It was a strange moment.

There were the representatives of the President of Munster, two of the justices from Limerick—these stood for the Queen.

There were Grace O’Malley, her gentlemen, and myself—proclaimed rebels.

There were Desmond and his Geraldines.

And now here were de Vilela and this stranger from Spain! And we were all met together in the great hall of the castle of Askeaton.

A strange moment, and a strange meeting!

De Vilela advanced towards Desmond, and, with that grace of manner which this man possessed in greater perfection than any other I have ever seen, presented the new comer to the Earl. I leant forward to catch the name. It was the family name of the famous Lieutenant of Santa Cruz, the still more celebrated Grand Admiral of Spain. A brother or a cousin of Martinez, I said to myself, as the two men bowed low before Desmond.

“Will your lordship permit?” said de Vilela. “Don Juan de Ricaldo, my friend and comrade!”

And the Earl extended his hand to Don Juan.

“You are welcome, seÑor,” said Desmond, but without much warmth, for was he not, as it were, between the devil and the deep sea, with England on the one side and Spain on the other?

Then he conversed with the two Spaniards in a low tone of voice, so that I could hear but imperfectly what was said, but it was impossible not to see that he was in great perplexity. The two messengers of the President looked darkly on, their countenances knit into scowls, while Desmond shot a curious glance at them now and again.

After a few minutes spent in this fashion, Don Juan, excusing himself on the score of being weary in the extreme from his journey, retired from the hall along with de Vilela. When they had withdrawn there was a constraint upon us all, no one caring to speak his thoughts, for what could we say that would not have been noted by those two sharp-eared gentlemen from Limerick?

For myself I was fair bewildered; but the one thing that bulked out most largely in my mind was the fact that now there must be an end of our uncertainty, as the Spaniards had come into the country, as I supposed, and the time for deeds, not words, was upon us.

Nor was our sitting in the hall prolonged that evening, for each one who was in authority preferred to say nothing, and while the others talked together in little knots, it was in whispers, and all were glad when the Earl gave the signal for retiring.

The same night I was awoke from a sound sleep by de Vilela, who bade me dress and go with him. We went into a room high up in the tower, and there were my mistress, Desmond, and de Ricaldo waiting for us.

“Ruari,” said Grace O’Malley, her face bright with excitement, “this gentleman is Don Juan de Ricaldo”—we saluted each other—”and he is the bearer of news of the highest importance, which concerns us most nearly.”

Don Juan bowed again.

“The ships of the King of Spain have arrived?” I asked, as my mistress paused.

“One ship has come,” said she, “that of which Don Juan is the commander, and others are on the way. They set out at the same time, but a storm separated them; he has reached Ireland first, but the rest cannot be far off.”

“’Tis the best of good news,” cried I. “Would to God they were all beside our galleys on the Shannon!”

“Don de Ricaldo’s ship lies off Dingle, on the coast of Kerry,” said my mistress, smiling at my sally, “and the others must be guided to the same harbour. They may have already cast anchor elsewhere, or they may still be at sea. But I wish you to take The Cross of Blood and search for them. Both of these gentlemen,” she nodded to the two Spaniards, “will accompany you.”

“And then?” inquired I.

“You will then render them,” said she, “any help they may require, as, for instance, choosing the most suitable place for making a landing, or whatever it may be.”

“And then?” asked I again.

“Return here,” said she.

“May I ask,” said I, “if any plans have been formed.”

“They will depend,” said Desmond, quickly “on the number of the Spanish soldiers—and on other things,” he added, more slowly.

“You will go at once, Ruari?” asked Grace O’Malley, but her question was a command.

“At once,” I agreed; then a thought came to me. “Richard Burke should be told of this,” said I.

“All Ireland will have heard the news within a week,” said Desmond impatiently, “and the MacWilliam among the rest.”

This was true enough, but I made sure that he knew, for I sent a trusty man to his camp who told him what had taken place. I did this later that night.

As I was taking my leave I asked my mistress if she were satisfied that all was going well, and she replied that she was.

