and lands in Isla, should have been saved to become the servant of that extraordinary woman called, in the tongue of the English, Grace O’Malley.

It is also not unusual for her to be spoken of by them as the “Pirate Princess,” and the “Pirate Chieftainess of Galway,” and there have been some who have described her as a “notable traitress,” and a “nursing mother of rebels.” But to us Celts, and to me in particular, her name can never be uttered in our own liquid speech without something of the same feeling being stirred within us as when we listen to the sounds of soft music—so sweet and dear a name it is.

It is true, perhaps, that its sweetness has rather grown upon me with advancing years. Be sure, however, there was a time when her name uplifted my heart and made strong my arm more than the clamour of trumpets and all the mad delight of war. But it seems far off and long ago, a thing of shadows and not more real than they. And yet I have only to sit still, and close my eyes for a space, and, lo, the door of the past swings open, and I stand once more in the Hall of Memories Unforgotten.

Now that the fingers of time fasten themselves upon me so that I shake them off but with fainting and difficulty, and then only to find them presently the more firmly fixed, I think it well before my days are done to set forth in such manner as I can what I know of this great woman.

I say, humbly, in such manner as I can.

For I am well assured of one thing, and it is this—that it is far beyond me to give any even fairly complete picture of her wit and her wisdom, of her patience and her courage, and of those other splendid qualities which made her what she was. And this, I fear, will still more be the case when I come to tell of the love and the hate and the other strong stormy passions which entered into her life, and which so nearly made shipwreck of all her hopes, and which in some sort not only did change her whole course but also that of her country.

And, first of all, must I declare how it was that I, Ruari Macdonald, a Scot of the Western Isles, came to have my fortunes so much bound up with those of Grace O’Malley. In the ordinary circumstances of a man of my birth there would have fallen out nothing more remarkable than the tale, perhaps, of some fierce fighting in our Highland or Island feuds, and that, most probably, would have circled round our hereditary enemies, the Macleans of the Rinns of Isla. But thus was it not with me, albeit it was to these same ancient foes of my tribe that I owe my knowledge of Grace O’Malley.

Well do I recall the occasion on which I first heard her voice. In truth I was so situated at the time that while other recollections may pass out of my mind, as assuredly many have passed away, the memory of that never will.

“Do not kill him, do not kill him!” said a shrill treble, piping clear and high above the hard tones of men’s voices mingled together, and harsh from the rough breath of the sea.

“Throw him into the water!” cried one.

“Put him back in the boat!” cried another.

“Best to make an end of him!” said a tall, dark man, who spoke with an air of authority. And he made as if to draw his sword.

“No! no!” cried the shrill treble. “Do not kill him. See, he is only a little boy, a child. Give him to me, father.”

There was a burst of laughter from the men, and the shrill treble, as if encouraged, again cried, “Give him to me, father.”

“What would you do with him, darling?”

“I know not, father, but spare him. You promised before we set out from Clew Bay to give me whatever I might ask of you, if it was in your power. And now I ask his life. Give him to me, father.”

There was a silence for a short space, and I opened my weary, fear-haunted eyes, gazing dazed and distracted about me. Then I saw a small, ruddy-cheeked, black-haired maid on the deck of a ship, while around her and me was grouped a band of sun-browned, unkempt, and savage-looking sailors, clad in garments not very different from those of my own people. In the midst of them was the man whom the maid addressed as father. I, the little boy, the child of whom she had spoken, was lying bound at her feet.

My mind was distraught and overwhelmed with the terror and horror of what I had already undergone. Hungry and thirsty, and bruised and sore, I cared but little what might happen to me, thinking that death itself could hold no greater suffering than that I had just passed through. But the sight of the maid among these men of the sea awoke my boyish curiosity. As I gazed at her, a great wave carried the vessel up on its crest, and had she not put forth her hand and caught me by the thongs of deer with which I was bound, I would have rolled like a helpless log into the hissing waters.

“See,” she said, “he is mine.”

“Then be it so,” her father agreed, after some hesitation. “And yet, it may not be well. Do you understand our language?” he asked of me.

“Yes,” I replied. I knew the Irish tongue, which is almost the same as our own, in which he addressed me. For there was much traffic between the Scottish Islands of the West and the North of Ireland, where many of my own clan had settled, the “Scots of the Glens” of Ulster. So I had heard Irish spoken frequently.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Ruari Macdonald, the son of Tormod Macdonald of Isla,” I answered, but with difficulty, for my mouth was parched and my tongue swollen.

“I know the breed,” said he, with a smile, “and the Clandonald are men who may be trusted. Besides, you are but a boy.”

He stooped down and cut away my bonds. I tried to stand up, but only fell half swooning upon the deck.

“Water, water!” cried the shrill treble. “He is fainting from thirst.” And the voice seemed to keep my consciousness from ebbing utterly away.

Then the maid in another instant was wetting my cracked and thickened lips from a silver cup, and I drank and was refreshed. Next she brought me food and a little Spanish wine.

“Let him eat and drink,” said she, “so that his life may be whole within him again.”

Taking me by the hand as soon as I had sufficiently recovered, and followed by her father, she led me to the poop of the ship, where there was a sort of cabin, or “castle,” as it is called.

“Now, Ruari Macdonald of Isla,” said the man, who was evidently the commander of the vessel, “tell me how it was that you came to be on the wide sea, lying bound and nearly dead, in that small boat we picked up an hour or so ago?”

“The Macleans,” I gasped, for speech was still a burden to me. But before long my tongue was loosened, and I told them all I knew of what had happened.

“The Macleans,” said I, “of the Rinns of Isla, who were ever our foes, but with whom we had been at peace for a long time, suddenly set upon and surprised my father’s castle by night. I was awakened by the sounds of clashing swords and the death shrieks of men and women—the most fearsome cries—so that my blood ran cold and my heart stood still.”

I stopped and choked as I spoke. The maid nodded kindly, and put her little hand in mine.

“Although I had never seen a fight,” continued I, “I had been told often and often of battles, so I guessed at once what was going on. I got up from my couch, and in the darkness called my mother’s name, but she answered not. I was alone in the chamber. Terrified, I shrieked and sobbed. Then the room filled with smoke. The castle was on fire. Making the best of my way to the door I was clasped in my mother’s arms. She carried a lighted torch, but I came upon her so sharply that it fell out of her hand and was extinguished.

“’We are lost,’ she wailed, pressing me wildly against her bosom, while I could feel her heart beating fast and hard against my own.

“’What, is it, mother?’ I asked; but I knew without any words from her.

“We were standing in a corridor, but the smoke soon became so dense that we could no longer endure it. Hardly knowing what she did, I think, she dragged me along to a window in the room where I had slept, and opening it, looked out. The yard of the castle was alive with men holding blazing sticks of fir, and flames shot up from the burning door of the central tower in which we stood. I also looked out, and noticed dark, silent forms lying prone upon the ground.

“’Fire or sword? What matters it?’ I heard her whisper to herself. ’Lost, lost, lost! Oh, Ruari, my son, my son!’ And she kissed me—the last kisses she ever gave.”

I broke down weeping. The little hand of the maid caressed and soothed me.

“We had been spied from the yard,” I went on, after I had had my fill of crying, and a great hoarse voice rose above the din.

“’Fetch me the woman and the child alive!’ was what it said.

“’It is Red Angus Maclean,’ said my mother, hopelessly.

“Then four clansmen plunged through the smoke and flame, and burst in upon us. Seizing us roughly, they took us half dead to Red Angus.

“’Do what you will with me,’ said my mother, falling on her knees before him, ’but shed not the blood of the lad,’ she implored and prayed of him. ’He has never done you any harm.’

“He scowled at us, and played with the handle of his dirk.

“’Why should I not slay ye both?’ said he. ’When did ever a Macdonald spare a Maclean, tell me that?’ He paused, as if in thought. ’But listen,’ he began again. ’Choose you,’ said he, speaking to my mother, ’for such is my humour, choose you, your life or the boy’s.’

“’Thank ye,’ said my mother. ’Never did I think I should live to thank a Maclean. Swear you will not shed his innocent blood, and I shall die gladly.’

“’Have ye chosen?’ said he.

“’Will ye swear not to put him to the sword?’

“’Yes,’ said he, and glared at her.

“’Ye have chosen,’ said he at length.

“’Yes,’ said my mother; and with her eyes fixed on me, she fell beneath the stabs of his dirk; but even as she fell I sprang from the arms of the men who held me, and leapt like a wild cat of Mull straight for his throat, but he caught and crushed me in his grip.

“’Remember your oath!’ cried my mother to him, and died.

“Seeing that she was dead he laughed a terrible laugh, so empty of mirth and so full of menace was it.

“’Ay, I shall keep my oath,’ said he. ’No drop of his blood shall be shed. But die he too must, and so shall this accursed brood be destroyed from off the face of the earth. Bind him so that he cannot escape,’ he ordered.

“And they bound me with strips of tanned deerskin, even as you saw when I was found in the drifting boat. Then he spoke to two of his men, who carried me down to the beach, and threw me into the bottom of the boat. Getting themselves into another, they towed that which I was in some two or three miles from shore, until, indeed, I could hear the struggling of the waters made by the tide, called the ’Race of Strangers.’ And then they left me to the mercy of the sea.”

“How long ago was that?” asked the maid.

“Two days ago,” I replied. “I drifted, drifted with wave and tide, expecting every moment to be swallowed up; and part of the time, perhaps, I slept, for I cannot remember everything that took place. And then you found the boat, and me in it,” I added simply.

“’Tis a strange story,” said the maid’s father; and he turned away to see to the working of the ship, which was straining and plunging heavily in the swell, and left us two children to ourselves.

I looked at the maid, who had been so tender and kind.

“Who are ye?” I asked timidly.

“I am Grace O’Malley,” said she proudly, “the daughter of Owen O’Malley of Erris and of Burrishoole in Connaught—he who has just gone from us.”

And then she told me of herself, of her father, and of her people, and that the ship was now returning to Clare Island, which belonged to them.

“See,” said she, pointing through a window in the stern, “there are the headlands of Achill, only a few miles from Clare Island,” and I looked out and saw those black ramparts of rock upon which the ocean hurls itself in vain.

“Now Clare Island comes into view,” she continued, and peeping out again I beheld the shoulder of the hill of Knockmore looming up, while beyond it lay a mass of islands, and still further away the mountains on the coast.

“All this,” said the maid with a sweep of her hand, “and the mainland beyond, is the Land of the O’Malleys.”

“And is the water also yours?” I asked, attempting a boy’s shy pleasantry, for so had she won me from my grief.

“Yes,” replied the maid, “the water even more than the land is ours.” And she looked—what she was, though but a little maid—the daughter of a king of the sea.

CHAPTER II.
THE PRINCESS BEGINS HER REIGN.

Ten years, swift as the flight of wild swans winging their way southward when the first wind of winter sweeps behind them, passed over our heads in the Land of the O’Malleys; nor did they pass without bringing many changes with them. And yet it so happened that no very startling or determining event occurred till at the very close of this period.

The little maid who had saved me from the sea had grown into a woman, tall of stature and queenly in carriage—in a word, a commanding figure, one to be obeyed, yet also one who had the gifts which made obedience to her pleasant and easy. Already she had proved herself in attack by sea or assault on shore a born leader, brave as the bravest man amongst us all, but with a mind of larger grasp than any of ours.

Yet were there times when she was as one who sees visions and feeds on fantasies; and I was ever afraid for her and us when I saw in her face the strange light shining through the veil of the flesh which spoke of the dreaming soul.

But more than anything else, she possessed in perfection a woman’s power to fascinate and charm. Her smiles were bright and warm as the sunshine, and she seemed to know what she should say or do in order that each man should bring to her service of his best. For this one, the ready jest, the gay retort, the laughing suggestion, the hinted rebuke; for that, plain praise or plain blame, as she thought suited the case. She understood how to manage men. And yet was she at times a very woman—petulant, unreasonable, and capricious. Under the spell of passion she would storm and rage and scold, and then she was ill to cross and hard to hold. For the rest, she was the most fearless creature ever quickened with the breath of life.

I have heard it asserted that Grace O’Malley was wholly wanting in gentleness and tenderness, but I know better. These were no lush days of soft dalliance in the Ireland in which we lived; the days were wine-red with the blood of men, and dark with the blinding tears of widows and orphans. The sword, and the sword alone, kept what the sword had taken. And yet was she of a heart all too tender, not infrequently, for such a time.

Chiefly did she show this gracious side of her nature in her fond care of her foster-sister, Eva O’Malley, who had been entrusted when a child, a year or two after my arrival at Clare Island, to Owen O’Malley by a sub-chief who governed one of the islands lying off the coast of Iar-Connaught.

Never was there a greater contrast between two human beings of the same kin than there was between those two women: Grace—dark, tall, splendid, regal; Eva—fair, tiny, delicate, timid, and utterly unlike any of her own people.

Clay are we all, fashioned by the Potter on His wheel according to His mind, and as we are made so we are. Thus it was that, while I admired, I reverenced and I obeyed Grace O’Malley—God, He knows that I would have died to serve her, and, indeed, never counted the cost if so be I pleased her—I loved, loved, loved this little bit of a woman, who was as frail as a flower, and more lovely in my sight than any.

Men were in two minds—ay, the same man was often in two minds—as to whether Grace O’Malley was beautiful or not; but they were never in any doubt, for there could be none, of Eva’s loveliness. Howbeit, I had said nothing of what was in my thoughts to Eva; that was a secret which I deemed was mine alone.

For myself, I had grown to man’s estate—a big fellow and a strong, who might be depended upon to look after ship or galley with some regard for seamanship, and not to turn my back in the day of battle, unless nothing else were possible.

Owen O’Malley had received me, the outcast of Isla, into his own family, treating me as a son rather than as a stranger, and, although I never ceased to be a Scot, I was proud to be considered one of the Irish also. Under his tuition I learned all the ways and customs of his people—a wild people and a fierce, like my own. So far as Connaught was concerned, these ten years were for the most part a time of peace among its tribes, and thus it was that I came to know like a native its forests and mountains, its rivers and lakes, and the chief men of the O’Flahertys and Burkes and O’Connors, whose territories marched with those of the O’Malleys on the mainland.

But I learned much more, for Owen O’Malley taught me how to steer and handle a ship so that it became a thing of my own—nay, rather a part of myself. He also gave me my knowledge of the coasts of Ireland, and there was scarcely a bay or an inlet or a haven, especially on the western shores, into which I had not sailed. And as he proved me and found me faithful, he himself showed me the Caves of Silence under the Hill of Sorrow—strange, gloomy caverns, partly the work of nature and partly of man, once the homes of a race long perished, of whom no other trace now remains. With the exception of Grace O’Malley, from whom he kept nothing hid, and himself, no one but I was aware of the entrance to them and of what lay concealed within.

It had been the habit time out of mind of the O’Malleys to take toll of all shipping in these waters, and to make raids from their galleys upon unfriendly tribes living along the coast. The fishermen who came over from Devon, and who paid tribute according to the number of their smacks, went unmolested; but the merchant trader was ever thought to be a fair prey. Thus, except in winter, when storms tied up O’Malley’s ships in the harbours of Clare or Burrishoole, Owen’s three great galleys were constantly at sea.

After I had reached manhood it was usual for Owen himself to be in command of one, Grace of the second, and myself of the third. It was one of these expeditions which brought about an event that changed the course of our lives.

We had sailed southward, and were standing out one night late in spring about three miles from the northern shores of Kerry, on the watch for any trader on its way to the port of Limerick. The coolness of the night still lay on the edge of dawn under the dying stars, when a fog, dense, dark, and choking, encompassed us around, so that our three ships lost sight of each other and soon drifted out of hail.

Hours passed, and still the fog lay heavy and close. In the afternoon it lightened and lifted and disappeared. There were no signs of our companions. I made my course for a creek at the mouth of the Shannon, where it had been arranged we were to meet in case of any mishap. Towards evening the galley called The Grey Wolf, with Grace O’Malley as its chief, came bowling up alongside.

Obeying her summons to go over to her ship, I went on board The Grey Wolf, when we exchanged greetings, enquiring of each other if we had seen or heard anything of The Winged Horse, her father’s vessel. Neither of us knew anything of it, and there was nothing to be done but to await its arrival. We were chatting pleasantly, when I saw outlined against the sunset flaming in the west the bulk of a merchantman, which we guessed from her build and rig to be an English ship, probably from Bristol, coming on under press of sail.

On she came in stately fashion, with her sails bellying out in the fresh breeze, and we could hear her men singing snatches of sailor glees upon her decks. We gazed at her, and then we saw a dreadful and an uncanny thing. Grace O’Malley was the first to speak.

“Look, look!” she said. “What is that?”

My eyes were fixed on the ship, but I could not tell what it was that we saw.

“I know not,” I replied. “Perhaps it is some new device of these English. No; it can hardly be that. What is it, I wonder?”

We stared and stared at it, but could make nothing of it.

“It might almost be a phantom ship, Ruari,” she said. “But we see it too plainly and hear the sailors too well for that.”

Meanwhile, I noticed that the men in our galleys stood about the bulwarks, rubbing their eyes and shading them with their hands, as if they felt that here was some portentous thing.

This is what we saw as the English vessel drew nearly abreast of us.

On the white spread of the mainsail two huge, gigantic shadows of men seemed to appear, to loom large, to grow small, to disappear, and then to reappear again.

A sort of awe fell upon us.

“What can it mean?” I asked.

“Wait,” said she; “we may know soon enough, for I think it is of evil omen for us.”

“’Tis nothing,” said I boldly, although I feared exceedingly; “nothing but a trick played upon us by the sinking sun and its shadows.”

“Nay, ’tis something more than that,” said she.

Suddenly the wind fell off somewhat, and now the canvas of the merchantman slapped against her masts with dull reports like the sounds of an arquebus shot off at a distance.

I saw her name in letters of white and gold—Rosemary, and as the way she had on carried her past us, I understood what was the cause of what we had seen. For as she swayed with the movements of wind and wave, we beheld two bodies strung up from the yard of her foremast, swinging to and fro with her every motion, looking, as they jerked up and down, as if they were still alive, struggling and gasping in their last agony.

I glanced at Grace O’Malley, whose face had grown in an instant white and rigid.

“Do you not see,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “that the poor wretches are Irish from their dress? Thus do these English slay and harry us day by day. Is there never to be an end of this wanton killing of our people?” Then she became thoughtful, and added in a tone of sadness, “My heart misgives me, Ruari; I feel the grip of misfortune and grief.”

“Make no bridge for trouble to pass over,” said I, and spoke many words of comfort and confidence, to all of which she scarcely listened. Respecting her mood, I left her, and went back to my own ship, The Cross of Blood.

That night, while I was on watch, I heard the soft splash of oars, and presently out of the darkness there came the hail of a sailor from the bow of The Winged Horse, as she rounded the point and slipped into the creek where we lay.

Something in the tone of the sailor’s voice, more perhaps in the slow drooping of the oars, at once aroused my attention. Without words I knew that all was not well. Where was the chief? There could but be one reason why there was no sign of Owen O’Malley himself. Either he was grievously wounded or he was dead. Hastily I swung myself into the boat of my galley, and made for The Winged Horse, which was now riding at anchor about a bow shot away.

Tibbot, the best of pilots and steersmen in Ireland, met me as I clambered up on to the deck.

“Whist!” he entreated, as I was beginning to open my mouth in eager questionings.

“What has happened?” I asked in a whisper.

“The chief has been badly hurt,” he replied. “He lies in the poop cabin, bleeding, I fear, to death.”

“What!” I exclaimed; “bleeding to death?”

“Let me tell you——”

But I interrupted him sharply.

“I must see him at once,” I said, and I made my way to the poop, where, stretched on a couch of skins, lay my friend and master. As I bent over him he opened his eyes, and though the cabin was but dimly lighted, I thought he smiled. I took his hand and knelt beside him. My anguish was so keen that I could not speak.

“Ruari,” said he, and that great full voice of his had been changed into that of a babe; “is it you Ruari?”

“Yes; it is I,” replied I, finding nothing else to say, for words failed me.

“Ruari, I am dying,” said he simply, as one who knew the state in which he was, and feared not. “I have received the message of death, and soon must my name be blotted out from among the living.”

As he was speaking there was a rustling in the waist of the ship, and Grace O’Malley stood beside us.

“Father, father,” she cried, and taking his head and shoulders on her breast, she crooned over him and kissed him, murmuring words of passionate mourning, more like a mother than a daughter.

“Grace,” said he, and his voice was so small that my breathing, by contrast, seemed loud and obtrusive. “I am far spent, and the end of all things is come for me. Listen, then, to my last words.”

And she bent over him till her ear was at his lips.

“In the blinding fog,” continued he, “we drifted as the ocean currents took us, this way and that, carrying us we knew not whither—drifting to our doom. The galley, before we could make shift to change her course, scraped against the sides of an English ship—we just saw her black hull in the mist, and then we were on her.”

The weak voice became weaker still.

“It was too big a ship for us, yet there was but one thing to do. I have ever said that the boldest thing is the safest thing—indeed, the only thing. So I ordered the boarders forward, and bade the rowers take their weapons and follow on.”

The dimming eyes grew luminous and bright.

“It was a gallant fight,” he said, and his accents took on a little of their old firmness, “but she was too strong for us. In the attempt we lost several of our men, and two were taken prisoners. We were beaten off. Just as the vessels drove apart, and the barque was lost in the mist, a stray shot from an arquebus hit me in the thigh—and I know I cannot survive.”

“What was the name of the ship?” asked Grace.

“The Rosemary, of Bristol,” he replied. It was the name of the merchantman we had seen with the two corpses swinging from the yard of her foremast. “You will avenge my death, Grace, but not now. You must return at once to Connaught, and assemble our people. Tell them that my wish, my command at the point of death, is that you should succeed me in the chieftainship.”

There was no sound for a space save only the cry of the curlews on the shore, calling to their mates that another day was dawning.

“Ruari,” said the ghost of a voice, “Ruari, I had hoped that you and Grace——”

But the cold fingers of death sealed the lips of the speaker.

Grace O’Malley fell forward on the stiffening body; and, thinking it best, I left the living and the dead together. In another hour the three galleys were beating northward up the coast, and on the evening of the second day after Owen O’Malley’s death we anchored in the haven of Clare Island, where the body was buried with all the honours and ancient ceremonies paid by the Irish to their chiefs.

Then came the meeting of the clan to determine who should succeed Owen O’Malley, for, according to a law similar to that which prevails among our Celts of the Islands, the members of each sept who have reached the age of the warrior, have a voice in the election of chiefs. As I was not in reality one of themselves, nor could forget that I was a Scot—a Redshank, as the English called me, albeit I could ruffle it on occasion with the best Englishman that ever stepped—I took no part in the council, nor spoke my mind until the older men had said their say.

It was at once a beautiful sight and a memorable, this great gathering, and the most beautiful and memorable thing of all was that men were content, and more than content, that a woman should, for the first time in their history, be called their chief.

