Chiefly by reason of the tempestuous weather, my journey to Askeaton and back again had occupied not far short of a month,—which was a much longer time than had been reckoned upon. On my arrival at Carrickahooley my mistress was naturally very impatient to hear what was the response of the Earl of Desmond to her message, and also what my opinion of that noble was.

First of all I delivered to her the letter and the presents he had sent. When she had read his letter she handed it to me, and there was, I could see, a great light of happiness on her face. But when I had glanced over the missive, I was not so satisfied with its contents as she plainly was.

The letter was not a long one, and, in brief, was nothing more or less than an invitation from Desmond, asking my mistress to go on a visit to him at Askeaton, where his countess would give her a warm welcome, so soon as spring was come, or as early as would be convenient for her.

With regard to any rising against the Queen he said not a word, but intimated that he was very desirous of meeting one of whom he had heard so much, and of discussing with her such matters as affected their mutual interests.

This last phrase Grace O’Malley took as a hint that the Earl, not caring to commit himself to anything definite on paper, was of the same mind as herself, for they had no interests in common save such as lay in the expulsion of the English from the island.

Now the message my mistress had sent him was frank and open, so that there could not be two opinions as to its import. But these words of his, it seemed to me, partook in no degree of the same character. They might mean much or little or even nothing at all, so vague were they.

If I had not seen the Earl my view might have been different, but in the cloudiness of his letter I again saw his weakness and want of purpose. I did not, I could not, suspect him of anything worse. However, Grace O’Malley, although I expressed to her what I felt about Desmond, was assured that he could only mean one thing, and that was that he shared in her ideas, and would be ready to give such effect to them as he could.

“Yes,” said she, “Garrett Desmond is the man.”

And she was the more certain of this when I went on to tell her that I had heard a great deal at Askeaton, and that with hardly a pretence of secrecy, of the army which the King of Spain was to send in aid of the Irish the following year.

“Do you not see,” said she, “that Desmond must be heart and soul in the business, or else he would have suffered none of this talk of Philip of Spain?”

I had, indeed, made a similar reflection when at Desmond’s castle, but what I distrusted was the character and strength of the man himself. But my mistress was my mistress, so I said no more then of the Earl.

I had had no small disputings with myself as to whether I should tell Grace O’Malley about what had occurred with respect to Sabina Lynch or not. I could not blame myself, albeit these very searchings of my spirit did show some doubt if I had done what was best, and tell her I did.

Whereupon for a minute she fell into a fit of silent rage, which, however, presently passed away—the only thing she said being the question, sharply asked—

“Would you have acted in that way, Ruari, if it had been a man?”

And the sting of the taunt, for such I felt it to be, lay perhaps in its truth. Howbeit, neither of us ever referred, in speaking to each other, to the matter again.

Richard Burke and his followers had left the castle, and had gone back to their own territory. He had made me the confidant of his hopes and fears with regard to his love for Grace O’Malley, and I desired greatly to know how he had sped in his wooing.

It was not, however, till long afterwards that I discovered he had pressed his suit, and that not altogether without success, but that she would give him no definite promise so long as her affairs were in so unstable a condition.

I did not know of any man in all the world whom I esteemed a fit mate for her, but the MacWilliam had many things in his favour, not the least being that he was a valiant soldier. That he had ranged himself on her side in her quarrel with the Governor also had its weight with her. I think, however, that at this time he had a very small share in her thoughts, as she was entirely wrapped up in the Earl of Desmond, whom she looked upon as the Hope of Ireland, and in the furtherance of her plans.

De Vilela was still at Carrickahooley, and had so far got healed of his wounds that he was able to be about for an hour or two each day. He greeted me with his never-failing courtesy, and after I had seen more of him I noticed that the air of melancholy gravity he had borne during the siege had in nowise changed, unless it were by being even deeper than before.

The sufferings he had undergone and the feebleness he still endured might easily have accounted for this. But I was persuaded that there was another reason, although it took me some time to arrive at this conclusion.

What put me in the way of it was that I caught him, when he believed himself free from observation, looking at me, not once, nor twice, but often, with a wistful intentness, as if he were trying to read my very thoughts, and so to pierce to the innermost soul of me. Why was this? Why was he thus weighing me as it were in the balance?

Eva was not so much with him now that he was regaining his strength, and, whether he was with her or not, he had not the look of a happy lover, that look which, me thinks, would be present notwithstanding pain and the shadow of death.

