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.