When it was my turn to speak, I related what I had heard fall from Owen O’Malley as he was dying, and, without further words, dropping on my knee I took the hand of Grace O’Malley, and swore by the Five Wounds of God to be her servant so long as it might be her will.

Then her people, old and young, pressed about her, calling her their darling and their pride, and thus she became their leader and chief.

But with the death of Owen O’Malley there was an end of the times of peace and quietness in Connaught, whereat, like the hothead I was, I rejoiced, not seeing the perilous adventures that lay before us.

CHAPTER III.
THE TITLE-DEED OF THE SWORD.

“Ruari!”

It was the soft note of Eva O’Malley, calling to me as I came within the gate of Carrickahooley Castle, whither Grace O’Malley, our mistress, had come to fulfil her period of mourning for her father. I had just crossed over from Clare Island on a small sailing vessel, which now lay in the little harbour under the west wall.

“Ruari!”

It was ever a sound of gladness to me, that sweet voice; and looking up to the chambers of the women, half-way up the front of the great square tower, I beheld the fair face, framed in its pale-gold curls, against the darkness of the embrasure of her window. My heart gave a quick bound of pleasure, and then I grew hot and cold by turns.

For I loved her, and the fear that is born of love made my strength turn to weakness when I gazed upon her. Yet was I resolved to win her, though in what way I knew not. Neither did I hope overmuch up to that time that I understood her, for her manner was a riddle to me.

And here let me set down what were then my relations with these two women, or, rather, what was their attitude to me.

Grace O’Malley clearly regarded me as a younger brother, and never lost a certain air of protection in her dealings with me. To her I remained always in some sort “a little boy, a child,” whose life she had saved—although I was one of the biggest men in Ireland.

Eva O’Malley, who was two years younger than I, had tyrannised over me when I was a lad, and now that I was a man she mocked at and flouted me, dubbing me “Giant Greathead”—I say “Greathead,” but in our language Greathead and Thickhead are the same—and otherwise amusing herself at my expense. But in her griefs and troubles it was to me she came, and not to Grace, as might have seemed more natural.

“Ruari!” she called, and I waved my hand to her in greeting. As I went into the hall she met me.

“I was waiting for you,” she said, “for I wished to speak to you before you saw Grace.”

“Yes?” I asked, and as I noticed the freshness of the roseleaf face I marvelled at it for the hundredth time.

“Grace has made an end of her mourning,” she went on, “and her purpose now is to go to Galway to see the Lord Deputy, if he be there, as it is said he is, or, if he be not, then Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught.”

I could have shouted for joy, for I was weary of forced inaction while the fine weather was passing us by, and all the harvest of the sea was waiting to be gathered in by ready hands like ours.

“Glad am I, in truth, to hear it,” said I heartily. I was not fond of Galway, but I was anxious to be again on the waters, and who could tell what might not happen then? There had been no fighting for a long time, and the men were lusting for it, hungering and thirsting for it—only biding, like dogs in the leash, for the word. And I was of the same mind.

“But listen, Ruari,” said Eva. “Is it well that she should go to Galway? To my thinking there is a very good reason against it.”

“Indeed,” said I, surprised. “What is it?” As I have declared already, I had no special liking for Galway—and the sea is wide.

“By going to Galway,” said she, “does she not run the chance of putting herself in the power of the English? Is it not to thrust one’s head into the very jaws of the lion? The English never loved her father, Owen O’Malley, and the merchants of Galway were never done accusing him of supplying himself from their ships at his good pleasure without asking permission from them.”

I smiled, for what she said about the dead chief was true.

“’Tis not well to smile,” said Eva, frowning.

“There is wisdom in your words,” I replied, becoming instantly grave at her rebuke. “But why not say to Grace herself what you have said to me?”

“Oh, you mountain of a man,” she said, “to be so big and to be so——” and she stopped, but I could fill up the gap for myself.

“What have I said?” demanded I, still more abashed.

“Think you not that I have already spoken to her?” she asked. “But she will not hearken.”

“Why should she,” said I, “care for my opinion?”

“You know she does care,” she said testily. “But there is more to tell you.”

“More?” I asked.

Her manner now showed the utmost dejection. Her eyes were downcast, and as I regarded her I asked myself why it was that one so fair should have dark, almost black eyelashes—eyelashes which gave a strange shadow to her eyes. Her next words brought me quickly out of this musing.

“The ’Wise Man’” said she, “is set against her going. His words are of darkness and blood, and he declares that he sees danger for us all in the near future. I’m afraid—you know he sees with other eyes than ours.”

And she said this with such evident terror that inwardly, but not without some dread, I cursed the “Wise Man,”—a certain Teige O’Toole, called “Teige of the Open Vision” by the people, who counted him to be a seer and a prophet. He was certainly skilled in many things, and his knowledge was not as the knowledge of other men.

As she stood beside me, wistfully, entreatingly, and fearfully, I pondered for a brief space and then I said—

“I will go and speak with Teige O’Toole, and will return anon,” and forthwith went in search of him.

I found him sitting on a rock, looking out to sea, murmuring disconsolately to himself. Straightway I asked him what it was that he had to say against Grace O’Malley’s intended visit to Galway, but he would vouchsafe no reply other than the awesome words which he kept on repeating and repeating—

“Darkness and blood; then a little light; blood and darkness, then again light—but darkness were better.”

Whereat I shuddered, feeling an inward chill; yet I begged of him not once, nor twice, to make plain his meaning to me. He would not answer, so that I lost patience with him, and had he not been an aged man and an uncanny I would have shaken the explanation of his mysterious words out of his lips, and, as it was, was near doing so.

Rising quickly from the stone whereon he had been sitting, he moved away with incredible swiftness as if he had read my thoughts, leaving me staring blankly after him.

What was it he had said?

“Darkness and blood; and then a little light!”

Well, darkness and blood were no strangers to me.

“Blood and darkness; then again light—but darkness were better!”

I could make no manner of sense of it at all; but I saw the meaning of it plainly enough in the years that followed.

I felt a gentle touch upon my arm, and Eva was by my side.

“Grace wishes you to go to her at once,” she said. “O Ruari, Ruari, dissuade her from going.”

“I will do what I can,” I replied; but I knew beforehand that if Grace O’Malley had settled what she was to do, nothing I could urge was likely to change her purpose.

Slowly I went into her presence.

“Eva has told you,” she said, “that we set out at once for Galway.”

“Yes,” I answered, “but I pray you to consider the matter well.”

“I have considered it well,” she replied; “but say on.”

“Is it a necessity,” I asked, “that you should go to Galway? Are there not many more places in Ireland for us to go to? Is not the north open to us, and the west, with plenty of Spanish merchantmen and English trading on the broad waters?”

“All in good time,” said she, smiling at my eloquence.

“Here,” said I, emboldened to proceed, “here you are among your own people, on your own land, and no one will seek to molest us. But in Galway—everything is different.”

“That is it,” she said earnestly. “That is the very reason—everything is different there.”

She stopped as if in thought.

“Listen, Ruari! My mind,” said she, “is made up to go to Galway to talk over our affairs with the English governor.”

So this was the reason.

“You say I am safe here,” she continued, “but am I? Word was brought me only yesterday by a trusty messenger from Richard Burke, the MacWilliam, that my father’s old-time enemy, Murrough O’Flaherty, is whispering in the ear of Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught—perhaps into the ear of the Lord Deputy himself, for I hear he is expected about this time in the city—that my father was an enemy of the Queen, Elizabeth, and that I, his daughter, am sure to follow in his steps.”

“Murrough O’Flaherty!” cried I, “is he not content with his own wide lands of Aughnanure?”

“Content,” said she. “Such a man is never content! Then this insidious whisperer goes on to hint that I am only a young woman, and that my father has left no heir. It is plain enough, is it not, what he means?”

“Sir Nicholas Malby,” said I, “is reputed to be a just man and a good soldier.”

“A just man—perhaps, who knows! That is why I am going to Galway. I must make clear my right and title to my father’s possessions.”

“Right and title,” I exclaimed, and unconsciously I placed my hand on the hilt of my sword.

She saw and interpreted the action.

“Our title-deed,” said she, “has been that of the sword——”

“And so shall it always be,” I broke in.

“In one sense, yes,” she assented; “but we live in times of change, and things are not as they were. All the chiefs and lords of Ireland are now getting a title for their lands from the queen. Even my father did something of the sort. If I go not to Galway to put forward my claims it will be said that I am disloyal and a traitress.”

“So,” I said, “it may be an evil to go, but it is a worse thing to stay here.”

“Yes,” she answered; “but I have other reasons. It is not that I put so much trust in a piece of parchment, signed and sealed, although I see no harm in getting it. Ruari, I have purposes that reach far beyond Galway, and Connaught even, and for the present I deem it not well openly to incur the enmity of the English.”

This speech was beyond me, so I held my peace until I remembered what the “Wise Man” had said; but when I mentioned it she replied that she knew of the matter, and though it troubled her, it would make no difference to her plans.

Then she fell to brooding and thinking, as was her way, whereupon I left her to get the ships ready for sea even as she wished.

So, before another day was passed, the three great galleys drew away from the shelter of Clare Island, and, speeding before a fair wind, made for the south. Grace and Eva O’Malley were on The Grey Wolf, Tibbot, the pilot, was in command of his dead master’s ship, The Winged Horse, while I was on my own vessel, The Cross of Blood.

We took a great company with us of nearly one hundred and fifty men, including a band of arquebusiers, besides bards and pipers, and a priest on each ship. The priests were not much to my liking on shipboard, but Grace would have them. Both Grace and Eva brought of the finest of their garments, all made of rich Spanish stuffs, so that they might appear before the Governor as befitted their rank. I myself took with me two full suits, also of Spanish make, and such as were worn at courts, that I might not appear unworthy of my mistress.

As the wind was steady, the black cliffs of Achill, with the mass of Cushcamcarragh and the dome of Nephin behind them, soon grew distant in our wake. The glowing cone of the Holy Hill of St. Patrick, a wonder of light and shade as beam of sun or shadow of cloud fell upon it, sank behind us.

And on we went through a sea of silence, whereon we saw never another ship; on past the grey or green islands off the coast, until the wind dropped at sunset. Then the rowers bent their backs and knotted their muscles over the oars, and so drove the galleys up the long, narrow arm that is called the Bay of Killery, until we found anchorage under the mighty shoulders of that king of mountains, the lonely Muilrea.

At early morn, before the sun was up, albeit a far-off tender flush had sprung up, like something magical, upon the western rim of the world, the dirl, dirl, dirl, and the clamp, clamp, clamp, of the oars, as they smote the groaning pivots on which they swung, was heard, and the galleys went foaming out from the bay, the spray rising like a fine dust of gems from under the forefeet of the ships. Then we caught a breeze, and the sails swelled and drew, while the sailors gat them to their places with shouts and laughter.

Is there any coast in the four quarters of the globe where you will find more splendid havens than in the portion of Ireland lying between the Bay of Killery and the Bay of Galway? Well has that land been named Connemara—that is, the “Bays of the Ocean.” The rugged cliffs, whereon the weather and the wave have combined to throw all manner of cunning colours far beyond power of painter to copy, still less devise, are everywhere broken by inlets, in many of which all the fleets of Spain and of England together might have ridden safely—hardly one of these bays but has its island breakwater in front of it for its protection from the storm and tempest.

’Tis a rare home for seamen!

As the day wore on we fell in with a Scottish ship hailing from Wigtonshire, called The Lass of Carrick, going to Galway like ourselves. But Grace O’Malley had given command that until her business was finished with the Governor, we were to continue peacefully on our course, so we left her without scathe, whereat our men were in no way offended, there being but little profit to be got out of a ship coming from Scotland.

A vessel going back from Galway to Scotland was another thing, for she generally carried a cargo of wines of divers sorts, to say nothing of silks and other valuable materials. Therefore made I a note in my mind to watch The Lass of Carrick when we were come to Galway, and to observe what she took away in that broad, ill-built hulk of hers when she left the port.

That night the galleys put in to the Bay of Caslah, the most eastern harbour on that coast, and the following day, without adventure of any sort—so calm a beginning might well have told me what storms there would be before the end—we made Galway.

As had been arranged between us, The Cross of Blood, my ship, let go her anchor in the harbour between the mole and the bridge by which the city is entered on that side, while the other galleys stood out some distance in the bay. Sending a messenger ashore, I made known the errand upon which we were come, and, after waiting a long time, received answer that the Lord Deputy was not yet come to Galway, but that Sir Nicholas Malby would see Grace O’Malley, and would give a safe-conduct to her and her guard.

It was now too late for our landing that day, so we remained where we were all that night. Next morning the three galleys rode within the harbour of the city, and not far from us were The Lass of Carrick and several other vessels, all come for the wines and the other merchandise of the great and famous city of Galway.

CHAPTER IV.
THE COLONEL OF CONNAUGHT.

It was about an hour from noon, a hot sun burning in a blue sky, when Grace O’Malley signified from The Grey Wolf that she was about to land, and that it was her desire that I should accompany her, but that I should go on shore before her, to make sure that she would not be detained at the gate. Having made a suitable response to my mistress, I gave command to the rowers and the helmsman of The Cross of Blood, and the galley slowly drew up alongside the wall of the harbour, beside the gate by which an entrance is made into the “Street of the Key,” as it is called.

Perhaps it was the fierce heat which indisposed to exertion of any sort, but the place was strangely quiet and still. Two or three soldiers, with steel morions on their heads and corselets of iron about their bodies, gazed at us with indolent curiosity from the towers and parapets that looked across the bay.

At the gate itself were an officer and his guard, lounging about listlessly enough in the sunshine, and taking apparently but a little languid interest in our movements. A few sailors of different nationalities, among whom the swarthy Spaniards predominated, and some of the country fisher folkk, walked about the quay. Not far from us The Lass of Carrick was discharging her cargo; below us a fishing smack, with its one great sail set, was being rowed out to sea.

As my galley approached within a few feet of the quay, I heard a whistle, or what seemed a whistle. Indeed, so swift and shrill did the sound bite into the air, that it was as if someone standing close beside me were trying in this fashion, very peremptorily, to excite my attention. At the same time, or, mayhap, a little sooner or a little later—the whole thing, it appeared to me, came together on the instant, as it were—I felt the rush and the wind made by an arrow or a bolt as it flew past my face. Then the crick-crack of the barb, as it smashed and splintered the wood of the bulwark behind me, followed immediately afterwards. Involuntarily, I put up my hand to my cheek.

Death had passed close to me, had almost struck me. Yet, hardly realising what had happened, I stood rooted to the spot. A queer, quaking sob burst from me—the surprise was so sudden, so complete.

My first thought was that the arrow had been intended for me, but I had escaped it by the breadth of a hair, and no more. I was untouched. Momentarily I expected other arrows; but none came. I asked myself what was the meaning of the solitary arrow. At first sight it appeared as if we were about to be dealt with treacherously—that we were being beguiled to our destruction. Evidently, that was the mind of my men in the matter, for they had made a quick and terrible outcry that we were betrayed when they marked the flight of the quivering shaft.

Holding up my hand for silence, but bidding them take their weapons as quietly and calmly as they could, I waited for what might next befall. Ordering the oarsmen to cease rowing, the galley lay motionless on the water. Looking anxiously up at the parapet, and then at the gate, I could perceive no unusual commotion among the soldiers, nor could I see a bowman amongst them. It appeared doubtful if they had observed that anything out of the ordinary had taken place, and, certainly, they acted as if they had not. It plainly was no affair of theirs—that was sure, for they were not more on the alert than before.

Whence, then, had come the arrow, and for what purpose, if not one of death?

My second thought showed me clearly that, had the mysterious archer intended to kill me, there would have been nothing easier, for, standing as I did on the poop, I was the best mark in the world; nor would he have required any marvellous expertness in his art to have made an end of me. So, as everything about us now seemed favourable and fair for us, I next turned my regard to the arrow itself, which was fast in one of the beams of the galley.

Now for the first time I noticed that it had been shot into the ship in such a way that it was nearly or altogether hidden by the shape of the vessel from being seen by those on shore; and I bethought me that it must have been sped without hostile intent, but, on the contrary, conveyed some message of warning which it would be well not to neglect. Wrenching forth the missile with an effort from the beam, I examined it carefully, and found, as I had begun to anticipate, a message; for roughly inscribed upon it was the word “Beware!”

With the dark, foreboding saying of the Wise Man still ringing in my ears, it was not likely that I should overlook any measure of precaution that was in my power, but the safe-conduct of the Governor of Connaught had given me a feeling of security—which was, perhaps, not justified. Thus it was that I could not but suspect that the message of the arrow was meant to prevent me from putting trust overmuch in Sir Nicholas—a man whom I had not yet seen.

Instead, therefore, of taking with me only six spearmen, as I had purposed, as part of Grace O’Malley’s bodyguard, I doubled the number. Besides these there also landed three gentlemen of her household, chiefs from the islands, men of proved courage, to whom the use of the sword was as much a part of themselves as the breath they drew. I had already sent ashore early in the morning a trusty steward, with instructions to procure two horses for my mistress and Eva O’Malley, and he now, as we made fast to the quay, came forth from the gate with two splendid barbs, each attended, as is usual in Ireland, by its own swift-footed horse-boy.

While our landing was proceeding I could not help wondering who it was that had sped the arrow, and why he had chosen this way of conveying his warning. Manifestly he was one who was afraid, and desired to keep in the background, for reasons that commended themselves sufficiently to him. Rapidly thinking over the affair, I came to the conclusion that our friend could be none other than Richard Burke, the MacWilliam of whom I have already spoken, and who, I had some reason to guess, cherished a tenderness for Grace O’Malley.

And right mightily glad was I to think that one so strong and brave was in Galway at this time. So great was his fortitude and tenacity of purpose that he was quite commonly spoken of as Richard the Iron, and never in the day of adversity was there a stouter heart or a more vigorous arm than his.

But why had he taken—or caused to be taken, as was most probable—this extraordinary method of apprising me of immediate danger, for that and no less I concluded was the meaning of that one word, “Beware”? The future was to show, and that soon enough.

To lay The Grey Wolf alongside of The Cross of Blood was the work of a few minutes, and soon the two ladies were mounted upon their horses, but not before I had told Grace O’Malley of the incident of the arrow, and asked if she had any further commands to give.

Now, my mistress was possessed of that high and proud sort of spirit upon which the hint of danger acts as fuel to fire or spur to steed. So she did but cast her eyes over the men I had picked out, and, selecting a similar number from her own ship, said that her purpose was unchanged.

“Tell the officer on guard at the gate,” said she, “that I go to confer with the Governor, Sir Nicholas Malby, on affairs of state.”

The captain of the gate appeared to be somewhat dazed with the size of our company, which numbered more than thirty swords, spears, and battle-axes, and he arranged his men in a line as we advanced. Saluting my mistresses with grave punctilio, he informed us that Sir Nicholas was lodged at the house of the Mayor of Galway, where for the time he held his court. But, he said, as he stood resting the point of his drawn sword upon the ground, orders had been given to admit into the town only the lady Grace O’Malley, her women, and not more than a few of her people.

When I protested against this, he replied that the Governor was very strict; and as for himself, he was merely a soldier whose duty was to do what he was bid.

My mistress, as he spoke, flashed on me a glance of quick intelligence; then she turned with a brilliant, compelling smile to the officer.

“Sir,” cried she with animation, looking with her dark, lovely eyes into the eyes of the Englishman, “you speak as a soldier should. But here”—and she waved her hand round her company—”are not more than a few of my people, as it were. You think that we be too many? Nay, sir, ’tis not so. Is it not fitting to do as much honour as I can to the Governor? And the more of us the greater the honour done him?”

And she smiled again upon the officer, who was a young man and a gallant, to his undoing. While they were thus engaged in parleying—they conversed for some time, but what further was said I did not hear—we had pressed within the gate and filled up part of the street beyond. Having gained this position, I had no thought of retreating. The captain, noting our bearing, and partly won over by Grace O’Malley’s woman’s wiles, partly making a virtue of necessity, for we could easily have overpowered his men, again gravely saluted.

“Be it as you wish, lady,” he said; and so we passed on up the Street of the Key.

It has been my lot to see of great cities not a few, but, though I had scant reason to love the place, not many, I will say, that were finer or more handsomely built than Galway was in these days. She was now at the very height of her prosperity, and laid claim to be second in the kingdom to Dublin alone, and proudly vaunted her superiority over her ancient rival Limerick.

As we marched up the Street of the Key, the ladies magnificently attired in our midst, and presently entered the High Street, the tall spires of the church of St. Nicholas of Myra—the patron saint of mariners, who hath ever been most favourable to me—rose in front of us; while the storehouses of the merchant princes of the city—the Lynches, the Martins, the Blakes, the Kirwans, and others whose names escape me—encompassed us with vast buildings of dressed stone on every hand.

On all sides were signs of abundance and wealth. And small wonder; for there was hardly a port of France or Spain—nay, of all Europe—whither the ships of Galway did not go. Her traders, ever unsatisfied, had even sailed out beyond the Spanish Main to the Indies.

But it must be remembered that Galway was not an Irish city, but an English—where it was not Spanish. The strong walls and towers which belted her in were not more for defence against an enemy who might attack her from the sea, than against the Irishry who dwelt beyond her gates. And keen and bitter as was the hatred between Englishman and Spaniard, that between the Englishman of Galway and the Irishman, whose home was in the country, was keener and more bitter still. The day was not to close without a proof of this.

On we passed, making a brave show, with the sun overhead shining on our arms and harness, while the townsmen stood and gaped, and the women looked out at us from their windows and doors. On we passed until we halted before the mansion of Stephen Lynch, the Mayor, reputed to be the richest man in Galway. Here, in front of the house, there was a guard, and I could see through the archway that the courtyard beyond was full of soldiers.

After an exchange of greetings I was shown into an anteroom, and thence sent word to Sir Nicholas that my mistress was without, and waited his pleasure. After a slight delay, the Governor replied that he was at meat, and that he would think it an excellent omen if my mistress, her ladies and gentlemen, would honour him by their company.

Then, to my surprise, the Major himself appeared, helped, with much ceremony, Grace and Eva O’Malley to alight, and invited then myself and certain of our comrades of rank to enter, at the same time commanding that our men should be most courteously entertained.

All this display of friendliness was so different from what I had expected that I knew not what to think. Afterwards I learned that Sir Nicholas had been informed of our numbers, and that this had led him to change the plan that he had originally formed—which I understood was that Grace O’Malley was to have been at once seized and held as a prisoner until he had determined what was to be done in her case—and this notwithstanding the safe-conduct he had given.

Separated as I was by some distance at table from my mistresses, I could not hear the conversation between them and the Governor, who talked to them in a certain bluff, soldier-like fashion. Amongst others present were Sir Murrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, Richard Burke of Mayo, and other of the chiefs of Connaught who were known to us. But all my attention was taken up in watching, as carefully as I could, Sir Nicholas Malby, the Governor.