“You will stay on here till I return?” asked I.

“Surely!” It was Desmond who spoke.

I had half a mind to suggest to her that it might be better for her to go back to her own galley, but it seemed like a presumption on my part, and I held my peace.

But once we were on board The Cross of Blood, swinging down the stream in the hours of the morning, I wished that I had been bolder.

Yet, what was there to fear? So I repeated to myself, but the fear came again and again. For there were Grace O’Malley and Eva in Desmond’s power, the guard they had with them being of the slenderest now that Richard Burke was out of Askeaton with his gallowglasses, and I myself, with de Vilela and some of our choicest men, going further away with every mile.

Was she justified in placing herself so entirely in the hands of the Earl? There was the rub. My mistress, however, had declared that she was well pleased with the way in which our affairs were moving, and with that assurance I had perforce to be content. And I verily believe she had no doubt but that she could do with Desmond as she chose.

I had been ordered to keep a look-out for the Spanish ships, and I put in at various bays and havens where I thought it might be possible that they had anchored, but I reached Dingle without having seen anything of them. And I well remember that it was towards evening, after we had borne the blaze of the July sun all day, that we came up alongside of Don Juan de Ricaldo’s vessel, and de Vilela and myself went on board of her with her captain.

Next morning I put out to sea again, and, sailing slowly down the coast for perhaps a couple of hours, fell in with the rest of the Spanish ships, tacking to the north-westward.

Having made signs that I wished to speak to them, they lay to. As I approached I saw a man waving his hand to me from the ship that was nearest us, and him I afterwards knew to be Sir James Fitzmaurice, a relative of the Earl of Desmond, and having the reputation of being a skilful soldier. He had already fought against the English in Ireland, but had been beaten by them, and compelled to sue for peace.

Beside him there stood three or four priests, and, a little way off, a group of men wearing armour, their swords shining brightly in their hands. There was also a goodly muster of footmen, having arquebuses, spears and other weapons. And my heart warmed when I beheld this array.

Quitting my galley, I went on board of the ship, and presently had told Fitzmaurice, who evidently was the leader of the expedition, who I was, and for what purpose I was come. I also delivered to him letters which de Vilela and de Ricaldo had given me for him. Having read these over very carefully, he began to ply me eagerly with many questions.

Was Desmond well? What preparations had he made to rise against the English? What was the general state of the country? Did its princes and chiefs know that he was coming, and were they ready to drive the English into the sea? Were the English in force, and where lay their army? Who was there now at Limerick?

All these and many other things did he inquire of me, listening to my replies with the closest attention, comparing what I said with what was written in the letters I had brought, and making a commentary of his own. But I soon found out that he was in reality as well informed as I was.

Here was one, I said to myself, who was a very different man from Desmond. The way he bore himself was so instinct with firmness, courage and resolution that he at once instilled a feeling of confidence in all who met him. Then the questions he had addressed to me impressed me as being just such questions as a soldier and a man of action would ask. But what struck me most was that when he spoke of Desmond, while he said not a word in his dispraise, he was apparently not certain of him. And this was so much in my own manner of thinking of the Earl that my fear of him was intensified.

It was now my turn to ask questions, and I inquired how many men Fitzmaurice had with him, and if these were all, or were we to look for more?

“There are four hundred of us—Spaniards, Italians, Irish, and English; these English,” he added, “are not of the Queen’s religion. And as to what we may expect, Father Sanders will tell you more,” and he turned to one of the priests standing near. “Father,” said he to the priest, “this is Ruari Macdonald, foster-brother of Grace O’Malley of Erris and the Isles of Connaught.”

“You have just come from Desmond,” said Sanders; “I have heard something of what you have been saying, and your mistress is with us.”

“Yes,” I replied, “Grace O’Malley is at Askeaton.”

“She is firm in the cause?”

“She, and all of us, are proclaimed rebels,” cried I, “so you may judge for yourself.”

Then he exchanged glances with Fitzmaurice, and continued, “And Desmond? what of him?”