There was no possibility of mistaking him for anything but what he was—the successful soldier of fortune. He had the port of one used to command, and there was a rough dignity about him that became him well. His face was scarred and weather-beaten, and I had heard that he had seen hard service, both in the Low Countries and in Spain. He did not come, I had been told, of any noble or considerable family. His sole possession had been his sword, and he had rather hewn than carved out his path in the world with it.

I at once recognised in him a shrewd and capable man, who would not let many things stand in his way. Here was one, I knew, to be reckoned with. Myself a man who both gave, and therefore expected to receive, heavy blows; he was another of the same sort, and I felt a certain respect for him.

There was told a curious tale of the way in which he had become a soldier—and ’fore God, it is not for me to say I think the worse of him for it! It is never a custom of mine to set down anything I hear to anyone’s despite, yet in this instance the story helps show the nature of the man.

In his youth, which was mean and poverty-stricken, he had been arrested, convicted, and condemned to death for coining—so ’tis said, and I understand this to be the truth. In some manner or other—I know not how—he had made interest with one of the great nobles at the English court, and was released on condition that he would enter the nobleman’s service as a soldier, and proceed to the war then being waged against the Emperor. And this he did, acquitting himself so much to the satisfaction of his superiors, that he was soon placed in command of a body of mercenaries, and displayed no little valour at their head.

Later, he had come over to Ireland under Sir Henry Sydney, who esteemed him so highly, owing to the manner in which he had fought against the O’Neils of Ulster, that, when Sir Henry was Lord Deputy of Ireland for the first time, he had advanced him from post to post, until he was now Governor, or “Colonel of Connaught,” as his title was.

One thing we had heard, and that was, like all the rest of the English, he was very greedy for money, and that his ears readily listened to an argument that was backed up with gold. Therefore had we brought with us rich presents for the Governor, which were duly delivered to him when dinner was finished.

Such, then, was Sir Nicholas Malby, upon whom the fortunes of my mistress so much depended. I perceived that she was studying him with no less intentness than myself, but that she hid this under a gay and sparkling demeanour.

When the meal was over, Sir Nicholas said that he desired to talk with her alone, and they withdrew together to another room. Whereupon Sir Murrough O’Flaherty and the other gentlemen of the Irish, gathered around me, plying me with many questions, to all of which I returned evasive replies, feeling in truth exceedingly anxious, and wishing nothing so much as to be on board my galley again with my mistresses safe in theirs. Nor did I have an opportunity—as I desired—to speak privately to Richard Burke.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when Grace O’Malley sent for me and presented me to Sir Nicholas, telling him that I was her foster-brother, and that I was pledged to her service. The Governor scanned me narrowly up and down, then suddenly put forth his hand and grasped mine with a grip of steel. I fancied, and herein I was right, as events subsequently proved, that he had something of the same feeling in regard to me as that I had experienced for himself.

“I have but one desire,” said he, when he had talked for some time, “and that is, the establishment of the Queen’s peace in Connaught.” And he laid his hand heavily on my own. I bowed, but answered not, thinking in my mind that silence was best, for what had we to do with the Queen’s peace; we, who were the free rovers of the sea?

Then it appeared that Grace O’Malley had been asked by the Mayor to be his guest for awhile, and that she had accepted his invitation. So I now learned that my mistresses were not to return to the ships at once, but were to take up their abode in the mansion of the Lynches along with the Governor.

I was none too well pleased with this arrangement, remembering the message of the arrow, but dissembled my fears and suspicions, particularly when I was informed that no objection was made to her keeping her guard. I further gathered from her air that she was not ill-content with the result of her interview with Sir Nicholas, and that all seemed to be going as she wished.

Anon the Mayor entered, bringing with him his daughter Sabina, a dark, handsome woman of twenty summers, who was to be the hostess of my mistresses, for her mother was dead. And with her in this fair seeming entered also the shadow of Destiny—a shadow not to be lifted for many a day.

It was never given to me to read the hearts of women, nor to comprehend their ways, but, being but a man, I looked upon this woman with pleasure, little dreaming what evil she was to work upon us. Here was one, had I but known it, far more to be feared than the bluff, determined soldier who was Colonel of Connaught.

CHAPTER V.
THE QUEEN’S PEACE.

It was some three hours or so from sunset when I took leave of my mistresses, both of whom were in the highest spirits. I saw that my young and innocent dear was delighted with her surroundings, and had completely forgotten her objections to Galway. She and Sabina Lynch had at once become friends, and, indeed, it was impossible for anyone to see Eva O’Malley and not immediately to be gained over by her.

But Grace O’Malley had a certain reserve in her talking with the Mayor’s daughter—a reserve that sprang from instinct or intuition, or a forecasting of the future, perhaps.

My two ladies had entrusted me with various orders to their women with regard to sundry boxes of apparel to be sent to the Lynch mansion, and as I set off to The Cross of Blood, I felt in better humour with myself and the world. Fortune at the moment appeared to smile upon us. Sabina Lynch had told me, just before I bade her good-bye, that her father was to give a revel with dancing—after the fashion which obtained at the Court of Elizabeth, who was immoderately fond, I have heard, of this form of entertainment—in a few days, in honour of the Governor.

I could see that my mistresses both looked forward to it with keen anticipations of pleasure. At first I could not share in their feelings, thinking that we did but waste our time in Galway, until Grace O’Malley had confided to me, in an aside, that she believed her affairs would soon be settled with Sir Nicholas.

She had declared to the Governor that it was her desire to hold her lands from the Queen, on condition that instead of being bound to supply for her Highness’s service so many soldiers when called upon for a hosting, she should maintain her ships and their crews of sailors and fighting men so that they would be always ready to do the Queen’s will, whether it was on the western coasts of Ireland or of Scotland. He had not said “Nay,” but had put the matter off until he had considered it more fully.

As I was walking down the Street of the Key to the harbour, along with the three gentlemen of our household who had gone with me to the Mayor’s, we met a party of half a dozen citizens of the place, all standing talking together. Their voices were raised either in anger or debate, and as we approached I heard enough to understand that they were discussing the action of the Governor with regard to my mistress, and that it met with their strong disapprobation.

“Our ships will never be safe,” cried one, as we came up with them. They made no effort to let us pass, though the street was narrow at this point, and seemed rather as if they intended to dispute the ground with us. The odds were against us, but not too greatly; so saying, “By your leave,” I went on.

“Sir,” cried I, the hot, angry blood burning in my cheeks, as I returned roughly enough the push I had received from one of those who blocked the way, “sir, your manners stand in much need of mending—or ending.”

And my sword—a flash of living fire in the westering sun—was out in a twinkling.

I knew the fellow who had insulted me. It was Michael Martin, a rich merchant and a person of authority in the town, notwithstanding his comparative youth—he was not much older than myself—to whom I spoke. He had deliberately jostled against me as I made to pass him, and I was never blind to a hint of this kind.

His action, coupled with the words I had heard, had quickly got me out of the happy frame of mind with which I had quitted the Mayor’s mansion, and my thoughts were immediately of my mistresses’ danger. His unmannerly act meant more than hostility to me.

“Draw!” shouted I furiously, and his sword flashed out at me. Martin was neither a coward nor a poor swordsman, and my hands were full with this business in another instant.

“Manners,” quoth he, as our blades rang together as steel met steel; “manners! Manners, forsooth! Who are you to teach a gentleman of Galway manners? You—the scum of the sea!”

And so he raved, keeping his eyes warily fixed on mine the while.

These fresh insults maddened me like the stirring of venom from the poisonous fangs of a wolf, and a sudden fierce storm of passionate anger such as I had never before felt swept over me, as I cried to him across the darting swords, “We shall see, we shall see!”

Meanwhile my comrades ranged themselves beside me with their weapons unsheathed, and several of those who had been talking with Martin were not slow to follow their example, but it was rather, as it happened, with a view to forming a ring round my opponent and myself, so that we had the fighting to ourselves.

“A brawl, a brawl!” someone cried, and there was the sound of the shutting of windows and the closing of doors.

My position placed me at a disadvantage, for the sun, now sinking downwards behind the hills on the other side of the Bay of Galway, cast its rays in my eyes, and caused me to blink, whether I would or no, as the points of our swords, forming glittering circles of flame, whirled this way and that. I endeavoured to force the fighting so that my adversary would change his ground, but he was fully conscious of how much he gained by maintaining his place, and all my efforts were vain.

Now, as we thrust and parried, lunged and retired, my anger passed away, and I found myself become as cool and collected as if I had been on the deck of my ship. I had successfully met and defeated a stubborn attack, at the same time piercing his breast for a short inch mayhap, so that the blood spurted forth in a little jet, when Martin, saying quickly with a choking gasp,

“Another time, Redshank!” suddenly gave way, much to my surprise, not seeing any reason for his change of front. Surrounded by his friends, he turned swiftly, and in hot haste made off down the street, and, entering a narrow lane not far from the wall, was lost to view.

For one instant I stood, breathing heavily, sword still on guard. Then I was about to follow, when a voice, harsh and commanding, cried: “Halt! Stop! Halt in the Queen’s name! Halt, halt!”

I knew the voice, although I had heard it for the first time in my life that very day. It was Sir Nicholas Malby, the Governor himself, and no other, who spoke. I also realised that I had gotten myself into a position of some hazard, to say the least, with one to whom the preservation of the Queen’s peace was the principal object of his ambition.

But the Governor was, above everything—so I said to myself—a soldier, and I flattered myself he would understand, and even sympathise with, my feelings in this matter. He was attended but by two of his officers, yet he came up without hesitation, and the fierce question of his eyes was full of challenge.

“What is this?” he cried. “I will have no brawling in the streets!”

I saluted with great deference, remembering, perhaps rather late in the day, Grace O’Malley’s orders that we were to do everything we could to make our stay in Galway a peaceable one, and made bold to say as respectfully as I could—

“Sir, the fault scarcely lies with us;” and I went on to tell him exactly how the affair had been brought about, protesting that I could act in no other way than I had done, as the quarrel had been forced upon me. As I told my story he nodded coldly, but not disapprovingly.

“I am resolved to have an end of all strife,” said he; at length, after thinking deeply for a short time: “Can you tell me who was the aggressor?” he asked. “Did you know him?” Then, without waiting for my answer, he continued threateningly, “I will hang any man whom I find disturbing the Queen’s peace, be he prince or kerne, chief or gallowglass!”

Now, it was no part of my business to hand over Martin to the mercies of the Governor, and it was very much my affair, I thought, that I should settle my quarrel with him personally, so I made no reply to the question of Sir Nicholas.

“He was a stranger to you, I presume,” said he, and was about to pass on, but changing his mind, he asked whither I was bound and for what purpose.

When I told him I was on my way to the galleys, and with what object, he smiled a little grimly, and walked with me towards the gate. He made many inquiries as to the number of fighting men there were aboard of the galleys, and the manner in which they were armed. I asked Sir Nicholas whether he would not pay a visit to The Cross of Blood, but he declined, as it was his custom to make a survey of the walls at this period of the day.

“Your mistress,” said he, as he left me at the gate, “is in good hands.” And I could not but muse somewhat darkly at this enigmatic sentence.

It was past the middle of the night, when I was aroused by someone coming softly into my cabin. A lantern swung from the beam above my head, and in the half darkness I made out Walter Burke, my chief officer, and with him Richard Burke the MacWilliam. In a moment I was wide awake, knowing that this secret visit of Richard the Iron was pregnant with something evil. Eagerly I looked into his face.

“What brings——!” I exclaimed loudly. But his fingers were placed on my lips.

“Quietly, quietly,” said he. “I do not suppose that there are any traitors on The Cross of Blood,” continued he.

“All staunch, staunch,” I interrupted, “everyone.”

“’Tis well,” said he; “but what I am come to tell you is not a thing to be proclaimed from the tops of our towers.”

Stirred by a host of thronging fears, I waited, keenly apprehensive of his next words. They were heavy enough, although the misgivings I had felt had not left me altogether unprepared for tidings of the kind.

“Grace O’Malley,” said he, in a low tone which thrilled me through, “is virtually a prisoner in Galway. The Mayor, or rather, I should say, his daughter, has made herself answerable to the Governor for her. While your mistress is apparently free to come or go as she pleases, she is in reality deprived of her liberty, as she will discover if she tries to leave the mansion of the Lynches.”

“Grace O’Malley a prisoner?”

“That is what she is,” said Richard Burke. “She is not bound, nor is she locked up in a room. Her every movement, however, is watched by Sabina Lynch. While she may think herself a guest, and an honoured guest, the hospitality is a mere pretence.”

“But why, why?”

“There are many reasons, as you well know,” he replied. “The mind of the Governor is set against allowing any of the ancient customs of the land; he is endeavouring quietly and skilfully—for he is not a blustering bully as some others are—to reduce the power of the chiefs and to make them pay tribute to the Queen. Where he does show his hand plainly it is always to strike a deadly blow.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. Grace O’Malley a prisoner, and I sitting quietly in my ship! The thing seemed impossible—yet it was true.

“No need for haste,” said he calmly. “Listen to what I have to say, and then you will grasp the matter more surely. Sir Nicholas will offer no violence if he can gain his point without it.”

“What is his point?” I asked.

“Is there any need to ask?” replied Burke. “Grace O’Malley is a powerful princess in Connaught. She has her lands, her galleys, and several hundred well armed men at her back. Is that not enough? Are the English not trying to clip all our wings? But there is far more in the case of your mistress.”

“Go on, go on!” I said.

“This,” said he. “The mind of Sir Nicholas has been wrought upon by the merchants of Galway, who are ever about him, saying this and that, offering him valuable gifts and such things as he loves.”

“To what end?”

“You know as well as I do, that these proud-stomached folk have no great liking for us Irish,” said Burke. “Did you never hear that they have a statute of the town that ’Neither Mac nor O’ shall strut or swagger’ in the streets of Galway? There has always been, however, a friendship between us Burkes of Mayo and one or two of the families here, as, for instance, the Lynches, and I hear through them all that is going on.

“Owen O’Malley plundered the ships of the Galway merchants, making scant distinction between them and Spanish or French or Scottish ships. Grace O’Malley shared in many of her father’s doings before he died, and the people of Galway think that she has inherited her father’s nature and disposition as well as his lands and ships, and that as long as her galleys roam the sea there will be no safety for their vessels.”

The words were nearly the same as those Eva O’Malley had used when she tried to dissuade my mistress from setting out from Clew Bay.

“What would they have Sir Nicholas do?” I asked.

“Break up her ships; scatter her people; hang, kill, burn, destroy them; hold her a prisoner; or—for there is no advantage to be derived from our shutting our eyes—kill her, too, by poison, perhaps, unless she agrees to the terms of the Governor.”

Burke now spoke in great excitement, and with labouring breath; nor could I listen to his words with any degree of composure.

“She will never agree to the Governor’s terms,” said I. “She is being deceived, for she believes that Sir Nicholas is favourable to her suit.”

“Put that hope out of your mind,” replied he. “Sir Nicholas is merely playing with her—with what object you can easily guess. It is for no other reason than to make her ruin the more complete.”

I assented gloomily.

“Now we know what to expect,” I said. “We are forewarned and so forearmed.”

“Your mistress pays no heed to warnings,” said Burke hotly.

I thought of the arrow and its message.

“The arrow!” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “I could not send you word openly, so I chose that way, getting one of my men, who is a famous archer, to send the shaft into your ship.”

I thanked him warmly, remarking, however, that Grace O’Malley would pay no attention to any warnings whatever, once she was resolved upon any particular course.

“She must be told now of her danger,” he said, “and at once.”

“I suppose,” said I, “I can still see her.”

“That I know not,” he replied; “but news of your fight with Michael Martin is all over the town, and you will have to walk circumspectly. Sir Nicholas spoke of his meeting with you, and declared that all such conflicts must be severely punished. Go not into Galway—unless with a strong guard.”

The counsel was wise, but I was quite determined, if necessary, to disregard it. My mind, however, suddenly went on another tack, and I spoke out what my thought was.

“I must see her, and that without delay,” I said; “but you mentioned that you were friendly with the Lynches. Could not Grace O’Malley be sent a message through them? If the Mayor is not to be trusted, surely Sabina Lynch, his daughter, cannot sympathise greatly with the dark and terrible projects of the Governor. Would she not convey a letter to my mistress?”

Richard Burke looked at me fixedly and searchingly.

“That is doubtful,” said he, at length. Then he added, “I do not think that we can place our confidence in Sabina Lynch in anything that concerns Grace O’Malley.”

“Why?” I asked simply.

He did not answer immediately, but stopped and pondered awhile before he replied—

“I am about to tell you, Ruari, what I never thought to say to you or any other living soul. But the need is urgent, and I must speak. The Lynches and myself are old friends. I have known Sabina Lynch since she was a child, and I have been made aware in many ways—there is no need to go further into that—that I am not displeasing to her now she is a woman. And her father has as much as intimated that he regards me with eyes of favour.”

I saw it all in a minute. Sabina Lynch loved Richard Burke, and Richard Burke did not return her affection. Did Sabina suspect that she had a rival? Did she regard Grace O’Malley as a rival? These questions passed through my mind with the speed of light.

“What has Sabina Lynch to do with Grace O’Malley?” I asked.

“I will not conceal from you,” said Burke, “that I am not in love with Sabina Lynch, but am in love with your mistress. Once I imagined that it was Owen O’Malley’s intention to wed you to his daughter, but neither you nor she has a passion for the other. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” I replied. “She is an elder sister to me—I am no more than a younger brother to her.”

“I love Grace O’Malley,” said he, “with all my soul and with all my strength. I mean to ask her to be my wife——”

I broke in harshly.

“This is no time, surely, to talk of such a matter,” I cried, “now when she is a prisoner, and helpless in the hands of people who are her bitter enemies. Rather let us cast about for some means of delivering her.”

“I ask nothing better,” said Burke, “than to assist you—only remember it is not well to place any confidence in Sabina Lynch.”

Then we spent the next hour discussing plans, and having formed one which had some promise of success, Burke left the galley as secretly as he came—his boat disappearing into the darkness of the night.

After he had gone, I tried in vain to sleep, and finding my thoughts but dismal company, had myself rowed over to The Winged Horse, where I saw Tibbot, the pilot, whom I informed of the visit of Richard Burke, and of what we had concerted to do for the deliverance of Grace O’Malley. And as we could not foresee what the next step of the Governor might be, it was agreed that Tibbot’s galley should be kept ready for instant action, and to provide against any surprise by keeping her out in the bay, at such a distance that she should be out of the range of the calivers and bombards mounted on the walls of Galway.

CHAPTER VI.
GRACE O’MALLEY DANCES OUT OF GALWAY.

As early in the morning as was possible, without causing remark or exciting suspicion, I went into the town, taking with me several of my own men. The same officer who had been in charge of the guard the previous day was at the gate, and I advanced towards him boldly, as if I had no notion in the world that there could be anything amiss, nor, so far as he was concerned, was there.

For he gravely returned my salutation, merely giving me “Good-day” without waste of words, and waved his hand in the direction of the church of St. Nicholas of Myra.

When I had arrived at the mansion of the Mayor, I could see no difference in the manner of the reception I was accorded, except such as there would be owing to my mistress not being present on this occasion.

I sent in my name, with a request that Grace O’Malley might be informed of my arrival, and after a short time—short as far as the actual minutes, but it appeared an age to me, so impatient and anxious was I—I was conducted into a spacious room, where I found my two ladies, Sabina Lynch, and several gentlemen, most of whom were Irish. They were in the midst of a conversation as I entered, and I quickly gathered that they were talking about the entertainment the Mayor was to give in honour of the Governor before many days. They were speaking of corantos and other dances, in which I had but small proficiency, and I could not help saying to myself that Grace O’Malley could have no suspicion how slippery would be the floor for her feet!

On endeavouring to get speech with her privately, I found myself completely baffled, and that so subtly and craftily that I raged and fumed inwardly. For when I attempted to draw her aside we were instantly joined by Sabina Lynch, who smilingly disguised her purpose of preventing us from talking together by ourselves under a mock of empty but pleasant words. Indeed, so skilfully and readily did she speak, and with so much apparently of goodwill, that I had constantly to remind myself of all that Richard Burke had told me only a few hours before.

What my feelings were may be guessed, but I did my utmost to conceal them, although not very successfully, as I afterwards was told by Eva O’Malley. I never was one who could play the part of gallant or courtier, and what I knew to be in the wind did not tend to assist me in the efforts I now made to be at my ease and to seem confident that there was not a cloud in the sky.

And it could hardly be that one, who had seen so much of me as Eva had, but would observe my clumsy attempts at gaiety and light-heartedness. What she thus saw in my manner made her very uneasy, but at the time she kept her ideas to herself. It was enough, however, to put her on her guard, and caused her to watch more narrowly whatever was going on.

A couple of hours were spent in this way, and, disturbed beyond measure by reason of my inability even to breathe a word of warning to my mistress—I had resolved to say nothing of their peril to the woman I loved, fearing lest it might prove too hard a trial for her, wherein I misjudged her strength most grievously—I bade them farewell for that day.

As I left I encountered the Governor, who was coming up the street. He reined up his horse, and, after uttering a few courteous words, asked me not to fail to go through the square of the town cross on my way to the quay. He said this with so much curious insistence in his tone that my interest was roused to the quick.

As a man enters this square from the east side the first object which meets the eye is not the town cross, but the town gallows. As soon as I had turned the corner of the street I perceived that from the gibbet there swung in the wind, forward and backward as the breeze rose and fell, the figure of a man. That the Governor had intended me to see this, and that it had some special lesson for me, I did not doubt, so I pressed forward smartly. Yet it was with an amazed horror that I beheld the dead man’s face.

For the victim was none other than Michael Martin, my antagonist of the previous afternoon. The Governor had followed the matter up, and had discovered him whom he had called the aggressor in the interrupted duel. Verily was the Queen’s peace being maintained with a vengeance. I had read the ruthless character of Sir Nicholas aright. Here, what had been a man, had been tried, sentenced, and executed in a few hours; and that Martin had occupied no inconsiderable position in Galway showed that the Governor was afraid of none.

If he would not hesitate to act in this fashion in the case of one of the English of Galway, how much less would he care for the Irish of Connaught? This I perceived plainly enough was what he desired Martin’s death to intimate to me. For myself, notwithstanding what had passed between Martin and me, I was hot and indignant that a man so brave as he should have been put to so foul a death.

It was in a melancholy mood that I bent my steps to the quay, albeit I made a great effort to keep from my face the troubled thoughts of my mind. Not only had I failed in acquainting Grace O’Malley with her real position, but I was also well aware that the hatred with which she inspired the people of Galway would be made all the fiercer by the death of Martin.

Striving to cast aside these sombre reflections as unmanly, and likely only to hamper me in any plan I might make for the freeing of my mistress, I went on board The Cross of Blood. I, at least, was free as yet, and ready to do and dare all. But so far I could not see my way, and had I been left to myself to carry out the device Richard Burke and I had formed, would probably have suffered some such fate as that of Michael Martin.

The next three days passed without any striking event. I had seen my mistress once at the Mayor’s mansion, and the attempts I made to reach her private ear were met and checked as effectively as before. I noticed, however, that while she appeared as gay as ever, there was a something about her that suggested in one way or another she was now conscious that she was not at complete liberty.

She had desired—so I got to know later on—to go down to her galley, but obstacles had been put in her path and objections had been raised. Then she had grasped the situation in which she had been placed, but had both the courage and the wisdom not to let this be evident.

It was the fifth day of our stay in Galway when The Lass of Carrick cast herself off from her moorings by the quay, and, towed out by her two boats into the bay, made ready for sea. I watched the rich prize slip out of our hands with dismay, but it was my only business at present to stay where I was. Yet, as I noticed how deep the Scottish ship lay in the water, I could not but regret that my hands were tied.

The captain made some signs to me which I did not comprehend, but which I interpreted as ironical farewells. I was the more mystified when, as I watched her approach The Winged Horse, I saw a boat put off from her for that galley. But when the night fell I had every reason to bless and not curse The Lass of Garrick. For in the dark Tibbot came on board my ship, bringing a letter from Grace O’Malley, which she had managed through one of her women, who had made love to the Scottish captain, to send thus secretly to me.

Now, the revel which the Mayor was giving for Sir Nicholas was to take place on the next day, and in this letter my mistress, who was now thoroughly awake to her danger and also to the perfidy of Sabina Lynch, set forth her plan of escape. It was at once bold and ingenious, and had a fair prospect of succeeding. That it was not carried out exactly as had been calculated—but this is to anticipate events.

My part was simplicity itself.

My mistress told me to come to the revel, as I had been invited, as if attending revels had been my occupation all my life, and to bring with me as many armed men as I thought could be got safely into Galway. But on no account was I to omit to fetch the two pipers—Phelim of the White Lock (he had an odd-looking tuft of white hair on his forehead) and Cormac, his brother. What they had to do will appear later.

Further, I was commanded to have the galleys ready to put instantly to sea, for the favourable outcome of the matter depended in the end on the swiftness of our movements.

Having received this letter, my breast swelled with joy. The calm was at an end, I said, and now for the storm; and ever in these days loved I storm more than calm. My spirits rose immediately as this week of wearisome waiting drew to an end and the time of action was at hand.

As soon as the day had come I called my chief officers together, and bade them be ready to sail that night, and I gave a similar charge to those of The Grey Wolf. Then I picked out several of the older men, and, for a pretext that they might be admitted into the town the more easily, despatched them with boxes and bales for our mistresses, which they were to carry to the mansion of the Lynches. I also sent a gift to the Governor, in order that he should have no ghost of a suspicion that I knew how matters stood.

In this manner, then, I introduced twenty more of our men into Galway, making up for their absence from the two galleys by causing Tibbot to send me some of his.

To those sent into the town I gave as a common meeting-place at a given hour the tavern that is under the sign of “The Golden Eagle,” bidding them thereafter to assemble in the High Street near the Mayor’s house. There they were to await my coming with my mistresses, if events should fall out according to our wish, and then, if there should be any need, I should tell them what to do.

At the appointed time I presented myself at the Lynch mansion. Here I found a considerable company was gathered together, many of the chiefs having arrived from the surrounding districts, north and south and east. In the streets was a great throng of gallowglasses and kernes, who had come into the place along with their chieftains.

The scene was one of bustle and movement and confusion. Among the crowd, engaged in keeping some sort of rough order, were a few English soldiers, part of the garrison of Galway. I noticed many of our own men, and as I passed through them I succeeded in telling them to take as little part as possible in any sports or quarrels that might be going on, but to hold themselves prepared to rally to me, and to follow when I should call upon them to do so.

When I entered the large room in which the revel was to take place, I saw Sir Nicholas and his officers standing in a group by themselves, receiving the chiefs and their ladies, as well as the principal citizens of Galway and their wives, as they came up.

Near them were the Mayor and his daughter, who was the centre of a number of beautiful maidens and stalwart young men. The instruments of music were already sounding forth their sweetest strains, inviting to the dance; and Sir Nicholas, making a stiff bow to the radiant Sabina, asked her to join him in a coranto.

The dance ended, many compliments were paid to the pair, although to my mind the Governor had disported himself like a clumsy bear, such as the Spaniards and the men of the South have to dance for their amusement.

Sabina Lynch, on the other hand, was, I will confess, a stately figure, and as she had been taught the coranto in Spain, where she had been brought up for some years, and so was vastly proficient in it, met with great and deserved attention. Indeed, I heard one of the English officers declare that he had never seen anyone more graceful or accomplished—no, not even at the Court of Elizabeth.

After a brief rest, Sir Nicholas again appeared, now leading forth Grace O’Malley. Although she thoroughly understood what a mockery all this courtesy on the part of the Governor was, she let no sign of her knowledge escape her. She had too great a soul for that; but had she not been cast in this mould of heroes she might, as a woman, have acted just as she did, so that she should give no triumph to Sabina Lynch.

Dance followed dance in quick succession, and both of my mistresses took their full share of all that went on. Both of them appeared to be devoting themselves without reserve to the pleasure of the occasion, and I could not but admire them. My love for Eva O’Malley was quickened anew, if that were possible, when I saw how unmoved she was, and how brave a carriage she kept, despite the fact that she knew they were but prisoners in the hands of the English, and in grievous peril of their lives.

I felt I could not have danced with a halter round my neck, yet here was this small, delicate woman doing this, and doing it as if she did not see the dangers that threatened her. The body, indeed, was weak, but the heart—how big it was!

Thank God, I say, for the great hearts of women!

I tried to acquit myself also in the course of the entertainment to the best of my ability, but for the most part, being no skilled performer in the matter of corantos and other dances, was perforce compelled to spend much of the time leaning against the wall. Once, as the Governor was passing me by, he stopped and spoke.

“Sir,” said he, “I have to render you my grateful acknowledgments for the handsome gift you have sent me this day.”

“Sir Nicholas,” replied I, “the gift was sent you by command of my mistress.”

The cruel, fierce eyes twinkled, and too late I perceived that my thoughtless words were making him suspect that some communication had passed between Grace O’Malley and myself in spite of his efforts and those of Sabina Lynch to prevent it. Thinking to undo the effect of my heedless speech, I made speed to continue.

“I thought,” said I, “that had my mistress been on her galley she would not have come to this revel in your honour with empty hands.”

“’Tis well spoken, by St. George!” said he. “Yet methinks there be few in Ireland that can afford to be so generous.”

The Governor’s brow relaxed, then clouded over again, for, on reflecting on my speech, he saw there was that in it which suggested I was not unaware that my mistress had been debarred from going down to her ships.

“You must reap rich harvests,” continued he, after a brief hesitation, “on the coast of Clew Bay, yet am I informed that nothing grows there but rocks.”

Howbeit the strains of music, rising and falling like a summer sea, were borne upon the air, and Sir Nicholas moved off to his own place. But his manner made me anxious that what we had planned might not long be postponed.

The hours one by one went by, and the time came.

I saw my mistress, laughter in her eyes and on her lips, approach Sir Nicholas, and enter into a gay conversation with him. I moved up nearer to the top of the room.

“If you have never seen it, Sir Nicholas,” I heard her saying, “sure am I you would like to see it.”

I listened in painful suspense for the answer of the Governor. Everything depended on it. “Who could resist Grace O’Malley, when she chose to be resistless?” I asked myself. Then I remembered what I had heard and seen of Sir Nicholas, and I replied to my beating heart that here was a man who might resist. But he had no suspicion whatever, and he fell into the trap, baited so cunningly by a woman’s wit.

“I have seen it,” said he, “and if you will honour me by dancing it with me——?”

“The honour, Sir Nicholas,” quoth she, saucily, “is mine.”

The matter did not fall out quite as we had hoped, for it had been part of our plan that I was forthwith to have danced one of our wild Irish measures, which are more a test of endurance than an exhibition of grace, with my mistress.

It was soon spread through the assembly that the Governor and my mistress were to dance the dance of the country people, and on this proof of his affability towards us there were loud shouts of approval. Then there was a cry for the pipers, and, presently, just as we had schemed, in strode Phelim of the White Lock, and Cormac, our men—striding along the hall, with their pipes blowing the quick step to a merry and rollicksome tune.

Forward came Sir Nicholas and Grace O’Malley, while the people stood round about in a wide circle. But the Governor was no match for my mistress, and he soon began to hang out signals of distress, whereupon, greatly to his discomfiture, she wheeled about and beckoned to Sir Murrough O’Flaherty, of Aughanure, her bitter enemy, to take his place—displaying in this selection her wonderful craft; for how could anyone suppose—the Governor certainly least of all—that the O’Flaherty was chosen but to throw dust in his eyes?

My mistress danced with gliding, pit-patting feet that never tired, while the applause which greeted her every motion grew to a wild enthusiasm. Sir Murrough O’Flaherty had to acknowledge himself beaten, and retired. Grace O’Malley now cried aloud to me to come forward, and I stepped from the crowd, my heart beating faster than it had ever done in the day of battle.

“Dance, dance, dance!” cried she to me, and she whirled about like a mad thing.

“Have ye no pity on the pipers?” I exclaimed, with a laugh that rang out, it seemed to me, false and hollow, but I was determined to follow her lead as best I might.

“The feet were never made,” said she, as she advanced more slowly towards me and I took up my position opposite to her, and began the steps, “that can out-play a piper.”

The company smiled, grimaced, and murmured with delight at her answer, and the pipers, well pleased also, played as they never had played before. And the wild and furious dance went on to the wild and furious music of the pipes. Meanwhile I was watching my mistress with hungry, eager eyes, waiting for her to give the sign.

“Pipe, pipe!” she cried; and again, “Pipe, pipe!” and the playing of Phelim and Cormac was like the roaring of the storm among the trees of the forest.

So the dance went madly on until all the people about us grew quite still and silent, looking on more breathlessly than we who were dancing to that mad music—looking at such a measure as they never had witnessed before in all their lives, or ever, I dare swear, saw the like of again.

Then came the sign.

Grace O’Malley’s uplifted hand slowly dropped to her side as with sheer weariness; the tall, queenly figure seemed to droop, to sway uncertainly, to totter, to fall upon the floor, but even as she fell I had gathered her up in these great arms of mine, and was carrying her through the press towards the chambers of the women.

Eva O’Malley flew to my side, her face full of fear, as it appeared to be. The pipers’ music suddenly ceased. But no more I saw or heard of what happened next in the room of the revel.

No sooner had the door of the apartments of the women closed upon us three, than Grace O’Malley slipped from my arms and stood up, her faintness—which had been merely assumed—disappearing at once.

“Quick, quick!” she cried, pointing to a door. “There is the stair! That is the way!”

They stopped, however, for a little, to get a couple of heavy cloaks with which they hoped they might be able to conceal themselves somewhat from curious eyes. Short as the time was which this took, it was enough to permit Sabina Lynch to enter the apartment, and she at once perceived not only that my mistress had recovered in a marvellous brief space, but also what our project was.

“Seize her,” said Grace O’Malley, as she and Eva were leaving the room.

I rushed towards the woman, and, clapping my hand to her mouth, prevented her from giving forth the scream she was on the point of uttering. As I was glancing about for something with which I might gag her, and so effectually silence her, my mistress again appeared, and said, her eyes blazing with anger:—

“Bring her with you, if you can; the way is clear.”

“A gag!” I said, and Grace O’Malley made with her own hands one, with which she stuffed Sabina Lynch’s mouth, and next she bound the woman’s arms. Then I took Sabina Lynch up, and in silence we descended the stair which led us into the street some twenty yards from the main entrance into the Mayor’s house.

It was now dark, but not sufficiently so as to hide us completely from observation, and an instant’s thought convinced me that carrying a bound woman, as I was doing, it was impossible to go very far without being seen by someone who would instantly give the alarm. Therefore, still keeping in the shadow of the house, I sent forth into the night the O’Malley battle cry, knowing that our men could not be out of hearing; and the sound had not died away when there arose a great noise and shouting.

“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!” was heard on all sides.

“To me, to me—here!” I cried.

And, in less time than seemed likely, there were gathered about us nearly all our men, but mixed with them several Burkes, O’Flahertys, and others of the Irish. Recognising their mistress, the O’Malleys set up a joyful sound. Forming some of them in a line across the street, I begged Grace O’Malley and Eva to take with them the rest, and to hasten toward the gate, and this they accordingly did, while two of our people carried Sabina Lynch between them in the same direction.

In the meantime the flight of my mistresses had been discovered. I saw lights flitting about the courtyard, and heard the words of command given in the strident tones of Sir Nicholas, then the tramp, tramp of the feet of the soldiers smote upon the night air.

To have a conflict in the streets of Galway, just at the place where the English were strongest, was not to be thought of, as it was not more foolish than it was unnecessary, so I ordered my men to retreat as swiftly as was practicable towards the gate, and to endeavour to catch up to Grace O’Malley before the gate was reached by them.

But when we came to the gate we found it had already been forced by our chieftainess, who had taken the feeble guard completely unprepared, and so had quietly made an end of them. It was all the work of a few seconds; yet in the struggle, short as it was, Sabina Lynch had effected her escape. Without delay we proceeded to embark in the galleys, and to put out to sea.

While we were engaged in this manner the great bell of the church of St. Nicholas suddenly boomed sharply through the night: soldiers began to appear on the battlements, torches flared from the walls, and bullets and arrows poured upon us as the galleys drew away from the quay. Some of the shots were aimed so well that two of our people, one of whom was Walter Burke, were slain and several others wounded.

Then, as we proceeded on our way into the bay, the sputtering fire ceased.

CHAPTER VII.
THE DIE CAST.

That night I reflected with joy that the die was cast, as, after our breaking out of Galway, there could be no peace between Grace O’Malley and Sir Nicholas—at any rate, until the matter was composed in some definite fashion.

I trod the deck with a feeling of extraordinary buoyancy, and sniffed the salt air with delight as the galleys headed for Inishmore, the largest of the three isles of Arran, which have been thrown for a protection by the hand of God, almost in a straight line, across the entrance to the bay of Galway.

All that I cared for in the world was held in these ships, now speeding over the water under the leadership of Tibbot the Pilot.

It was with deep satisfaction that I went over the events of the evening which had brought us with such success out of the town, and I looked forward with wide-eyed eagerness to the morning when I should meet my mistress, and hear her narrative of all that had passed when she and Eva were prisoners in the mansion of the Lynches.

Eva, who had kept up so bravely while the danger was greatest, had become faint and unstrung when the peril was past. Grace O’Malley would suffer no one but herself to tend her, and thus I had had no opportunity for conversing with either of them after we had made good our escape.

When we had arrived at the island, and had let go our anchors in a fair depth of water in a small bay, which was sheltered from the full shock of the Atlantic by a range of abrupt craggy headlands, I went on board The Grey Wolf to see my mistresses, but Grace O’Malley received me alone, her foster-sister not having altogether recovered from the fatigue of the preceding evening. There was a new hardness, even a harshness, both in the face and voice of Grace.

At first, however, she was in no mood for recounting her experiences, and could do nothing but lament the fact that Sabina Lynch had managed to get away when the gate was forced. Indeed, her escape appeared entirely to overshadow in her mind her own escape and that of Eva.

“Had it not been for her plottings and schemings,” said she, “I should have brought the Governor round to my will. I had several interviews with Sir Nicholas, and at the beginning he was inclined to grant my suit, but soon I felt I was being thwarted by one more subtle than Sir Nicholas. How that woman hates me! I did not suspect her at once, for I had given her no cause of offence.”

“Did you find out,” asked I, “why she hates you?”

“’Tis from jealousy,” said she. “Sabina Lynch would be Queen of Connaught, but she thinks that as long as I am free and powerful I am her rival.”

“Is there no other reason?” inquired I, remembering the words of Richard Burke. “Is there not between you two a cause more personal?”

“There may be,” she replied thoughtfully; “for clever as she is, she was not sufficiently so to conceal from me her predilection for the MacWilliam. But what is that to me? Richard Burke is nothing to me.”

“You may be much to him, however,” I answered, whereat she grew more thoughtful still. Being a woman, I said to myself, she could hardly have failed to read the signs of his regard for her. Then I told her of the midnight visit he had paid me, saying nothing, nevertheless, of what Richard Burke had confided to me in regard to his love for herself.

“He is a friend,” said she, after musing for awhile, “and I may have need of many such.”

“Tell me what passed between you and Sir Nicholas.”

She paced the floor of the poop-cabin with quick, uneven steps; then she stopped and spoke.

“After our first meeting,” said she, “he was much less open with me, asking me many questions, but giving no expression of his own views with respect to the ships. Two things, however, he impressed upon me. One was that he considered that I should make immediately a suitable marriage——”

“A suitable marriage!” I exclaimed.

“The other was that it was common report that my father had left great riches behind him, and that, as he had never paid any tribute to the Queen, I must now make good his deficiencies in that respect.”

“Tribute,” said I blankly.

“He proposed to marry me—for he declared I was in reality a ward of the Crown, and, therefore, at his disposal—to Sir Murrough O’Flaherty, a man old enough to be my father—and our enemy. I would have none of it. I fancy I have to thank Sabina Lynch for suggesting it to Sir Nicholas, and I replied to him, with indignation, that I was a free woman, and would give my hand where I pleased. It was then that I discovered that I was no longer at liberty, for it was told me that I must on no account leave the Lynches’ house without the permission of the Governor, but that no harm would come to me if I consented to his terms. I spoke of the safe conduct which Sir Nicholas had given me, but that was of no avail; and ’reasons of State,’ said he, overruled any safe conduct.”

“This is how they keep faith!” I cried, bitterly.

“It was no time for railing,” continued Grace O’Malley, “as I was in the Governor’s hands, and could see no way of getting out of them. Therefore I made as though I were about to submit myself, and I desired to see the Governor again with respect to the tribute to be paid to the Queen. My request being granted, Sir Nicholas acquainted me with his determination, demanding a thousand cows and two hundred mares, or their equivalent in gold and silver, by way of payment of the arrears, and two hundred cows each year for the future.”

“To all of which you said No!” cried I.

“Nay, Ruari,” replied she, “I had to match my wits against his power over me—was not I his prisoner?—and so I returned him no immediate answer, but, on the contrary, besought that I might have a week to deliberate in, bemoaning my hard fate, and protesting that I should never be able to comply with his demands, yet that I would do what was within my ability to compass.”

“And then?” I said.

“He pondered long and deeply, hesitating and doubtful; so, knowing the covetous nature of the man,” said she, “I took the cross I was wearing from my neck, and, giving it to him, begged that he would grant me the delay I sought.”

“Your jewelled cross?” I said.

“My case was an evil one,” replied she, “and I did it not without pain, for the cross had been my mother’s, and was, besides, of great value.”

“He consented?”

“He became very gracious because of the bribe,” replied she, “and then asked me to be present at the revel. ’Why,’ said he, ’should you not take part in it, if you would care so to do?’ As I was resolved to humour him, I was complaisant, and replied that nothing would be more agreeable to me; but even as I uttered these words, some inkling of the plan for our deliverance which we carried out was forming itself in my mind. My woman afterwards managed to leave the Lynches’ unobserved with the letter I wrote you, and gave it to the captain of the Scottish ship we passed on our way to Galway. My only fear was that he might inform the Governor, and so our plans would have been frustrated; but he has proved himself a true man, and one who may be trusted.”

“There is no confidence to be put in Sir Nicholas,” said I.

“The man is hard, stark, relentless,” said she, hotly, “but he shall find I am as hard, stark, and relentless as he is himself. Vengeance—vengeance, and that speedy, will I take!”

Never had I seen Grace O’Malley so carried away by passion as now. Her eyes were blazing fires; the line made by her lips was like the edge of a sword, so clear and sharp it was; the cheeks lost their colour and roundness, and, as she restlessly moved about, her black hair flew round her head like a coronal of quivering water-snakes.

“Vengeance—vengeance!” she cried.

Her vehemence bore me along as upon a fast-flowing tide.

“Vengeance—vengeance!” I shouted, so that my voice rang out far beyond the galley.

“It is in our own hands,” she said, more composedly. “The wine fleet from Spain is expected in Galway to-day or to-morrow—at any moment we may see their sails on the southern edge of the sea. Then, then,” cried she furiously, her anger rising again like the sudden, fierce blast of the tempest, “shall I teach Galway and Sir Nicholas to fear and dread my name.”

The wine fleet! This was a quarry, indeed!

For each year at this season there set out from Cadiz for Limerick and Galway a goodly fleet of galleons, each of which carried a burden more to be desired than a king’s ransom. These ships were laden with many barrels of the wines both of France and Spain, with rolls of silks, with bales of fine leather, with suits of raiment and shirts of mail, and blades of Toledo, and with other articles of price, the products of Europe, and, even, to some extent, of the mysterious Orient, where Turk and infidel held their sway. These were exchanged against the fish—for which our island was famous—the hides, salt, meat, wheat, and barley of the country.

Grace O’Malley’s vengeance on Galway was to attack, capture, or destroy that portion of the wine fleet, as it was commonly spoken of, the destination of which was that town. The boldness and daring of the project took my breath away; but I could conceive of nothing that was so likely to cause consternation and terror as its successful issue to the great merchants of the city, and to mortify and enrage the Governor.

It was a great enterprise—this attack—and one which, if the event went against us, would probably be the end of us all. But there was one thing that gave us an advantage, which, skilfully used, could not fail to be of such importance as to be almost in itself decisive. This was that the wine fleet had arrived safely at Galway year after year, without falling in with any danger other than that which came from the ordinary risks of the sea. Hence the immunity they had so long enjoyed would breed in them a feeling of complete security, and dispose them to be careless of precautions.

Still I was staggered; and what was passing through my mind being seen in my face, Grace O’Malley inquired, a trifle disdainfully:

“Think ye, Ruari, the venture too much for me?”—and the accent fell on the last word of the sentence. “I tell you, Nay!”

“Nothing—nothing,” exclaimed I, wildly, “is too high for you! As for me, it is yours to command—mine to obey.”

Then we took counsel together, first having summoned Tibbot the Pilot, and the other chiefs and officers who were in the galleys. When Grace O’Malley had made her purpose known there was at first the silence of stupefaction, then there followed the rapid, incoherent, impulsive exclamations of fierce and savage glee.

While we were occupied in this manner, a fishing smack had come into the bay, and on it were the pipers Phelim and Cormac and some others of our men, whom we had been forced to leave behind, but who had made their way out of Galway, being secretly helped therein by the fisher-folk who dwelt in a village by themselves without the gates. These brought word that the city was in a state of great alarm, and that the Governor had declared that he would not rest until he had sent out an expedition to raze Grace O’Malley’s castles to the ground, to destroy her galleys, and to blot out her name from Ireland.