Thereupon I gave them an account of what had occurred at Askeaton since our arrival there.

“I do not see,” said Sanders, when I had done, “how the Earl could have acted otherwise. As he said, he had to wait till the time was ripe. But now, the time is ripe, and the Desmond war-cry will soon resound on every side!” And the priest looked fixedly at Fitzmaurice, who, however, remained silent.

Sanders then began speaking again, and told me how that the Pope had blessed the expedition, and had given both men and money, and would send more ere long. Next he took me to see a splendid banner, all blue and gold, with the figure of our Lord upon it, which he had received from Rome.

“This will march with our hosts,” cried he, “and lead us on to victory!”

Now, with the priests and the mysteries of religion I have never had much to do, and while the spirit of the man was in itself a beautiful thing, and the banner, too, a thing beautiful to behold, yet I could not forbear from thinking that fighting men were what we most stood in need of, and that four hundred soldiers, however brave they were, even added to our own, were far from being sufficient to drive the English out of Ireland. For I knew the English by this time, and that they were no mean foes.

And when I said what was in my mind to Fitzmaurice, who I was sure would agree with me, he replied that I must remember that the force he had with him was but the advance guard of a great army, which, even at that very instant, might be already on its way to our coasts. So I took fresh courage, and hoped for the best.

After we had had a long conversation I said that my present business was to see his ships safe into the harbour of Dingle, or into any other haven which might be selected in Kerry, and as de Ricaldo’s vessel was not at Dingle, I purposed, if it was agreeable to him, to go on ahead in my galley and show him the way, as it were, to the place. To this he assented, and I went back to The Cross of Blood. We made Dingle soon thereafter, and I could see that Fitzmaurice and Sanders immediately got ready to land.

There had already gathered upon the shore a crowd of the Irish belonging to that part of Kerry. Partly, I imagine, to impress them, and partly because of the nature of the occasion itself, Fitzmaurice and Sanders had deemed that their landing afforded a fit opportunity for no little display. They had therefore arranged a sort of procession, and I watched it, as it moved along, with keen interest; nor was I cold and stolid myself at the sight of the joy of the country people, who received it on shore with loud shoutings and a tumult of cheers.

Two friars, chanting a psalm, stepped first on shore; behind them came a bishop, clad in the robes of his sacred office, with a mitre on his head and a pastoral staff in his left hand. His right hand was raised solemnly invoking a blessing on the land, and his lips moved as if in prayer, while the Irish knelt upon the shore as his feet touched the ground.

Then came Father Sanders, the banner which the Pope had consecrated waving above him, and, immediately after him, Fitzmaurice and those of knightly rank—gallant, mailed, long-sworded gentlemen every one! And now the foot-soldiers, each in a company under its own captain, streamed from the ships—making altogether a brave show.

As soon as a camping place for the night had been chosen, Fitzmaurice appeared at the side of my galley, and, having come on board, said that the harbour of Dingle from its shape—the mouth of the bay being narrow—was one from which it would be difficult to escape in an extremity, and asked me to suggest another.

Whereupon I replied that the haven of Smerwick, four miles to the north across the tongue of land where we now were, would be more to his mind. And thither the next day Fitzmaurice marched his troops; the ships were brought round, and, all his stores having been fetched ashore, he at once set his men to work, making a trench and fortifying the place.

As I had now accomplished the mission my mistress had entrusted me with, I set about preparing to return to Askeaton. But Fitzmaurice prevailed upon me to stay two or three days longer, telling me he had sent horsemen to Desmond with a letter, in which he had urged his kinsman to declare war against the Queen without delay, and saying the reply might be of such a character as to change my plans. He hoped the answer would be speedy, and in any case, he said, it was well that I should know exactly what the Earl wrote.

But several days passed, and still no word came from Desmond.