Nothing had been needed to add to our determination, but, if need there had been, here it was. We were now all proclaimed rebels and traitors, so that we could look for nothing but torture and death at the hands of the English. A price would soon be placed upon our heads, and whoever wrought us a mischief or an injury of any kind would be considered as doing the Queen a service.

Such was our situation. To most of our people the Queen of England was no more than an empty name, and even to those of us who appreciated the might and resources of that princess, it appeared better that we should be aware of who were our foes and who were our friends, and if her representative, Sir Nicholas Malby, were our open enemy, as we were now well assured he was, we knew with whom our quarrel lay, and what we might expect from him.

When all was said, the Governor had no overwhelming force at his disposal, and he was without ships, so that we felt no whit downcast with our lot; contrariwise, there was such gladness amongst us at the promise of the fighting with which our circumstances were pregnant that the hearts of any who doubted were uplifted and made firm and steadfast.

As we were discussing our affairs Eva O’Malley entered the cabin. As our eyes met she smiled upon me, and held out her hand in greeting.

“’Twas well done,” said she, referring to our escape from Galway, her thoughts still dwelling on the adventures of the past night. But when she heard of what we had been speaking, and of the proposed attack on the wine fleet, her sweet face became pale and troubled.

“Darkness and blood,” said she, turning to me. “Oh! Ruari, the words of the Wise Man are to be fulfilled.”

“What must be, must be,” said I, “and there is none can gainsay that.”

She shook her head.

“Eva,” said Grace O’Malley, “the end is as it is appointed from the beginning.” Then she began to reason gently with her foster-sister, and to show her that if the English found they had good reason to fear her they would gladly consent before long to make peace, and to concede what she had asked of Sir Nicholas.

But it was easy to see that my dear was sad and heavy of heart. Grace, ever most tender to her, put her arms about her, and made her sit beside her on a couch, and said many loving words, so that Eva was comforted, albeit some of her brightness vanished from that day, never to return. Although she had already shown how brave she was, and was to exhibit a courage far greater than my own or that of any man I ever knew—her courage being that born of the spirit and ours but of the body—she sure was never made for that hard life of ours.

Gentle and sweet was she, yet the strain of the O’Malley blood ran in her veins, and made itself felt whenever the trials of her strength came.

Leaving the two ladies together, each went to his place in the ships. Some of my men, who had been ashore, now returned and informed me that they had learned that it was the annual custom to light a great fire on the headland of Arran, on which stand the ruins of the ancient castle called Dun Aengus, as soon as the vessels of the wine fleet hove into sight.

The smoke of this fire, if it were day, or the flame of it, if it were night, was a signal to the merchants of Galway, who, as soon as they saw it, made preparations for the reception of the ships—this being the chief event each year in the life of the town. To the end that the office of this beacon should be better fulfilled, they had placed a small body of soldiers and others in huts that stood between the crumbling walls of the old fort.

I debated with myself whether it would not be more prudent to have the lighting or the not lighting of the fire in my own power, but, being in no little doubt, put the matter off until later in the day. By the middle of the afternoon, however, there were abundant evidences that the weather, which had for days past been fine, was about to change; and as the sun fell, dark clouds were gathering sullenly in the sky, the wind from the south-west was blowing stormily across the island—though our galleys felt it not at all, being under the lee of the land—and already we could hear the thunder of the waves as they rushed upon the further coast. And all the night through a tempest of terrible violence raged.

When the morning came, the fury of the gale rather increased than diminished, and so that day and the next, when the winds and waves began to subside, we remained at anchor in our harbour, safe from the storm. On the night of the third day the wind died down to a breeze, and the moon struggled fitfully through the scud and drift of the clouds.

Uncertain as to how the storm might shift, the galleys had been kept ready to put out from the shore at any moment, and therefore it fell out that nothing had been done by us with regard to the Galway men at Dun Aengus. In the middle watch, it being very dark save when the moon shone out, to be hidden again as fast as it appeared, we saw a bright tongue of flame shoot up, flashing and shining brightly against the blackness of the sky. Quickly raising our anchors, we made off past the island of Inishmaan, and on by Inisheer until we ran close in by the point of Trawkeera.

I wondered how it was that on such a night the watchman at Dun Aengus had made out the coming of the fleet, but discovered as we went upon our course, that another beacon had been lit far down the southern coast, and as soon as they had seen it they had set a torch to their own. Thus were we also apprised of the coming of the wine fleet, and that by the hands of the people of Galway themselves, as it were. As the day began to dawn, greyly and drearily, a large, unwieldy Spanish galleon entered the South Sound, about half a league outside of Trawkeera. Not more than half her sails were set, and she rolled heavily from side to side in the swell left by the storm. A few sleepy sailors stood in the waist of the ship, and no armed watch was to be seen.

It had been arranged between Grace O’Malley and myself that I was to attack the first vessel that came in sight, and in the still, spectral light, we stole silently out from the shadow of Inisheer, the one great mainsail of The Cross of Blood being set, and the oars shipped until the word was given.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE CAPTURE OF THE CAPITANA.

As we crept on towards the unsuspecting merchant ship, I noticed that she presented a battered appearance, as if she had felt the full fury of the storm which we had ridden out so safely, and that she had not come out of it without much damage.

The foremast had been broken off, and now a great spar lashed to the stump had taken its place. About the middle of the vessel the bulwark showed a breach some five feet in length, and a piece of rough sailcloth had been fastened carelessly over it, so that the ragged edges of the broken wood were plainly seen jutting out from under it.

Doubtless the sailors were worn out with the stress of the working of their ship through the tempest, and this also accounted for the slackness of the watch and the ghostly quietness on board.

Otherwise, she was a splendid ship, the like of which was seen at no other time in these seas, save only when the wine fleet came each year to Galway. She was built with high castles both at the stern and at the bows; and she was, perhaps, of two hundred tons’ burthen, according to the measure of the English.

Her name, cut out of solid wood and painted a deep blue, was the Capitana. She flew the flag of Philip of Spain, and along with it at the stern were to be seen the ensigns of some gentlemen adventurers, who were in her, and who probably commanded her fighting men, or who had accompanied the expedition merely for the sake of seeing another part of the world.

For the galleon’s defence against the rovers of of the sea, who were to be found in great numbers off the French and English coasts, she showed her teeth in the guise of the black muzzles of twelve cannon, all formidable ordnance, and, armed with this equipment, as compared with that of The Cross of Blood, looked as if she might devour us at her leisure and with the utmost ease.

But it was not my purpose that these guns should ever be pointed at us, and so high were they out of the water—far above us, in fact—that there was no such terrible danger to be apprehended on this score. Besides, we were now too near her, and she was, in any case, unprepared.

When we had approached within four hundred yards of the Capitana, I gave orders that the sail of The Cross of Blood should be lowered to the deck quickly, and yet as quietly as might be, and that the rowers should get them to their oars, and speed us with all their might towards the Spanish ship.

So well was this effected that we were but, as it seemed, a stone’s throw from her, and the beak of the galley, as she rose to the swell, pointed straight for the breach made by the storm in the waist of the galleon, when the watch on board of her had their suspicions all too tardily aroused. If they had heard the noise made by the running of the tackle when the sail was got down, they had not grasped its meaning; but they could hardly fail to guess readily enough what our appearance indicated as we dashed towards them, our deck showing an array of arquebusiers and spearmen, standing to their weapons.

The men of the Capitana began to rush to and fro, and suddenly the clear notes of a trumpet blared forth from her poop—the all-too-late summons to arms. Her helmsmen, now alert to the danger which menaced them, endeavoured to swing her round on her heel into the wind, so as to keep us off.

We had stopped rowing, and our men were resting with their hands on the heads and handles of their oars, waiting for the order to ship them, when, as the Spaniard went about, her side caught the oars on the right side of the galley, and I heard the sharp cracking and splintering of the wood of which they were made as they were broken in pieces, and the piercing cries, most lamentable to the ear, of the rowers as they were knocked from their benches and jammed together, a huddled, mangled mass of shrieking and cursing, of wounded and dying men.

Amid the din and outcry which attended this disaster to us, there arose the voice of Calvagh O’Halloran, the master of the rowers, encouraging, directing, and calming the others. What had befallen us was a serious matter, as it deprived us of any hope of getting away from the Capitana if our attack should prove unsuccessful.

I ran along the deck, telling our people to be of good heart, as all would yet be well; and, as nothing so inspired them as the war-cry of their tribe and the lust of fighting, I shouted loud and clear—

“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!”

The swinging of the Spaniard fended the galley off from her, so that there was a clear space for the breadth of a couple of oars, or a little more. As Calvagh got the rowers at work again, and The Cross of Blood went forward, the sides of the two ships grated together with a shock. They ground apart once again, and the water swished and swirled between them, foaming white and flecked with red as the blood of the rowers who had been injured dripped from the galley.

“On board, on board!” I cried. “A ring of gold to him who first boards her!” and I threw my battle-axe among her sailors. “Follow that!” I said.

The Irish were howling about me like hungry wolves, and The Cross of Blood shivered and trembled like a living thing as the rowers, Calvagh at their head, rushed from the benches, eager to revenge themselves for the death of their comrades of the oar, yelling hoarsely—

“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!”—the words stinging the ear like blows.

Now the sides of the vessels strained and groaned as again they smote together. The grappling-irons were fastened as they touched each other, and, regardless of the thrusts made at us, we together clambered up the Capitana’s side, entering by the breach over which the sailcloth had been stretched, and were immediately engaged in a hot and bloody fight, the issue of which stood in no kind of doubt from its commencement, as we far outnumbered the sailors in this part of the Spaniard.

One burly fellow came at me with a pike, but so uncertainly that I caught it from him with my left hand, and ran him through with the sword in my right. He dropped without a sound at my feet.

But while this contest was going on, and we were sweeping all before us, we soon were made to feel that, while so far successful, we were yet in a position of the greatest peril; for we were now assailed by shots from arquebuses fired down upon us both from the castle at the bows and that at the poop as well, and the air hummed with the arrows of our foes.

As there was no cover or protection of any kind where we stood, divers of our men fell sorely wounded, and some were slain outright. What the event was to bring forth then seemed nothing but our destruction, for we were caught, as it were, in a trap, and that one of our own making.

The doors leading into the castles were both shut, and, I conjectured, barricaded by this time against us. However, to remain where we were was to be slaughtered like cattle, and the attempt had to be made to force these entrances. The principal array of the enemy was in the poop castle, and I instantly decided that it must be stormed, else we should all perish miserably, and to break in the door was the readiest way.

Calling on the Irish to follow me, I strode across the slippery deck, a bullet narrowly missing me, to the arched doorway through which lay the way to the castle on the poop.

Whether it was that our assault had been so little looked for, or that what had already taken place had occupied so brief a breath, as one may say—for who can take count of time in the heat of battle?—I know not; but this entrance had not been strongly secured, for hurling myself impetuously with all my force against the barrier I burst the door open, and that so violently and quickly that I had much ado to keep myself from stumbling, and so being trampled upon and killed by my own men. Recovering myself with an effort, I found myself in a wide chamber, in which there were tables and chests and other furniture, but not a single soul was to be seen.

At one end of it was a flight of steps leading up to the deck of the castle. Stopping my men, I bade them wait in this sheltered room while I ascended the steps, and reached another large cabin, also deserted as far as I could see, while above me I heard the trampling of many feet. Summoning my followers, I dashed up a second flight of steps, the Irish, who gave tongue like bloodhounds tracking deer, pushing in and swarming up behind me.

I was like enough to have paid for my rashness with my life, for as I emerged upon the deck of the poop, the point of a sword flashed off my body-armour, and I received so shrewd a buffet upon my shoulder from a mace or battle-axe of some kind, that I nearly lost my footing, and, as it was, would have done so but for the press of men behind me.

As I appeared a crowd of Spaniards rushed upon me from all sides, praying to Our Lady and all the saints for their aid, and above all naming “Santiago.”

Now sweeping my sword in a great shining circle round my head, now stabbing and hacking and cleaving, while my strength seemed to grow with my necessity, I held them at bay, albeit in what way I escaped the deadly thrusts of spears and pikes, and the bullets aimed at me at such close quarters, I cannot tell.

Two or three slight wounds did I receive, and the sight of my own blood drove me into a perfect fury of killing, and rendered me regardless of myself; but as for the wounds themselves I heeded them not, and indeed in the fiery heat of that encounter scarce felt them at all. Soon, however, would I have been overborne and destroyed, if I had not been joined by Calvagh and the others, who charged upon the enemy with inconceivable fury.

Nothing could have stood before the tremendous outpouring of such incredible rage.

The gallant men of Spain fought on, and met us bravely, brave with something more than the courage which is born of dark despair. For, to say the truth, never yet saw I any of that nation—even of its commonalty—that might be called a coward.

It is my belief, and good reason have I for it, that no more doughty men ever wielded sword or pike than those of Spain, nor were there any better sailors in those days in all the world. There be many, who, having regard to what she was—this great power of Spain—and considering what has happened to her, and how she is now shorn in no small degree of her glory, can account for it in no other way than by saying that she lieth under the Wrath of God. Howbeit, this is too high a matter for me. Only know I full well that the crew of the Capitana, whether fighting men or sailors, made such a stern and grim battle against us that grey morning in the Bay of Galway, as the most valiant knights could not have bettered.

Near the centre of the poop there rose up a mast, and around this our enemies gathered in a cluster, among them being some half-armed men whom I took to be the adventurers whose ensigns floated beside the standard of the galleon, and who carried themselves with an air.

They had had no time to have their armour put upon them and fastened with proper care, but as they proved themselves to be accomplished swordsmen they made a determined resistance to us. If they had come at me when I appeared at the top of the steps, I should never have reached the deck of the poop alive; they had, however, tarried too long in the attempt to be clothed with their harness.

They were surrounded, and, though I offered them their lives, declaring that they would be held for ransom and would be well treated by Grace O’Malley, they would not listen to me, preferring rather to die, fighting, so long as the breath was in them, like the valiant men of Spain they were.

One only, who appeared to be the captain of the ship, I commanded to be taken alive—a business which was done with difficulty, so madly did he struggle, notwithstanding that the blood flowed in streams from several of his wounds.

“Yield yourself,” said I, “Señor Captain, for the ship is ours, and further fighting is useless. Give me your parole.”

But he refused, snarling and showing his teeth like a mad dog. Then I ordered him to be bound, and laid on the deck for the present.

The greater part of the galleon was now in our hands, but there still remained a band of Spaniards in the forecastle, who galled us with the fire from their pieces and the arrows of their bows. When they saw how their comrades had been overcome on the poop castle, they cut down the spar which had been lashed to the broken foremast, and using it and the sailcloth about it as a kind of barricade went on firing at us from behind this shelter.

Telling Calvagh, who had come out of the fight without a scratch, to take what men he thought needful, I directed him to attack the forecastle, and at the same time protected his assault of it by a discharge from the poop of a small cannon I found there loaded. This position of the Spaniards, however, was one of such strength that they inflicted heavy loss upon us before they were all put to the sword.

We were now masters of the entire vessel, but its capture had cost us dear. Fifteen of the Irish were killed, and as many more wounded, several of them seriously; and when the sun rose across the dim outline of the hills away beyond Galway its rays fell upon decks that ran dark with blood, and upon a wearied band of men, whose gasping breath came and went in sobs of pain, now that the excitement was past, and who threw themselves down in sheer exhaustion. I myself was sore spent, but the day was only begun, and the rest of the wine fleet might come into view at any moment. Therefore I bade my men rise up as soon as they had rested somewhat, and then endeavoured to put the Capitana into sailing trim.

While this was being done I shaped our course for Inisheer, remaining on the Capitana myself with some of my crew, and sending Calvagh to take charge of The Cross of Blood. I also had the captain of the galleon brought before me, to see if I could get any information from him about the other ships of the fleet.

“Señor Captain,” said I, “the chance of war has delivered you and your ship to me. Ye fought well, and I am grieved that so many valiant souls no longer see the light; yet would I have spared them, as many as I could, but they would not. You are in no danger of your life, if you will but answer the questions I ask of you.”

I spoke in English, my knowledge of Spanish being slight, but I judged that the captain of a ship trading to Ireland, and particularly to the English city of Galway, would be certain to understand the English tongue. At first it appeared, however, as if he did not comprehend my words.

“Kill me, kill me!” he exclaimed in Spanish, while his face was distorted with impotent rage.

Replying to him mildly that I had no intention of putting him to death, I informed him that I had no sufficient acquaintance with his own language, and therefore I was unable to converse with him in it.

“You surely understand English,” said I.

One of the Irish who was on guard over him thrust a dagger into him for an inch or more before I knew what he would be about, whereupon the Spaniard cursed him and us and himself and his ship and the day he was born in as good English as ever I heard.

“I shall tell you nothing,” said he. “No, by St. Jago, nothing, nothing, nothing!”

I felt a pity for the man, and told one of those standing near me to fetch him some wine, and that as speedily as might be, and again asked him if he were resolved to die; but he merely glared at me like a wild animal, and I left him alone, reserving him to be questioned by Grace O’Malley.

When the wine was brought he drank it thirstily, saying, “If it is poisoned, so much the better.”

And now we drew near again to Inisheer. Rounding the Point of Trawkeera, we dropped anchor beside the two other galleys, and my mistress came on board of our prize. When I told her of the great fight the Spaniards had made, and what it had cost us to take the ship, she sighed and became pensive.

“We can ill afford so many men,” she said, “but the other ships of the wine fleet may be captured or destroyed more easily. Bring the captain of the galleon to me, and let me see if I can learn anything from him of his companions.”

“He will say nothing,” I exclaimed.

Grace O’Malley’s face grew dark, but she merely repeated her command. When the Spanish captain was fetched in, he was struck with amazement when he beheld a woman, young, handsome, and, as some thought, beautiful, who appeared to be the chief and leader of us all. At first he gazed at her as one who sees an apparition or a phantom.

“Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios!” he said aloud in his astonishment, and for some time acted as one might who suspected that his sense of sight was playing him a trick. He was faint and pale from loss of blood, and presented a piteous appearance.

“Free him from his bonds,” said Grace O’Malley, and I cut away the thongs that held him.

“Señor Captain,” continued she when this had been done, “I have a quarrel with the Governor of Connaught and the people of Galway, who have treated me despitefully,—therefore has your galleon been taken.”

“You, Señorita!” he said.

“I was beguiled with fair words and promises,” said she, “and then they made me a prisoner, but I escaped from them. War have I declared against them, and a great revenge shall I take. You, I hear, are a brave man, and I have need of such in this contest with the English. Will you join me?”

“That will I not,” said he; and I heard him muttering to himself, “She is a devil.”

“Better consider before you speak,” said I, seizing his arm roughly.

“Let me be, let me be,” said he, “for I am a dying man!” And he swooned upon the deck. Reviving in a few minutes, he staggered to his feet, whereupon I put my arm round him for his support.

“Where are the other ships of the fleet, tell me,” said Grace O’Malley, “and how many are there?”

“You can kill me,” said he, “and I shall thank you for it, but that which I know I shall never tell you.”

And again I heard him muttering, “Devil, devil!” and calling upon “Santiago” to protect him from her spells.

Grace O’Malley gazed at him, and of a sudden there was in her eyes—what I never looked to see in them on such an occasion—a dew of tears springing from an unsuspected fount of pity. After all, she was a woman, as I have said.

“You are a brave man and a true,” said she, “and I will not plague you more. Let him die in peace,” cried she to me, “if die he must.”

As I was about to place him with his back against a mast so as to ease him, he made a snatch at the dagger which was in my belt; his fingers closed over it, but even as he grasped it his lips parted and his spirit fled.

“God rest thee, thou gallant mariner of Spain!” said Grace O’Malley, when she saw that the captain of the galleon was dead.

“Amen,” cried I, for the firmness of the man had seemed to me a very noble thing.

CHAPTER IX.
A CHEST OF GOLD.

The day had worn on to noon but without its brightness, for the sky had again become full of heavy clouds driven up from the west; the wind moaned and raved over land and sea, and the waves beat drearily upon the shore. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, while the pelting rain came down in huge drops that sounded on our decks like hail or the cracking of whips.

The ensanguined waters flowed in floods from the planking and the sides of the captured galleon, which lay like some great wounded monster of the deep, sweating blood. Closer into the land we steered, and so saved ourselves from the worst of the gale.

For the present all thoughts of searching for the other vessels of the fleet had to be given up, and fain was I to rest, for my wounds, though slight, were sore, and the dull aching of my shoulder was hard to bear. Seeing my state, Grace O’Malley bade me go to her own galley, where Eva would attend to my wounds with her gentle fingers, and then, perhaps, sing me to sleep with one of the songs of her people.

This command went so well with every beating of my heart that my pains were all but forgotten, and when I reached The Grey Wolf, Eva met me, and waited upon me, and made so much of the “Mountain of a Man,” as she often called me, that the only pangs I felt were those caused by my love for her—so much so that the tale of it was trembling on my lips, though I could not for the life of me put it into words, but dumbly looked, and longing—looked again and again at her.

Fool that I was, dolt that I was, not to have spoken then! But my tongue was tied, as with a ribbon of steel, and if one were to ask me why this was, I could not tell, nor can I now, looking back across the blunt edge of years. Yet here was such an opportunity, if I could have grasped it, but it passed.

Eva sang softly to me as I lay with my harness off on a couch, until I fell a-sleeping and a-dreaming, and all through the sleeping and the dreaming did I hear the sound of her singing, far off, indistinctly, and murmurous, like that of the brooks among the silent hills.

When I awoke, it was evening, and both she and Grace O’Malley were seated by my side. The storm had abated, and already a weak, watery moon was riding in the heavens, and, as I opened my eyes, its faint beams fell whitely upon the faces of my mistresses, so that to me, being still only half awake, they looked like spirits. I rose to a sitting posture, and felt that my strength had come back to me.

“Has your weariness left you?” asked Grace O’Malley, smiling kindly at me.

For answer I stretched my limbs and my body, and smiled at her without speaking, though the pain in my shoulder still troubled me, and I could not move without feeling it.

“While you have slept, Ruari,” she went on, “I have gone over as much of the galleon as might be in the hours of daylight at my disposal, and the riches in her are truly wonderful. Never saw I so great a store of all manner of things of value in a ship before. ’Tis a splendid spoil, and the merchants of Galway will have good cause to remember me, and Sir Nicholas will be beside himself with rage.”

“We have not yet finished with them or with Sir Nicholas,” said I. “The Capitana is not the only ship of the wine fleet.”

“Neither has Sir Nicholas done with us, I fear,” said Eva, sadly, “nor the people of Galway.”

“Sometimes it seems to me, Eva,” said Grace to her foster-sister, “as if you were only half an O’Malley.” Then she turned to me again. “Ruari, I have more to tell about the galleon. On board of her there is a chest of gold—all money of Spain, coined pieces, bearing the effigy of the late Emperor, Charles. Now, hearken! A strange, wild story goes with this chest of gold, and there is that in it which may concern us very closely.”

“Yes,” I said, my interest being keenly stirred as I guessed from the slow and almost solemn way in which she addressed me, that she had stumbled probably on some mystery of the sea—something, at any rate, unexpected and out of the way, and yet something that might touch us nearly. “Yes,” I said, watching her intently, “it is naught of evil import for us, surely?”

“That I know not as yet,” she replied. “Rather does it portend a benefit; time alone can tell. This is how we came to find the gold, and we might never have gotten it of ourselves—we were told of it.”

“How was that?”

“While our search through the galleon was being made, two men, bound in fetters and chained together, were discovered in a small, dark den, low down in the ship; a hole, indeed, so cunningly concealed from observation that even the very sailors on board the Capitana might not have known of its existence, if its being hidden from them were deemed necessary or expedient. The men were half-starved, and so utterly wretched that when they were brought into the light they were as the blind, and gibbered like idiots. What they say, now that they have come to themselves, is pitiful enough, and I believe they are telling the truth.”

“Who are they?” asked I, as she meditated on their story. “What account do they give of themselves? You have said nothing about the chest of gold.”

“One of them,” said she “tells me that he is a Geraldine, a near relative of Garrett, Earl of Desmond.”

“An Irishman!” I broke in.

“Yes, so he says, and I doubt it not,” said she. “The other is a Spaniard, Don Francisco de Vilela by name, a man of rank, if one may judge of him from his speech and carriage. But you will see them yourself shortly.”

“What is their explanation of their being prisoners on board of the galleon? Is it concerned with the chest of gold?”

“Yes, so they say,” she replied; “and they relate that before the Capitana left Spain they made a bargain with its captain to convey them to Ireland for a certain sum of money, which they paid over to him before he put out from port. Their compact with him was that they were to be landed at some lonely point or secluded place on our western coasts, and not at any town, such as Limerick or Galway.”

“Why was that?” I asked. “Doubtless the captain of the galleon made a similar inquiry of them.”

“They say he asked them no questions whatever,” replied she; “but he must have understood that they had some business of a very private nature, probably concerned with State affairs. Evidently that business lay with the native Irish, and not with the English, from whom they wished their movements to be kept secret, else would there have been no need to have avoided any of the English towns in Ireland.”

“It may be,” said I, for I could not help seeing the drift of her words, “that they are the bearers of some message from the King of Spain to the Earl of Desmond, or some other chief of the Irish.”

“You do not fall very short of the mark,” said she.

“But,” asked I, “how came it about, or what happened to cause them to be thrust into chains, and that on board a Spanish ship? Those who brought a message from the Spanish King would surely have been well-treated, and even honoured, by the captain of a ship coming out of Spain. Plainly, there is something here which fits not in with their narration.”

“They say that it was because of the chest of gold,” she replied. “The captain is dead, so that we shall never hear his version of the affair, but they affirm he could not withstand the temptation of the gold. Brave, as we know he was, and an excellent sailor, as they say he was reputed to be, yet would he have sold his very soul for gold.”

“How did he know of it?”

“So heavy a chest could hardly have been brought on board without his knowledge, and to conjecture what it contained was no such difficult matter. They did not conceal from him their anxiety for its safe-keeping, and one or other of them was always on guard over it. Anyone would have known, therefore, that it held a treasure of some kind. All went well until they reached the coast of Kerry, when, reminding the captain of their agreement with him, they requested him to send them, the chest, and the rest of their belongings ashore in a boat. The sea was very rough, however, and he assured them the thing was impossible.

“That might well have been the case,” said I.

“They therefore confided to him—what he most likely knew already—that they had come over on a secret embassy from the King of Spain, and besought him, by his fidelity to his King, to put them ashore. He protested that their landing at the time would be attended with difficulty, and even danger, and again refused their request.

“They expostulated with him, but in vain; he was not to be moved, having already, they say, determined that they should never deliver their message. Next they offered him a large sum of money, and, when he asked where they were to get it from, told him of the gold, but without informing him of the amount they had in the chest. Still, he would not give way, and, at length, on their continuing to urge him, he became sullen, angry and abusive, hurling many hurtful words at them in his wrath. His real reason, they began to fear, was not the roughness of the sea, for some sheltered bay or inlet with calm water might have easily been reached, had he so desired, but that he had resolved to possess himself of their treasure.”

“They had played into his hands by speaking of the contents of the chest,” I said.

“That was their mistake, and they have had to repent themselves of it. That same night, while they slept, they were seized, put into manacles, and thrown into the close and filthy den in which they were discovered by us.

“They saw the captain but once after their imprisonment, and he had told them—for their comfort—that it had been his original intention to fling them overboard, but that he had changed his mind, and would deliver them up, instead, to the English Governor of Connaught, when the ship arrived at Galway, as plotters against the peace of Ireland. Then they never would be heard of again, for all men knew of what sort of stuff Sir Nicholas Malby was made, and how short and sharp were his dealings with those who conspired against the Queen, once they were in his power.”

This was an evil hearing in regard to one who in his dying had shown a not unmanly kind of virtue; but who is there that does not know that gold is for most men the god of the whole earth? The story of the two struck me as being true, as it was stamped through and through with a sort of human naturalness. And I said as much.

“When the captain told them,” continued Grace O’Malley, “of the fate in store for them, they offered him all the gold they had in the chest if only he would let them go. But he answered them that it was his already, and that he had no intention of parting with it. If they lived, he would never feel safe—and the dead had no tongue. Hearing this, they gave up all hope, and abandoned themselves to the gloom of despair, cursing the captain for his perfidy.

“Then the storm came on, and the galleon drove hither and thither with the tempest. Their wretchedness increased, until they reflected that it would be better to perish by drowning than to live to undergo the torture and miserable death which Sir Nicholas would be certain to inflict upon them.”

“The tale,” I said, when I had pondered it for a few minutes, “does not sound to me as if it were false.”

“It was so far confirmed,” said Grace O’Malley, “inasmuch as the chest of gold, the possession of which worked their undoing, lay concealed in the cabin which the captain had occupied. For safe-keeping I had it removed to this galley.”

“Did they tell you,” said I, my thoughts reverting to what, after all, was the most important part of their statements, “what was the burden of their message from the King of Spain?”

“Not fully,” she replied, “and I forebore from questioning them more narrowly until they had recovered. They did say that Philip wishes well to Ireland, or rather, he loves not the English, who condemn him to his face, and singe his very beard. They hinted that the King had sent Don Francisco to spy out the land, and to become acquainted with the wishes of the princes and chiefs of the island.”

“For what purpose? To what end?”

“To encourage them to rebel against the Queen, by giving them such help as is within his power. At the same time, he does not wish to appear to be concerned in the affairs of Ireland at all.”

I had heard of Philip before as a man who was uncertain of purpose and infirm of will, timid when he should have been bold, and bold when he should have been timid; one who covered himself and his designs with a cloak of clumsy cunning which it required no skill to see through, and of deceit which deceived none of the least discerning of his enemies. Therefore said I not a word, but contented myself to wait for what my mistress might say further on the matter.

She was silent, however, and I could see from her rapt, indrawn look, that her thoughts had wandered far away from us and the galleys and the wine fleet—perhaps to Spain and its shifty King. I, too, was busy thinking, and, as I conceived that we had affairs immediately before us of more importance than even Philip of Spain, I made bold to interrupt her reveries.

“We can at least gather from the two men,” said I, “how many ships were in the wine fleet. The rest of them cannot now be far off from us.”

“Yes,” said she, rousing herself from her musings like one from slumber, “they informed me that there were nine galleons in the fleet when they left Cadiz, four of them were bound for Limerick and five for Galway.”

“Then there are still four ships for us to fight,” I exclaimed. “Let the chest of gold and the King of Spain wait, say I. Would it not be well, now that the wind has fallen, to send one of the galleys to keep a look-out?”

“Tibbot the Pilot,” she replied, “already watches the Sound in The Winged Horse. The galleons will most likely have been separated from each other by the recent storms, but if any one of them comes into sight we will quickly be apprised of it.”

“Have you not had enough of fighting for one day?” asked Eva.

“We have vowed vengeance on Galway,” I said, and Eva said no more, but sighed deeply.

There was a knocking at the door of the cabin, and a servant entered with the message that Don Francisco de Vilela and Dermot Fitzgerald desired speech of Grace O’Malley, to thank her for her kindness to them. Permission being granted, the two men soon made their appearance. They had eaten, had washed themselves, and were attired in fresh clothes taken from the supplies on board the galleon, and looked very different, I imagine, from what they had done when they had emerged from the hole in the Capitana, where they had been imprisoned.

Both of them bowed with a profound reverence to my mistresses, and I took note, even in the half-light, of the contrast they made as they stood together. The Irishman was fair and ruddy, the Spaniard dark and swarthy as most Spaniards are. Fitzgerald was tall—nearly as tall as myself—Don Francisco of the middle height, but having a very soldierly bearing and an air of resolution which his comrade lacked. Thus much I saw at a glance.

De Vilela was the first to speak, and his accent had all the smooth deference of the court rather than the rough sincerity of the camp.

“Señorita,” said he, “if you will suffer a poor gentleman of Spain to offer you his thanks——”

“Madame,” said the Irishman, interrupting him impulsively, “I never dreamt the day would come when I should be glad to be a prisoner——”

“Nay, nay!” quoth Grace O’Malley, “no more of that, I beg.”

The glance of the two men swept past her, de Vilela’s to fasten on Eva O’Malley, Fitzgerald’s on me, while my mistress made us known to each other. Then they entreated her to say what was her will in regard to them, and what ransom she demanded for their release. But she replied that she had not yet determined, and so put them off.

She conversed for some minutes with de Vilela, speaking to him of the West Indies, whither, it appeared, he had been in one of the very ships for which Tibbot the Pilot was watching—the San Millan de Simancas.

I now had had leisure to observe him more closely, and he gave me the impression of a man of high breeding. He discoursed with a tongue of winning sweetness, more like a woman’s than a man’s, and yet one had only to examine with a little carefulness the lines of his face to be convinced that these soft tones were like the fur over claws, and that there was nothing else of the feminine about him.

His companion, Fitzgerald, was of a very different type, although he, too, was of knightly birth—rash, unstable, easily swayed, but generous and warm of heart, with quick, unstudied manners, and no capacity for much besides the wielding of his sword.

Ever as the Spaniard spoke his dark, eloquent eyes wandered from one to another of us, resting with an absorbed intensity longest on Eva—a thing in no wise to be wondered at, but which I did not care to see, although I had no right to be jealous.

And then there broke upon the hush of the night, now grown still and calm, the zip-zap-swish, zip-zap-swish of the oars of a galley, quickly driven by its rowers through the water; there was the low, clear call of Tibbot as The Winged Horse came up towards us, while at his word the oars hung motionless and glistening in the pale moonlight, and I went out to hear what tidings he brought.

He reported that the tops of the masts of two large ships were to be seen on the horizon, and that there might be more, as the light was but faint owing to the clouds that still passed over the sky. I hastened back to inform my mistress of Tibbot’s news. The door of the cabin opened before I had reached it and Grace O’Malley appeared upon the scene, and as the door closed behind her I saw that Don Francisco was speaking earnestly to Eva, who, for her part, was listening to him with deep attention.

CHAPTER X.
A WOMAN’S WILE.

“What news?” demanded Grace O’Malley.

Repeating Tibbot’s words to her, I asked what her commands were.

“This afternoon while you slept, Ruari,” she replied, “the idea of a certain artifice or stratagem came into my mind, and the darkness of the night is so much in favour of its successful issue that there is no reason why it should not be attempted. It was suggested to me as I went over the stores of the galleon by the quantities of all manner of garments on board of her——”

So had spoken very rapidly, being conscious that with the galleons not far away there was no time to spare.

“Enough, at present,” she continued. “I will tell you more of it when I have made a disposition of our ships.”

“The prisoners?” I questioned. “They can scarcely be expected to join us in an attack on Spanish ships—even although these ships are in reality more the property of the merchants of Galway than of any others.”

“Transfer them,” said she, “to The Cross of Blood, which I shall leave here under Calvagh’s charge. When you have seen them safely in his hands come to me—I shall be on the Capitana.”

“The Capitana!” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Yes,” said she. “In a little while you will see why I say the Capitana.”

I hurried off into the cabin, and telling Don Francisco and Fitzgerald that they were to be put for the night aboard of my galley, and having whispered to Eva that there was something in the wind, but that I knew not quite what it was, I conducted the two men to The Cross of Blood, and delivered them over to Calvagh, bidding him keep a close guard over them. Then I got into a boat, and in a trice was on the Spanish galleon’s deck.

Just as I reached it the clouds drifted from off the face of the moon, and as I looked up around me I could scarcely believe my eyes at what I saw. Pausing not to think, I placed my hand upon my sword, and had pulled it half-way out of its sheath, when a voice which I recognised as Tibbot the Pilot’s, sang out close to my ear, while there was a splutter of laughter in his throat, as he said—

“’Tis a wise man who sometimes doubts his seeing aright, Ruari Macdonald. Know you not your friends from your foes?”

Tibbot, I perceived, was not attired in the Irish fashion, but had discarded his saffron mantle and his long, wide-sleeved jacket, and had replaced them by a sober Spanish suit, under which, one might be sure, was a shirt of mail.

And now I noticed that the sailors who moved about us, getting the galleon ready for sea, were no more our own wild kernes of Mayo, but all mariners of Spain!

“Tibbot,” said I, “what is the meaning of this? Wherefore is this mummery?”

“’Tis by our mistress’s order,” said he, “and ’tis herself will have good reason for it, I’m thinking.” And his cheeks creased with laughter.

Grace O’Malley had said something of a stratagem,—was this it? One quicker of apprehension than myself would have seen what her intentions were, but I had to go and ask her for an explanation.

And, lo, on the poop deck, where a few hours before there had been so great a struggle, I found not my mistress, but a youthful, handsome, smiling, debonair knight of Spain, who yet had the eyes and the accents of our princess! By her side there stood the captain of the Capitana, risen from the dead—or such a passable imitation of him in face and figure as might well have deceived the living.

I stared stupidly at them both,—and then I understood. For the nonce, we were no longer O’Malleys or other free Irish rovers of the sea, but dons and señors—if you please,—soldiers and sailors under the flag of Spain; the Capitana for the time being had not been taken, but was still bound in all security for the port of Galway—only haply, that being stayed by storms, she had taken shelter behind the island of Arran, from which she would presently emerge to meet the other galleons as they came up.

And then—the thing was plain enough.

A woman’s wit is a wonderful thing, and well is it for us men that the loves and the hates of women do dim the brightness of it, else would we be dazzled and blind and dumb all our days, and our strength be but a vain thing.

“What think you of my plot?” said the young gentleman adventurer, this Spanish knight, who was my mistress.

“You are a great magician, señor!” said I, taking her humour. “And what would you with this Ruari Macdonald—once the sworn servant of an Irish princess, known as Grace O’Malley?”

“By my faith,” cried she, “I would not have him changed for all the world.”

And the words were dear to me, so that my heart glowed within me—even as it does now at the memory of them.

Then she spoke to me with some fulness of the snare she was preparing for the two galleons, now beating up towards the Sound.

It was the case, no doubt, said she, that the five ships of the wine fleet had been scattered over the western seas by the storm, but those Tibbot had seen had managed to keep by each other or had come together again, and were travelling as slowly as possible, with a view to picking up their companion vessel, and, further, that their sailing powers would most probably have been reduced by the damage wrought upon them by the tempest.

Her purpose was to stand off and on in the Sound, manœuvring the Capitana in such a way as to indicate that she had also suffered from the violence of the weather; to allow the ships to come up within near hail of her—which they would be certain to do, as they could have no suspicion of what had befallen the Capitana, especially as they would be able to see nothing strange in the appearance of the galleon or in the dress of those on board of her—and then to trust to the chances of the hour for the rest.

When I raised the objection that this plot of hers necessitated the absence of the galleys from the attack, she replied that no more than a bare guard had been left on board of them, and that she had as many as eighty men out of them, and had placed them on the Capitana, a number which she thought more than sufficient for the enterprise.

“If all goes well,” said she, “I will myself lead the assault on the first ship, and Tibbot on the other—if they have to be fought together at the same time; do you remain on the Capitana, for she must be seen to by one who is a seaman, and much may depend on the way in which she is managed. Besides, you must still be weary of the fight of a few hours ago. But circumstances will guide us.”

“Surely,” said I, “there is no need for you to expose yourself, and my fatigue is gone.”

“Nay, nay!” said she, “let the thing stand.”

The anchor was gotten up, and out beyond the point of Trawkeera went the ship, the moon now shining more clearly, and the stars showing here and there like diamonds through a scarf of clouds. And there, not more than a mile away, loomed up the two galleons for which we were on the watch.

The wind was light, and the sails of the galleon, which was the nearer of the two to us, showed up in grey shadows against the velvety black of the sky. She was of the usual build of the merchant ship of Cadiz, with the same lumbering breadth, the same high castles at poop and bows, and the same rig in every respect as had that which we had captured, and was of much the same size. Some distance behind her was her companion, and the two vessels were so much alike that the second appeared to be the double of the first.

As soon as we were within view, a lantern was waved three times towards us from the bows of the leading ship—a signal to which we responded by also waving a lantern three times, surmising that some such answering sign would be expected back in return.

We waited with an anxious curiosity to see how this would be taken, and as we saw the dark figures of the watch hurrying, in evident alarm, to the bulwarks to gaze at us, and heard their voices raised in discussion coming faintly across the waters, we could not fail to understand that some other token had been looked for.

In their perplexity they knew not what to make of us, and we could see plainly enough that there was an argument going on among them in respect of us. As the distance between us slowly lessened, their uncertainty and indecision were increased when they beheld, as we took excellent care they should, a few of the O’Malleys standing on the fore-deck of the Capitana. Even had it been as bright as day, they could not have imagined that they were other than Spanish sailors like themselves.

Our men had been ordered to remain quite still and silent, and under the moon, over which a web of cloud was being spun, they appeared like figures carved out of stone.

The watchman on the bows of the galleon hailed us, and though his voice sounded clearly to us, we pretended not to hear; he called again through the quiet of the night, and when we returned no answer we could see that he ran with a sort of terror of he knew not what from his place, and was lost in the darkness of the forecastle.

In the meantime we had come close up to her, her sailors bending blanched, fear-stricken faces over her bulwarks upon us, and perhaps thinking that they saw before them the fabulous Ship of Death, upon which for ever sail the souls of those foully murdered on the sea, and which for the nonce had taken on the form of the Capitana to lure them to their doom, for never might human eyes behold that dreaded sight and live.

The two ships were now so near each other that it required but a touch of the helm and the quick ringing word of command from Grace O’Malley—the statues sprang to life, and a host of the O’Malleys jumped on board the galleon at different points.

It was all the work of a twinkling, so soon was the ship carried. The watch on deck were overpowered and made prisoners with scarcely a blow being struck. Tibbot crept through a window in the poop of the Spaniard, and, followed by a dozen of the Irish, had secured those who were asleep or half-awakened before they could make any resistance. In the forecastle alone was there any struggle, for there a handful of men stood to their weapons, and, refusing quarter, fought on till everyone of them was slain.

I had watched with straining eyes through the gloom for the form of that young Spanish knight who was my mistress, and, not seeing it anywhere, was in sore dismay; not many minutes, however, went by—the action had moved with the speed with which things change in a dream—when she appeared on the poop, as I thought.

Nor was I mistaken, for she called to me to trim the Capitana and to wear down upon the other galleon, which had changed her course, and was striving to make off southwards for the open sea. Her watch had given the alarm, and we could see the dark bodies of her crew and of her fighting men making to their posts.

Sending back to me some of our Irish for the better working of the Capitana, she caused the newly-captured vessel to be released from the grapplings and fastenings, by which I had had her bound to us while the attack was going on, and we swung apart. Crowding on sail in hot haste, we put about, and went in pursuit of the fleeing galleon, which not only had the start of us, but now also appeared to be a better sailer than either of us, as we did not gain on her, but, on the contrary, rather fell back.

It was apparent that she would escape us if we were to trust to our sailing powers alone. I had just determined to train one of the cannon on board the Capitana on to her, when a loud explosion shook the air.

Of what had occurred, then and afterwards on the Santa Ana, as the ship Grace O’Malley had just taken was named, I was not a witness, nor was Tibbot, who told me of it, either; but it is narrated here just as I heard it.

Seeing that there was a likelihood of the galleon, to which we were giving chase, showing us a clean pair of heels, she ordered Tibbot to the helm of the Santa Ana, and, telling him of what she intended, she herself went among the prisoners, who were lying bound in different parts of the ship.

Among them she found divers persons who understood the Irish tongue, and them, by both promises and threats, she compelled to bring before her the master of the ordnance and those who assisted him in loading and firing the cannon. Surrounding these men with her own, each of whom had sword, spear, or battle-axe ready in his hand, she marched them to the forecastle and forced them, on pain of instant death, to serve the two great cannon which were in the bow-ports. The first discharge of these was the explosion I had heard.

The balls from these pieces were so ineffective, passing wide of the mark and splashing into the sea a considerable distance from the galleon, that her anger was kindled, and she warned the master of the ordnance that if he were not more successful on a second attempt she would not spare him, being assured that he was merely trifling with her.

Whether it was because of the terrifying effect of her words, or because he was determined to give the galleon every opportunity for getting away from us, and was reckless of what became of himself, the succeeding shots flew as wide as before. When Grace O’Malley perceived this she was transported with rage, and, crying that he had brought his fate upon his own head, ran him through with her sword.

Had she not quickly interfered, all his companions would have been instantly despatched by the Irish, who were eager to emulate the example she had set them.

Aghast at the death of the master of the ordnance, and suspecting that there was no hope of anything else for themselves, they cried out sharply, breathlessly, tremblingly, each protesting and vowing by all the saints that he would undertake to do whatever he was bid, if only his life were promised him.

Seeing from their look that they were likely to do as they said, but fearing lest they should be unstrung, being so wrought upon by their terror, she agreed that they should not be slain, but commanded them to chose from out of their number him who was the most skilful cannoneer, so that there should be no mistake in regard to the fit service of the ordnance. At the same time she told them that all their lives depended on him, for if he failed at the next discharge to damage the galleon, not only would he be immediately killed, but that all of them would likewise suffer instant death.

They chattered for a second together, and then one of them, perhaps bolder or more desperate than the rest, stepped forward, and accepted her offer.

Having warned him again, Grace O’Malley had the guns loaded once more, and stood over the man with drawn sword as he applied the burning match to the touch-hole of first one cannon and then of the other. When the smoke had cleared away, it was seen that the mainmast of the galleon had been shot through and had fallen over, so that it lay partly across her waist and partly was in the water.

Thus impeded, the galleon almost at once lost her sea-way, and both the Santa Ana and the Capitana began rapidly to come up with her. Meanwhile shouts and shrieks resounded from her decks; her sailors ran about in fear and confusion, but after awhile they appeared to be got into some kind of order, and, as a ball from her boomed across our bows, it was evident that her captain was resolved to fight for his ship.