In the meantime, Sir John, a brother of the Earl, arrived at Smerwick. This man, with whom a hatred of the English was the chief passion of his life, greatly lamented the supineness of his brother, but he had no knowledge of the Earl’s movements. There was no mistaking that Sir John was sincere, and when he asked Fitzmaurice, de Vilela, and myself to accompany him on his return to his castle of Tralee, where, he said, our reception would give full proof of his devotion to the cause, I for one gladly assented.

We took with us a considerable number of men, so as to guard against a surprise, but we reached Tralee without adventure of any sort.

Before we had gained the castle itself, however, we were met by one of Sir John’s gallowglasses, who warned him that two officers of the English had arrived there that very day, and that, as one of them was well known to Sir John, they had been allowed to enter within its walls without question.

Hastily calling a halt, we consulted together what was the wisest course to pursue. Sir John was for our going on, but Fitzmaurice thought it would be more prudent for Sir John to ride forward with his own attendants, and then, when night had fallen, we might secretly enter the castle.

“Who are the Englishmen?” asked I, thinking that they might be known to me.

“One is Carter, the Marshal of Munster,” replied Sir John, “and the other is Davell, a captain in the garrison at Limerick.”

I was acquainted with neither, but I remembered that I had heard of Davell, and what it was, and I looked steadily at Sir John.

“Sir John,” said I, “the name of Davell is not unfamiliar to me, and, if my memory serve me aright, you must know him well.”

“Yes,” said he shortly; “he once stood between me and death in a former war. But what of that,” added he grimly, “as things are now?”

I held my peace, whereupon he exclaimed passionately: “I will suffer nothing to stand between me and the deliverance of Ireland! Let us proceed.”

Fitzmaurice, however, would not agree to this; so Sir John went on, as had been suggested, and we withdrew into the forest not far from the castle. But about midnight Sir John sent to say that the Englishmen had gone to bed, and that, as all was now quiet, he invited us to come. Nor did we refuse.

When we had entered within the silent castle, Sir John met us, and led us, who were leaders, into the hall, but our men lay down in the courtyard. When wine and meat had been put before us, the waiting-men going about on tiptoe, Fitzmaurice inquired of Sir John if we might be told on what business it was that Carter and Davell had come to Tralee.

“As spies. What else?” said Sir John. “The tidings of your landing have reached the ears of the President, and they have ventured hither for more news. They tell me they wish to see for themselves what is going on.”

“What say they of Desmond?” I asked.

“They say—what I cannot believe,” cried he, forgetting to whisper, as we had been doing; “they say that Desmond himself sent a letter to the President—a letter he had received from you,” and here he glanced at Fitzmaurice—”and that he has offered to drive the Spaniards back to their ships.”

We were all silent. As for me, my mind was as a blank, while my heart beat so furiously that it was like to rend my body.

“I will never believe it,” said Sir John. “’Tis nothing but a base lie!”

In the anguish of my spirit I groaned aloud, so that the rest looked curiously at me.

“You believe it!” slowly said Fitzmaurice; “and, by the Mass! so do I.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Sir John. “Not that—not that!”

Then he sprang from his place, and, even in the dim light of the candles, I could not but see how ghastly was his face.

“Not that—not that!” he cried again, then with swift steps turned and left us.

I heard the sound of his feet as he went up the stair to the sleeping-rooms above; presently the noise ceased, but in another moment the stillness was rent by a piercing cry, quickly followed by another and another.

We gazed at each other fearfully, asking mutely what this might portend, when Sir John returned to the hall, his mantle and his hands stained with blood.

“Let this,” cried he in wild accents, and he shivered as the blood dripped from him, “let this be a pledge of the faithfulness of the Desmonds to you and to the cause!”

“What have you done?” asked Fitzmaurice.

“There are no English spies alive now in Tralee,” said he more calmly, “to carry tales to Limerick.”

He had stabbed to death Carter and Davell, as they lay asleep, with his own dagger.

And one of them had saved his life, and both had counted themselves his friends!

I felt myself growing sick with horror of the man and his deed. To slay men in a fight was one thing, but to kill sleeping men under one’s own roof was another and a very different thing.

And with the horror there came a nameless fear.