As our vessels approached, we received a broadside from her which did us both no little harm, especially to our hulls and rigging, and a shot tore along the forecastle of the Capitana in an oblique direction, killing two of my crew and wounding three or four men before it plunged into the sea.

But it was impossible for her to prevent us from coming up alongside of her, and so soon as we had made ourselves fast to her our boarders poured in upon her. And thereupon ensued a battle not more terrible than obstinate, while the faint streaks of a cold and troubled dawn stole upon us, shedding its gleams on the dead and dying as they lay in pools of blood upon her decks.

No quarter was asked or given. Whom the sword or the battle-axe or the spear smote not, him the sea received, for many of the Spaniards, crying that all was lost, threw themselves from the galleon into the water and were drowned. There remained, however, towards the end of the fight a small company of arquebusiers and swordsmen upon the poop, and among them was the captain of the ship, his clothing stained and disordered, and a great, red sword in his hand.

Seeing that no hope remained, he made signs that he wished to surrender, and begged that his life and the lives of those with him might be spared, to which Grace O’Malley straightway assented.

As he walked towards her with his sword in his hand, with the purpose apparently of presenting it to her in token of his submission, he seemed to stumble on the planks, which were slippery with blood, and then, suddenly recovering himself, he made a mad, swift rush forward, and would have wounded, perhaps killed, my mistress if his intention had not been guessed by Tibbot, who in the very nick of time dashed aside the point of the captain’s sword and brained him with his battle-axe.

So incensed were the Irish at this act of treachery that they would show no mercy, and not a soul was left alive.

Thus was the San Miguel, as she proved herself to be, taken.

Our first care now was to return to Inisheer, so the three galleons were trimmed as well as was within our power, and our course was shaped for the island, where our three galleys lay, and which was reached in due time without our seeing any more ships of the wine fleet.

And here we remained, among the islands of Arran, for several days, waiting for the other two galleons of which we had heard; but as they did not come into sight, we conjectured that they had either put into some port in another part of Ireland or had been driven on the rocks and wrecked.

Then we bore northwards with the Spanish galleons and our three galleys to a sequestered bay on the coast of Iar-Connaught, where we concealed in caves and other secret places well known to us a portion of the great treasure and of the rich stores that had been found in the merchant ships. Some of their ordnance was put on board the galleys and the rest cast into the sea.

As for the galleons themselves, they were steered within a mile of the harbour of Galway, in full view of its walls, set on fire, and then sent adrift, blazing, in the bay; while the prisoners, all save Don de Vilela and Fitzgerald, were landed on the coast, and left to make the best of their way to the city, where on their arrival they published abroad all that Grace O’Malley had done.

And I have not wit enough to describe the amazement and anger of Sir Nicholas, nor the disappointment and vexation of the merchants at the losses they had sustained through the destruction of the wine fleet.

But homeward to Clew Bay we sailed, and little cared we.

CHAPTER XI.
“REDSHANK AND REBEL.”

Before we had left the Bay of Galway for the north I had been so constantly occupied with the unlading of the galleons, the disposal of our plunder, and the care and the landing of the prisoners, that I had got no more than glimpses of my mistresses, and then they were seldom alone. For de Vilela and Fitzgerald, although they had a cabin given them on The Cross of Blood, were but rarely on my galley during the hours of day, spending most of the time with the two ladies on The Grey Wolf.

I perceived they were treated rather as honoured guests than as captives, and I knew that Grace O’Malley held many long and earnest conversations with Don Francisco, the subject of which was ever the same—to wit, what Philip of Spain would do on behalf of the Irish if they rose in rebellion against the Queen.

Now, it mattered not at all to me who was King or Queen of Ireland, whether it was Philip or Elizabeth who should be sovereign of the island, and I had as lief it were the one as the other.

I owed no fealty to England or to Spain, and, being a Macdonald of the Isles, no more to the Queen, King, or Regent of Scotland than could be forced from us Macdonalds of the West, and that was never overmuch. But I was sworn to the service of Grace O’Malley, and if she preferred Spain to England, then it was Spain for me! Yet what I had heard of Philip made me conclude that the Irish would not find him to their liking, as certainly he was not to mine.

For, as a thing of course, there arose this question: If Philip helped the Irish to drive the English out of Ireland, and the English were expelled from the island, what reward would Philip expect to receive in return? Would he not look to become its king? However, so far as I was concerned, the answer lay with my mistress and not with me.

What struck deeper to my heart, so that it was filled with aching every hour, was no such great affair as the possession of a kingdom; yet was it greater to me than all the kingdoms of the world. It was that I began to doubt—nay, to fear—that the dear, sweet, fair woman whom I loved would never be mine.

I had dreamed that I, too, would be a king—her king. Now I saw, or seemed to see, myself uncrowned, disrobed, and beggared, thrust outside the gates of the palace in which she dwelt. But I had never been crowned, nor robed, nor rich, save in visions, and was in truth the veriest beggar on the face of the earth.

Although I was able to be so little with my mistresses, I was not so blind as not to see that de Vilela was entirely fascinated by Eva O’Malley. She had impressed him from the first, and herein I blamed him not. And the more he saw of her the more her charm worked upon him. That surprised me not; it would have been surprising if it had not.

What stung me to the soul was that Eva was evidently interested in the man, listening absorbedly to everything he said. Many strange and curious tales had he to tell of Spain and of the Moors, and, most of all, of those new lands beyond the seas, inhabited by the Indians, with their magical cities of gold and their wondrous mines of gems and precious stones. Spoke he, too, of the mysteries of those far-off regions; of the lakes and forests and mountains that floated above the clouds, swimming in the silent air; of sacred temples rising tower above tower, exceeding majestical, out of wide plains of gleaming verdure; of their princes and priests and people—all themes as entrancing as any story of chivalry.

Nor lacked he such also, for he could tell of those splendid feats of arms which have made the glory of the world. He was a master, too, of the secrets of courts, and stood high in the councils of his King.

’Twas no wonder that that soft tongue of his wooed and won upon our women, who had so often heard with delight the ruder stories of our bards. Who was I to match myself against this paragon, this paladin, this gentle and perfect knight?

My thoughts were bitter and gloomy, like one walking in the shadow of death, and I had not even the poor consolation of saying to myself that Don Francisco was nothing more than a squire of dames—at home rather in my lady’s bower than in the tented field—for there was that about him which proclaimed him a soldier, and even a veteran of war. Good reason, too, had we to know him before many weeks were past for the bold and ready sword he was.

And when we had returned to Clew Bay, and the galleys were safe in the haven under Knockmore, both de Vilela and Fitzgerald accompanied us to the castle of Carrickahooley, where they were received by my mistresses as if they held them in their kindest regard. Indeed, they were so courteously entertained that the darkness of my spirits deepened, so that I hardly knew myself.

I was in as many moods as there were hours in the day, until I felt a shame of myself and of my weakness born in me. At first, I had chafed and fretted like a spoiled child; then a sullen and savage temper had possessed me, so that I could see that the crews of the galleys observed me, thinking that perhaps the bite of my wounds still hurt and galled; now, recovering myself, I bade myself endure hardness, and bear the lash of the whip of fate, and be a man.

But my dear was very dear to me, and my heart rebelled.

In the meantime I was going backward and forward among the islands and on the mainland, distributing portions of the plunder we had taken from the galleons to the widows and relatives of those who had fallen in the fighting, as was the custom of Grace O’Malley with her people. Other parts of the spoil were for greater security put into the strong chambers under the castle and elsewhere.

There remained the chest of gold and various vessels and chains and rings of silver and gold, many of them richly jewelled, to be hidden away, and, for this purpose, Grace O’Malley and I went in a boat by ourselves to the Caves of Silence under the Hill of Sorrow. And as I rowed, and considered the while what significance there was in the gold not being restored to those who made claim to being its owners, I experienced a sudden lightening of my spirits.

I reasoned that there must be some doubt in the mind of my mistress of the truth of the story she had been told of the chest of gold, or else she would not have kept it. She could not entirely trust them—de Vilela and Fitzgerald—or she would have returned the money to them. So I thought, but even this comfort was taken from me.

When we had reached the dark, narrow strait that lies between the high cliffs, the grim sentinels which guard the entrance to the caves, the boat shot into it like an arrow, and, without a word, we went swiftly for a distance of half a mile or more—the zip-drip of the oars alone being heard, eerie and startling, as the sound shivered up the black walls of rock.

There, jutting out from them, was the Red Crag, that is in shape like the head of a bull even to the horns; beyond, a strip of beach, and, at the side of it, a ledge of grey-blue stone; then again the rock walls, ever narrowing and becoming yet more narrow, until they closed in an archway, and we lost the light of day as the boat passed on up the fissure that runs deep into the bowels of the Hill of Sorrow. There was not room for rowing, and I forced the boat along with a hook, Grace O’Malley having lighted a torch.

Then we came to the black, slippery block of stone which seems to close up the passage, but the secret of which was known to us, and to us only.

Here we entered—by what way I may never tell—and were in the first cave of silence, a vast, gloomy, ghostly, dimly-lit hall, with tables and altars and seats carved out of the living rock by hands dead these many thousand years, and on the floor where it was stone and not water, a grey, powdered dust, faintly coloured here and there as with specks of rust—and all that dust was once alive, for these caves are the graves of men.

Out of this vast chamber opened a number of smaller caves, that looked not unlike the cells of monks—and monks of some sort perhaps were they who lived and died here. And everywhere silence—a chill, brooding, fearful, awful silence; and the living rock, hewn and cut; and the floors that were partly stone and partly water; and the grey, rust-spotted dust of death!

In one of these caverns we deposited the treasure taken from the galleon, hardly speaking except in whispers as we did so, for the hush of the place lay on us like a spell.

I ever felt a creepy horror of these dim, dumb shades, and was glad, when our work was done, to return again to the light of the sun.

It was on our way back to the castle that Grace O’Malley spoke of what was in her mind. Her face was stern and set and full of purpose.

“Ruari,” said she, “much has happened since last we visited these caves together with my father, Owen. Now he is gone, and I, his daughter, am proscribed by the English. To what better end could the treasure in these caves be put than to help to drive the English out of Ireland?”

“The treasure is yours,” said I slowly, for her words killed my new-found hope, “to do with as you list, and your will is mine. But the English are many, and brave and strong. Remember Shane O’Neil, and how he fell before them. It would be a terrible thing to lose the treasure, and still to have the English in the land.”

“We are at war with them in any case,” said she. “As for Shane O’Neil, he was unsuccessful because he stood alone, but if all the princes and chiefs of the island unite, the result would surely be different. Then there is the power of Spain to be thrown into the balance on our behalf. The King has promised to send both men and money, if we will but compose our own feuds, and band ourselves together for the one common object.”

I answered not a word, but pulled at the oars doggedly.

“Ruari!” she exclaimed. “Why this silence? It is not like you to be so quiet when the sound of battle is in the air.”

“Say on,” cried I, “I am your servant.”

She gazed at me, as one who considered anxiously a thing which puzzled her.

“It is not the treasure, surely?” said she. “When did you care for anything save the taking of it?” Then a light leaped into her eyes, and she laughed more heartily than she had done for days. “You do not like Don Francisco? That is it!” And she laughed again.

“Don Francisco is well enough,” said I, but she passed the empty words by.

“Eva is but a young lass,” said she, with the hardness gone from her face, so tender had it become all at once, “and the Don, who is certainly a gallant gentleman, and not a love-sick boy, gives her pleasure with his tales and romances. That is all!”

A love-sick boy! That was I, Ruari Macdonald. So Grace O’Malley knew my secret; did Eva know it also?

“Grace O’Malley,” said I, resting on the oars, in anguish, for her words brought no solace to me, “my heart is sore.”

“Ruari,” said she impatiently, “you are nothing but a big boy. Eva had a liking for de Vilela, and so have I, but neither of us has any love for him.”

“She does not love him!” cried I doubtfully, yet with a gladness unspeakable conquering the doubt; “she does not love him!”

“Listen, Ruari!” said my mistress, with a deep, almost melancholy gravity. “If this noble Spaniard love her truly, and she do not him, consider how terrible a misfortune has befallen him. To love greatly, nobly, truly—”and then she paused—”and to find that such a love is unreturned——” and again she stopped. “But love is not for me; these Caves of Silence give me strange thoughts,” continued she.

Here was my mistress in a mood that was new to me, and I held my peace, wondering. I had deemed that her thoughts were set on war and her quarrel with the Governor of Galway, forgetting, as I so often did, that she was a woman as well as our princess and chief.

“Do you not understand,” said she again, “that the English will not be satisfied to let our affairs remain as they are? This is not like the strife between two of our septs. Think you that Sir Nicholas is the man to be easily defied? Not so; the matter is no more than begun. He will try to have his revenge, nor will he tarry long over it. See, then, how great an advantage it is for us that de Vilela should have come to us at such a time, with the assistance of the King of Spain. Will not the whole island rise against the Queen of England?”

“To make Philip King of Ireland?” asked I.

“I know not that,” replied she; “but the first thing is to expel the English.”

Then she told me that Fitzgerald and de Vilela were soon to set out, making their way across the country to the Earl of Clanrickarde, and, later, to the Earl of Desmond, who was known to be disaffected to the government. By the spring of the following year, it was hoped a general rising would be arranged for, and in the interval soldiers and money would arrive from Spain, and a camp would be formed at a point on the coast, chosen for its ease of access from the open sea, and the readiness with which it could be fortified.

It was much, nay, it was everything, for me to know that Eva O’Malley was not in love with Don Francisco, and it was with very changed feelings that I returned to Carrickahooley.

Yet, though I had my mistress’s assurance that all was well, I soon became doubtful and dissatisfied, for time passed and de Vilela made no preparations to depart on his mission to Clanrickarde, while his devotion to Eva was more evident day by day. I asked myself why he lingered, considering the importance of the business on which he was engaged, and Eva was the only reply to that question.

It was when I was in this unhappy frame of mind that one of Richard Burke’s messengers, who had come by way of Lough Corrib and Lough Mask from Galway, arrived at the castle, bringing news that Sir Nicholas Malby was on the point of setting out to eat us up.

Beyond this, the man, who was a half-witted creature, and so permitted to wander about at his pleasure, no one doing him hurt because such as he were counted outside of the course of nature, could tell us little or nothing. Richard the Iron had either not trusted him with more than the barest message, or else had had no opportunity for saying more. It was possible, also, that he had not been able to find out exactly what was intended against us.

The season was still fine and open, and if the Governor so determined it, he could attack us by bringing a force along the shores of the lakes, and then up by the valley of the Eriff. Or, if he designed to assault us from the sea, as he might if he had obtained some of Winter’s ships of war, he might purpose to come that way at us. But Burke’s messenger could tell us nothing of this.

It seemed more likely that, as the march through Connaught would be slow and tedious, and beset by the dangers which attend the passage of a large body of men through a difficult and little known country, he would strive to reach and assault us by sea.

Therefore, Grace O’Malley commanded me to take The Cross of Blood, and, sailing southwards, to keep a look-out for Sir Nicholas and the English vessels of Winter, then in charge of a great part of the fleet of Queen Elizabeth. And, indeed, I was eager to be gone, not only because I was ever ready for action of one kind or another, but also because I felt it would be a relief to the painful uncertainty in which I was with regard to Eva.

I had several times resolved to speak to my dear of the love for her which burned within me, but no fit occasion seemed to arise, and, shy and timid where she was concerned, I had not had the wit to make one for myself. And I marvelled at myself, being bold, not to say foolhardy, in most matters, and yet not a little of a coward before this one small, fair woman.

Out from Clew Bay put we with all haste, the wind and sea not being amiss, and here for two days we drove before the breeze without coming in sight of a ship of any size. On the third day we lay off shore in a bay not many leagues from Galway, and there the hours passed by, and still there was no sign of Winter’s vessels.

I was in two minds, nor could at first settle with myself whether to return to Clew Bay at once, having come to the conclusion that Sir Nicholas was to attack us by land, or to endeavour to enter Galway, and so to discover what he had done, or was about to do.

Now it was of the utmost consequence that we should learn what were the plans of the Governor, if they could be come at in any way, and, having informed my officers of what I proposed, I determined to disguise myself and to enter the city to obtain what we were in search of.

Bidding my people return to Clew Bay if I came not back to the galley in three days at the furthest, I put on the dress of a mendicant friar, and in the night was rowed to the fishing village that is just outside the gates of Galway. Landing, I made my way to the huts, and saw a light burning in one. When I knocked at the door, a man appeared, who, seeing a priest, as he thought, asked my blessing and invited me to enter.

After a few words, I threw myself down on the earthen floor, and, saying that I was weary and fain would sleep, closed my eyes and waited for the dawn. The fisherman made some rough provision for my comfort, and left me; but I could hear him whispering to his wife, and her replying to something he had said.

When the morning was come, I asked to be shown the house of the nearest priest, whom I found, early as it was, astir and busy with his office. Discovering myself to him—and this I did because I knew all the Irish priests were our friends—I requested him to tell me where Sir Nicholas was.

But he made answer that he went seldom within the walls of the city, as the watch was very strict since the escape of Grace O’Malley, and that no one was suffered to go in or out save only by permission of the marshal. He had heard, however, that since her flight the Irish in Galway and the neighbourhood were regarded with suspicion, and that some of them had been cast into prison. Sir Nicholas, he thought, was still in Galway.

As for Grace O’Malley, she had been proclaimed a traitress by the Governor, and an enemy of the Queen. I myself, Ruari Macdonald, was also proscribed as an abettor of her treasons, and a great reward was offered for the head of the “redshank and rebel,” as Sir Nicholas was pleased to call me.

And these things did not disquiet me exceedingly, but what did was, that I could learn nothing of Richard Burke, whom I desired above all to see. Him, then, had I first to seek out, and, so soon as the gates were open, I set out for Galway, trusting that my priest’s dress would satisfy the watch, and that I should be allowed to enter without any trouble or disturbance.

CHAPTER XII.
THE WHISPERING ROCKS.

The air was cool and the light clear as I stepped briskly along from the village in a northerly direction, up over the high, wooded lands that lie on that side of Galway. From an open space I obtained a view of the town and its harbour, and was well pleased to note that no ship of war, or large vessel of any kind, rode at anchor in the bay. Plainly, the English admiral, Winter, had not yet arrived.

Then I struck across to the east, and so fetched a compass round until I came upon the road that leads to the great gate of the city, and there, no distance off, was the gate, open. Two carts, going to market with provisions, were passing in, and their drivers were stopped by the watch and interrogated.

Now, I had no overweening confidence in the completeness of my disguise, and it was evident that what the village priest had told me was true as to the care exercised in the admission of anyone within the walls, so I drew off and tarried awhile, to see if chance would not put some opportunity into my hands.

I reflected, too, with perturbation, that I had no weapon with me except a dagger—the robe I was wearing making it impossible to conceal a sword beneath it. But then, again, came the thought that, however well I might have been armed, I was but one man with one life, and that I was about to adventure it in a city full of my enemies. Yet is there that in the mere grip of the cold cross of a sword that keeps the blood a flowing fire in one’s veins, and I regretted that I had had to leave my good blade behind.

While I was thus communing with myself, I saw two Franciscans approach, going towards the gate, and I straightway resolved to join them. They were talking loudly, as if there were a bone of contention between them, and, when they observed me, they both, in one breath, as it were, addressed me, each one asking me to give a decision in his favour on the subject they differed about, which was—Whether St. Patrick were an Irishman or not?

I answered craftily that I should like to hear the arguments on both sides of the question, and requested them to choose which of them should be the first speaker. Whereupon, they halted in the road, disputing which should have the preference, and were like to have spent the morning before they had settled this, as neither would yield to the other, if I had not made a movement towards the gate.

“Sir,” said I, turning to one of them—they had now ranged themselves on either side of me as we walked on—”what say you? That the holy Patrick was——?”

“I say he was an Irishman,” burst in the other, on my left, before I had finished the sentence.

“An Irishman!” exclaimed the Franciscan on my right, “an Irishman! Not he. He was a Scot!”

“I say he was an Irishman!”

“And I maintain he was a Scot!”

“An Irishman!”

“A Scot!”

Their voices rose into shoutings and roarings, as they glared across me with angry eyes.

“St. Patrick was never born in Ireland,” cried the one.

“St. Patrick was never born anywhere else,” retorted the other.

“I tell you, by the Mass, that St. Patrick was a Scot.”

“I tell you, by St. Peter, he was not.”

And thus they wrangled until we had reached the gate, where I perceived the noise they made had already attracted the notice of the watch. Without appearing to pay any attention to the soldiers, I nodded now to the Franciscan on my right, and now to him on my left, as if I followed their words intently.

All my senses, however, were on the stretch, and my heart throbbed and fluttered in my breast, for the danger was great.

“’Tis Father Ambrose and Father Gregory,” I heard one of the soldiers say, “and another of the fathers.” Then he glanced at me inquiringly, but only asked, “To the Church of St. Nicholas, fathers?”

“Yes,” was the reply, and we were passing in when an officer of the Governor’s came down the street, and, scowling at us, bade us halt.

“Whither go ye?” he demanded gruffly.

“To the Church of St. Nicholas,” said we as with one voice, for I had made up my mind to go thither also.

“There be too many priests in Galway already,” said he, with stern-knit brows, “and, had I my way, I should hang ye all. Know ye these men?” he called to the watch.

I held my breath. Father Ambrose and Father Gregory they appeared to know, but as to myself, what would they say?

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier who had spoken before, and as soon as I heard this, I moved on, the Franciscans accompanying me, and beginning their dispute over again.

And so on we walked to the Church of St. Nicholas, while I could scarcely credit having thus fortunately made my entrance into Galway. Having arrived at the church, I directed my steps to the shrine of my patron saint, where, on my knees, with more than the devoutness of many a monk, I offered him my gratitude for his favour and protection, and implored a continuance of the same.

Thus engaged, I had not at once observed that someone had come up behind me, and was kneeling two or three paces away. When I looked up I saw the figure of a woman, but her face I could not see for the shadow of a pillar that intervened.

Somehow, the form seemed familiar, and when she rose up from praying and turned to go, I was startled to find myself gazing at Sabina Lynch. She glanced at me curiously, but, beholding only a friar, passed on sedately out of the building, little thinking at the moment that she had ever been carried, and that not too gently nor so long ago, in that friar’s arms.

To keep up the character I had assumed I began begging, according to the manner of the order of mendicants, from door to door, so soon as I had quitted the church, hoping in this way to light upon someone from whom I might safely ask if Richard Burke were lodging in the town.

And in this it appeared altogether probable that I should have no success, for in many instances I was driven from the doors of the people without ceremony, or paid no heed to whatever. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be agog with something, and, as the streets were now filled with soldiers marching in companies, it was easy to be seen that there was good reason for the excitement.

When I inquired of a man who had given me an alms, and who was of a friendly disposition, what was the cause of all this moil and stir, he replied that surely I must be a stranger not to know that Sir Nicholas was bringing an army together in the town with which he meant to punish the rebels of Connaught.

“What rebels?” asked I innocently.

“That pestilent and notable woman,” said he, “Grace O’Malley, and all her tribe of robbers and murderers and pirates.”

Then he told me how she had destroyed the wine fleet of Galway, and so had come near to ruining the trade of the port.

“She is a devil,” quoth he, and he crossed himself, “and the Governor will kill her and her people.”

“A woman!” cried I, with a great show of being astonished beyond measure.

“Ay, a woman,” said he, “but she must be a devil.” And he crossed himself again. Then he added: “If she be not the very devil in the shape of a woman, there is with her a man, a giant—a great, strong giant—whom she calls her brother, but who is said to have come out of the sea, and is no man at all, but a devil too. Some say he is a Redshank of the Scots, but I tell you he is a devil too.”

And thus the fellow maundered on, while I found some trouble in restraining myself from bursting into laughter in his face. Having, however, thanked him civilly for his alms and information, I gave him my blessing—a devil’s blessing—and so left him.

We were devils!

What, then, were those who thought nothing of breaking a safe-conduct, or of poisoning the wine at banquets to which they had invited their victims as loving guests? Yet the first had happened in the case of my mistress, and the second had been the fate of many an Irish chief.

We were devils, and so to be feared! It was no such bad thing at that time and in that land to be counted as devils, for men who had no fear of God before their eyes, nor of his saints, were afraid of devils.

I had now come to the tavern that is under the sign of the Golden Eagle, and from inside proceeded the sound of eating and of drinking, of festivity and of mirth. Entering in, I was about to beg for alms, when I saw among the company a man whom I recognised as one of the Mayo Burkes, a gallowglass of the MacWilliam’s. Him I at once addressed, incautiously enough, asking if his master were well, and where I would find him, as I had a message for his private ear.

“Richard the Iron,” said he, “is lodged in the North Street; and who are you, father, that know not that?”

“I have been there,” said I, lying boldly, “but he is away from the house.”

“If he be not at the mansion of the Joyces,” said he, “then I know not where he is.”

So Richard Burke was at the mansion of the Joyces in the North Street. Here was good news indeed, and, having said some fair words to the man, I went out of the tavern; but when I reached the North Street I found that my falsehood had this much of truth in it—that Richard Burke was not there. I sat down on a bench in the courtyard of the mansion, and waited impatiently for his return. Tiring of this, I walked up the street towards the Little Gate, and whom should I meet on the way but Richard Burke riding with Sabina Lynch.

Well did I recall what Richard Burke had said to me some weeks before, when he had come secretly to The Cross of Blood. He had declared that Sabina Lynch loved him, but that he only cared for Grace O’Malley. Yet, as I looked at them, it seemed to me as if he were paying Mistress Lynch no little court, and they appeared to take pleasure in each other’s society.

But when I thought of the messenger he had sent to Carrickahooley, and of his service, though unavailing, to us before, I conceived that he was playing a double part, holding that love and war, perhaps, justified any means so long as the end were gained. And, for that matter, I, the false friar, was no better than a cheat myself.

I was determined to get speech with him without further delay—the feeling of impatience was so strong upon me—and, as I was casting about in what way I should accomplish this, Sabina Lynch tossed me a piece of silver as an alms, while I was yet three ells’ length from the horses.

“Take that for the poor, father,” cried she merrily.

It happened that the coin after it had struck the ground, rolled in front of Richard Burke’s horse, and I rushed forward to pick it up before it was trampled into the dust. I also trusted that under cover of this action I should be able to say a few words which would make me known to him, without being perceived by his companion.

As I stepped into the street, he was compelled to rein in his horse, and then to pass by the side of me.

“What a greedy, clumsy friar he is!” laughed Sabina Lynch.

In truth, I was as clumsy as clumsy could be, for as I drew myself up and tried to stand erect I hit my shoulder against Richard Burke’s foot, whereupon he stopped.

“Father,” said he, good-humouredly, “have you no care for yourself? Then, prithee, have a care for me.”

And he smiled; but when he had looked into my face, and had met my eyes, I saw the blood suddenly leave his cheeks, and knew that he had penetrated my disguise.

He gave so great a start that his horse leaped up under him, and, as it did so, the friar’s cowl, which covered my head and partially hid my face, was thrown back, and there stood I, Ruari Macdonald, disclosed and discovered, before Sabina Lynch.

She gazed from the one to the other of us in silence, then, striking her horse violently, galloped off, exclaiming: “Treason, treason!”

Richard Burke was in a maze.

“Ruari!” he gasped, and could say no more.

“I have come to Galway,” said I quickly, “that I might have knowledge of the Governor’s intentions against us. This is no place for us now,” cried I, to rouse him, for he was like one that dreamed, “come, come with me before the hue and cry is raised.”

And I seized the bridle of his horse and turned its head, and led it towards the Little Gate.

“Not that way,” said he wildly. “I have just come from thence.”

Then he gathered himself and his wits together.

“The Great Gate is best. Ay, this is no place now for me any more than it is for you. Well said you that. We will go together; but let us not go too swiftly, otherwise the watch, suspecting something is wrong, will not let us pass. We have a few minutes to spare before the gates can be closed. Do you walk a little way behind me.”

I had replaced the cowl about my head, and, hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry at what had fallen out, marched at a rapid pace after him up the street of the Great Gate.

Richard Burke was well known to the watch, and no objection was made to our passing out. As long as we were within sight of the walls we went at a walk, but when a turn of the road had hid them from us, I grasped the saddle-cloth and ran beside the horse, which its rider now urged along at the top of its speed.

We had gone about two miles, and had gained an eminence partly sheltered by trees, when, looking back, we saw the figures of horsemen spurring after us out of the city. On we sped again, until I could run no more. Then I besought Burke to leave me as I was spent and blown. But this he would not hearken to at first.

“It will be a strange thing,” said I, “if I cannot conceal myself somewhere in the trees and bushes, or among the rocks, for the night. In the morning I will make my way back to the galley.”

And I persuaded him to ride on towards his own territory, but not before he had told me that Sir Nicholas had drawn a force of a hundred men from Athlone, everyone of whom was a trained and hardened soldier, and with these, his own men, and the gallowglasses of Sir Morrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, who had promised to support him, was about to set out at once for our overthrow.

The Governor was terribly enraged against us, and in his anger at the destruction of the wine fleet had sworn he would make an end of us all. His wrath burned not only against Grace O’Malley, but against many others of the Irish, and there had been such a killing and a hanging of those who were thought hostile to the government as had never before been seen or heard of in Galway.

Richard Burke had only escaped because of his friendship with the Mayor and his daughter Sabina Lynch, but his every act was spied upon.

“I remained in the city for no other reason,” he declared, “than to see if I could not afford some help to you in one way or another.”

As he departed, he said, as he wrung my hand, “I shall cast in my lot with yours, and, if it can be done in the time left to us, I shall bring all the Burkes of Mayo to your assistance. Should you reach Carrickahooley first, tell your mistress that.”

Then he swung himself again into the saddle, and was gone.

He was hardly out of sight, when I heard the sound of hoofs beating on the road, and creeping in through the bushes that lined a small stream by the wayside I laid me down to rest, and soon I was listening to the voices of the men in pursuit of us as they drew near. They made no pause, but swept on past the spot where I lay.

I was about to emerge from my place of concealment, when again the tramp of horses fell upon my ear, and, looking out, I saw Sir Nicholas and several of his officers come riding slowly along. They stopped quite close to me, and, dismounting, made a survey of the land all around, but, my star favouring me, they moved to the further side of the stream.

“Let the camp be pitched here,” said Sir Nicholas, “and do you remain until the men come up.”

I guessed that he had been told of my presence in Galway, and had immediately ordered the soldiers to set out to catch me so that we should have no advantage from our being warned of his purpose.

My position was now one of extreme peril; I was cut off from returning to my galley; and I could see nothing for it but to remain where I was until the soldiers had gone on on their journey, unless I took the chances of the darkness.

There I lay, and, as the night fell, the men of Sir Nicholas marched up and lit their watch-fires not more than a stone’s throw from where I hid. For hours, not daring to move, I heard them singing and talking and jesting with each other. When, at length, silence came upon the sleeping camp, I stole as softly as I could out of the bushes, and moving on, like a cat, so that each step of mine was no more noticed than a puff of wind, I managed to gain the road that leads past Oorid and Sindilla at the foot of the mountains. I walked fast, and sometimes ran, until the day broke, when I turned aside, and, having sought for and found a dry cave on the side of a hill, fell down utterly exhausted, and ere long was in a deep slumber.

I was awakened many hours later, for it was dark again, by a strange sort of cheeping noise at my very ears.

I started up, and the noise ceased; I lay down, and the sound began once more. As I listened, my face to the rocky floor of the cavern, I fancied I could distinguish words, but, as it were, coming from a great way off.

Now, thoroughly aroused, I listened yet more earnestly, and I made out that there were two or three voices, and that the sound of them was not coming from the inside of the cave, nor yet from the outside, but seemed to issue, like a thin whistle, through the rock itself.

I moved stealthily towards the far end, and, lying down again prone, applied my ear to the ground. I now heard quite distinctly, the words being audible, though faint, and with an extraordinary effect of still coming from an immense distance.

I then understood I was in one of the chambers of the Whispering Rocks as they are called, for a wonder of nature has so constructed them that it is possible to hear through them, when all around is still, whatever is said within these caverns. And how this miracle comes to pass I know not, but I had often heard of it; otherwise I might have thought that these sounds came from the spirits of the mountain, and so might not have discovered the vile plot that had been hatched for our ruin.

For, as the voices grew more and more clear, I found myself listening to the story of how these men who were speaking were to present themselves at the castle of Carrickahooley in advance of the English army, and, having gained admittance on the plea that they were fleeing to Grace O’Malley for protection, were treacherously to betray her and the castle into the hands of the Governor by secretly opening the gate as soon as the attack began.

I gripped my dagger in impotent rage, for, placed as I was, I could do nothing. After a time the voices ceased, and, moving noiselessly to the mouth of the cave, I saw that the night was clear and starry, and, feeling refreshed by my long repose, I made on towards Ballanahinch, which I reached in the morning, and where I obtained milk and the flesh of a kid from the wife of one of the kernes, who took me for a wandering priest, and gladly supplied my wants.

For two days and the greater part of two nights I toiled over the mountains and through the forests, seeing no indication of the English, until I came to the fiord of the Killery, where some of our own people dwelt under Muilrea. From thence they brought me round to Clew Bay in a fishing boat, and I was back again at Carrickahooley, more dead than alive from the fatigues I had undergone, inured though I was to all kinds of hardness.

CHAPTER XIII.
A SURPRISE.

As I stepped from the boat on to the face of the rock, which forms a natural quay on one side of the small harbour on the sea-front of the castle, both Grace and Eva O’Malley, who had seen me coming across the waters, met me and asked how I fared.

I was not so spent with the travail of my wearisome journey as not to be conscious of a novel sort of shyness on the part of my dear, who seemed rather to hang back behind her foster-sister, and not to be so open and outspoken with me as formerly. With some bitterness of soul I attributed this change of manner to her thoughts being engrossed with de Vilela—so little was I able to read the maid’s mind.

But it was no fitting time for either the softness or the hardness of love, and my first care was to relate all that had chanced since I had seen them last.

Great was their astonishment at the way in which Sabina Lynch came again into the tale of our fortunes, and I could see, from a certain fierceness with which Grace O’Malley alluded to her, that a heavy reckoning was being laid up against her by my mistress. Eva, however, appeared to be more struck by the hopelessness of Sabina Lynch’s affection for Richard Burke, and found it in her heart to pity her.

When I gave Richard Burke’s message to Grace O’Malley, she rejoiced exceedingly thereat, and from that moment—at least, so it seems to me looking backward to those days—she began to esteem him more highly than heretofore, and to cherish some feeling of tenderness for him, her enmity against Sabina Lynch, though she would not acknowledge that there could be any rivalry between them, helping, perhaps, thereto not a little.

And it appeared to me as a thing curious in itself, and not readily explained, except by saying that my mistress was not free from weakness, that she should have shown a compassion, as she had done when she had spoken to me some time before of de Vilela, for the hapless love of a man, and had nothing of the kind for Sabina Lynch.

Whatever were her thoughts on these matters, what she said afforded no indication of them, for, so soon as she had heard that the MacWilliam purposed to bring over from the country of the Lower Burkes, as they were called, to distinguish them from the Burkes of Clanrickarde, his gallowglasses to her aid against the English, she at once proceeded to count up how many swords and spears were at his command. Moreover, she regarded, she said, his rising against the Governor as a splendid and sure sign of what would shortly take place over the whole of Ireland.

Continuing the tale of my adventures, I related the conversation I had overheard in the case of the mysterious Whispering Rocks, and my mistress ordered that when the men, whose council of treachery I had become acquainted with in so strange a way, made their appearance, they should forthwith be admitted into the castle, as if we had had no knowledge of their intended perfidy, and that they should not be dealt with as traitors until she deemed that time was ripe for it.

And now, having been thus forewarned of what was in store for her on the part of Sir Nicholas, Grace O’Malley immediately set about placing the castle in a position of secure defence. To this end, several pieces of the ordnance which had been taken from the captured galleons of the wine fleet, and which had been put on board The Grey Wolf and The Winged Horse, now at Clare Island, were brought across Clew Bay, and mounted on the walls and towers of Carrickahooley, while the gates and the other more vulnerable parts of its fortifications were strengthened. In all these matters we were much assisted by Don Francisco, who had had a large experience of sieges, and was familiar with the onfalls and the outfalls and the other incidents of such warfare. The Spaniard and I therefore were together more than we had ever been before, and towards me he carried himself like the courteous and knightly man he was, while I strove to pattern myself upon him.

That he loved Eva O’Malley I was in no doubt. Indeed, when he assured me, as he frequently did, how glad he was that he had not been able to leave the castle as he had intended doing, and how well pleased he was to have an opportunity of espousing our quarrel with the English, I understood that it was a delight to him to be near her in this our time of peril, for was not that what I also told myself continually?

That he bore a hatred towards England was true, but his love for Eva, as he was to prove, was something far greater than his hatred of the English. Yet already, though I knew it not then, he must have been well aware that she was not for him. But no sign of grief or disappointment did he allow to appear, albeit, always grave, as is the Spanish manner, he seemed still graver before the assault began—and this, when I observed it, I took to mean that he considered our situation was such as called for seriousness.

Whilst our preparations to repel the English were being made, some days elapsed, and, on the fifth of them, Calvagh O’Halloran brought The Cross of Blood into port at Clare Island, where to his great relief, not knowing what had been my fate in Galway, he was told that I was before him at Carrickahooley.

Meanwhile, tidings were being brought us by bands and families of kernes and peasants, fleeing before the enemy, that the English were approaching. And, as they marched northwards through Connaught, the days were red with blood and the nights with fire.

Everywhere their presence was marked by the smoke and flame of homesteads wantonly burned, and by the slaughter of all who fell into their hands, neither the old nor the decrepit, nor the nursing mother, nor the tender maiden, nor the sucking child being left alive!

Among the despairing wretches who flocked to the castle for protection it was impossible to single out the plotters, whose knavery they had themselves unwittingly disclosed in the Whispering Rocks, for everyone apparently was in the same evil case. A close watch, however, was kept on all the men who came in, and who were retained within the walls to help in the defence, while the women and children were conveyed to Clare Island, where they would be in safety.

Don Francisco dropped a half hint that Eva might better be sent to Clare Island until the fortune of battle had declared itself, but I knew that this would seem to her to be of the nature of deserting us at a time of crisis, and so the proposition was carried no further.

And all through the siege she moved a bright, winsome, and always cheerful presence, generally attended by the Wise Man, Teige O’Toole, who constituted himself her body-servant, and who, during this period, uttered no prophecies of evil, but cheered and sustained us with the certainty of victory.

At length, on the tenth day after my return to Carrickahooley, our spies came in from their lairs in the forests and hills with the news that the English army was camped two leagues away, and that it appeared to be the intention of its leaders to spend the night there. The spies described the army as an immense host, there being more than three hundred well-armed soldiers, besides a great swarm of the gallowglasses of Sir Murrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, who himself had accompanied the Governor.

When I inquired eagerly if Sir Nicholas had any ordnance, the spies averred that they had seen none. And, whether the difficulty of dragging heavy pieces through Connaught had been found insurmountable, or, strong in numbers and relying on the terror inspired by the name of the English, he had resolved to dispense with them altogether, I knew not; but to my mind the absence of these engines of war more than made up for his superiority over us in men.

Doubtless, his action in this respect was founded on the confidence he entertained that we were about to be betrayed to him by the traitors within the castle itself, nor could he dream that the galleries of the Whispering Rocks had given up his secrets to me.

All that night the guard, of which I was in command, stood to their arms upon the battlements; but there was not a sound save such as ever comes from the sleeping earth or the never-sleeping sea. The morning dawned still and fair, and the sun rose out of the world, tinting with a fresh bloom the slopes of the distant hills now purpling with the bursting heather, and changing the thin, vaporous mist that lay over land and water below them, into one great gleaming sheen of silver.

All that night, too, our spies lay concealed in the woods, and noted every movement within the English camp; and now, as the day advanced, they came in to report that Sir Nicholas was marching down to the seashore. By noon he had established himself in and about the Abbey of Burrishoole, no regard being had to the sacredness of the building. And here he halted for the rest of the day, probably being greatly surprised that we had not so far offered any resistance to his approach.

Now this ancient religious house stands on a rocky height looking across the small bay that is next to that on the edge of which the castle is built, and therefore the distance between the enemy and ourselves was so inconsiderable that it behoved us to be constantly on the alert.

In the evening, then, when the night-watch was posted on the walls and about the gate, I doubled the number of the guard, choosing such men, and those chiefly from my own crew of The Cross of Blood, as were of proved endurance and courage.

De Vilela had proffered his services, as my second in command, and I had given him charge of a picked company whose station was beside the gate of the drawbridge—that is, the gate on the landward side of Carrickahooley.

Grace O’Malley herself saw that everything was disposed according to her mind before she withdrew to the apartments of the women in the main tower. But well did I know that it was not to sleep that she had gone. She had now attired herself in the mantle, leather-quilted jack, and armour of an Irish gentleman, and her eyes were full of the fierce light of battle; but, deeming it likely to increase the confidence of her people if they saw her retire according to her usual custom, she had left us to ourselves.

I was leaning upon the edge of the parapet, gazing into the deepening darkness of the night, and musing on many things, when one of my officers came up, and informed me that among those who had fled to us for refuge from the English were certain kernes who passionately begged to be permitted to share the night-watch, being consumed with zeal against the enemy.

Knowing the treachery that was contemplated, Grace O’Malley had had all the refugees confined during the previous night within the buildings of the castle, and not suffered to go abroad except in the daytime, and now when I heard the request I felt a certainty that the men who made it could be no other than those whose voices I had overheard, and who were the traitors in the pay of the Governor.

As it was above all things necessary they should have no suspicion that we had any knowledge of their purpose, I gave my officer an answer in an offhand manner, saying I would see these kernes in a little while, and, if I found them likely to make good soldiers, might add them to the guard.

Debating with myself whether I should at once go and tell my mistress what I thought, and also, if I was correct in my surmise, what was the best way in which to proceed, so that the discomfiture of these men might be complete, the night grew apace, and still I had come to no decision.

Suddenly, a slight, scarcely-seen motion—so slight, so scarcely-seen that it might have been caused by the vagrant breath of a passing breeze, only there was a perfect calm—seemed to the keenness of my sea-trained vision to make itself felt by a sort of tremulousness in that breadth of shadow that lay opposite me under the cold gleam of the stars, which I knew to be the side of the hill on which was the abbey.

Sounds, too, there came, but so faintly that I could not disentangle them from the ordinary voices of the night. Then, as I strained my eyes and ears, both sound and motion faded away as in a dream. I waited and watched for some minutes, but all was as silent as death.

Thinking I might have been mistaken, I went down from the battlements, and calling to the officer who had spoken of the wish of the refugee kernes, I bade him bring them to me in a chamber that served as a guard-room.

As I entered, a solitary wolf-call came howling through the air, and then, as the kernes came in, there was a second.

The first wolf-call had startled me, for surely, with such a host near us, it was a strange thing for a wolf to be thus close at hand; but when I heard the second one there was no doubt left in my mind. These calls were no other than the calls of human wolves signalling each other.

So, bidding the men to be kept in the guard-room till I returned, I went to the gate, and told de Vilela that I conjectured the enemy was stealing upon us in the darkness to take us by surprise, expecting that their allies within our walls would have so contrived as to make the way easy for them, and I said I thought I could now put my hand on these very men.

When I saw the kernes again, they affirmed that they were three men of the O’Flahertys of Ballanahinch, between whom and the O’Malleys there was a friendship of long-standing. Now, between these O’Flahertys and the O’Flahertys of Aughnanure there was a desperate family feud, and their tale was not lacking in plausibleness. They appeared to be very eager to be employed against the enemy, and implored to be sent to help to guard the gate, which was the weakest part of our defences.

I replied that it was for me, and not for them, to say where they should be put, but that their prayer would be granted. As for the gate being the weakest part of our defences, how could they say that? Whereupon they were silent. However, I had now determined what I was to do, so I bade them begone to the company of de Vilela, who had no difficulty in understanding that they were the knaves of whom I had spoken to him.

A short time afterwards I saw the Spaniard, and communicated to him my plan, which was that he was to appear to give the kernes every opportunity of carrying out their designs, but, without seeming to do so, was not to lose sight of them for one moment, and that thus he would probably be in a position to defeat their intent.

To speak the truth, I did not see how I could act in any other manner, yet I was very uneasy, and, as the event showed, not without reason.

For I had been no more than back again at my place in the black corner of the parapet, when I heard a loud shouting at that angle of the wall next the sea, and the sound of blows. Running thither, I saw the dark forms of men climbing from ladders to the top of the wall, and the pale glitter of steel striking steel.

In an instant the whole castle rang with the cries of the alarmed guard, as they hurried from all sides to the point of attack, and torches blazed out from the tower. The glare from these lights fell weirdly on the forms of our people as they pressed on to mount the parapet, yelling with lusty throats the war-cry of the O’Malleys. I stopped and looked down on them, and as the dancing torches flew their flags of red and orange flame, now this way, now that, I noticed among the crowd the faces of two of the kernes whom I had sent to de Vilela.

To make certain I looked again. There assuredly they were, pushing on, and pointing to the place of assault, and shouting more loudly even than their neighbours. I asked myself why they had left the guard at the gate, and at once concluded that they must have slipped away in the confusion, for de Vilela was not likely to have given them permission.

What was their object?

And where was the third man? I could only see two.

There they were—the two whom I now plainly discovered stepping forward, apparently as keen for the fight as any of ourselves, making straight for the parapet, and helping to draw others along with them away from the gate of the drawbridge.