And I put the two things together, though not hastily, for I feared nothing so much as to be wrong in this, and guessed that he had lost all hope of her for himself, and was asking himself whether, if so be she loved me, I was in any way worthy of her. But I think the chief care of this very noble gentleman of Spain was not pity for himself, nor my worthiness or unworthiness—which is the truer word, but that this woman whom he loved should have her heart’s desire, on whomsoever that desire might fall, and at whatsoever cost to himself.

I did not perceive this in one day, or for many, and, pursuing the course I had before determined on, abode firm in my resolve not to appear even to come between him and Eva O’Malley.

The winter wore on to the day of the Birth of Christ, and all was quiet and peaceful in Connaught.

Hardly, however, did the new year open—it was that year of grace, 1579—when messengers from various chiefs in the north-west of Ireland began coming to and going away from Carrickahooley.

Sometimes their business was with my mistress, but still more frequently was it with de Vilela, for it had gone abroad that he was with us, and that he was in the confidence of the King of Spain, from whom he had a mission to the Irish. Among these were some of the MacSweenys of Tir-Connall, who spoke for themselves and also for their prince, O’Donnell, whose wife was a Macdonald, and a kinswoman of my own. Many were the plots on foot, my mistress striving to bring about a great confederacy of the north.

Sir Nicholas Malby, after he had repulsed the Burkes of Clanrickarde and driven them back to their mountains, lay at Galway darkly meditating schemes of vengeance. But, for the present, with the land all about him in a ferment, he did nothing but bide his time.

Indeed, by the coming of spring, the whole island was stirring with the fever of war, some looking to Spain, and some to Desmond, so that the commanders of the English, from the Lord Deputy at Dublin to the poorest of his captains, were in sore trouble and disquiet.

So passed the winter away.

“Darkness and blood; then a little light,” had been the saying of Teige O’Toole, the Wise Man. Now was the time of the little light of which he had spoken; it was immediately to be followed by the period of which he had said, “blood and darkness, then again light, but darkness were better.”

It was in April, then, of this year of fate that de Vilela, having perfectly recovered of his wounds, Grace O’Malley bade me get The Cross of Blood in readiness to convey him to Askeaton.

De Vilela was anxious to be gone, having trespassed upon our hospitality, as he said, beyond all measure. And he was the more eager as now he knew for certain that Eva had nothing stronger than a friendship for him. He had not asked her, I imagine, so sure was he that she did not love him, and it was like the man, that, knowing this, he would not vex her even with words.

At the last moment, and unexpectedly, my mistress determined to sail with us, and Eva O’Malley also came, Tibbot being left in charge at Clare Island and Carrickahooley.

With fair winds, and hopes as fair, did we leave Clare Bay behind us, and for two days all went well. On the third day of the voyage, the wind having changed, the watch descried a ship coming up against the line of the sky, and when we had observed her for a short time we saw that she was making towards us. Being much higher out of the water than the galley, she had no doubt seen us first.

We edged in closer to the land, which loomed up some miles away on our left; whereupon she shifted her course as if to cut us off. As she came within nearer view she appeared to be a great ship, carrying many pieces of cannon, and flying the English flag. The morning sun fell upon her, and disclosed her deck covered with men whose armour and weapons sparkled in the light.

It was abundantly evident that she was a ship-of-war of the English, and well prepared in every respect to attack and overwhelm us. Both as regarded her ordnance and the numbers of her crew, that she was vastly superior to us was plain. Should she get the range of us I made no doubt that we should be quickly knocked to pieces.

On the high seas, a galley like The Cross of Blood could not be opposed to such a ship except with the one result, and that the worst. Our case was little short of desperate, but I did not lose heart.

Nor did my mistress give up hope. She and I held a hurried consultation with Calvagh O’Halloran, and determined that we should first try to escape by rowing. There was the land before us, and a rocky cape jutting from it held out, as it were, a friendly beckoning hand.

Once we had made it, and were safely round it, we would be in a shallow bay, into which flowed a river—up which the galley might go, but not so large a ship as the Englishman. We therefore bent our whole energies to this end, but all in vain. It became apparent before we were half-way to the shore that we were completely outsailed, and were at the mercy of the enemy.

When I had fully grasped the extreme peril in which we were, and reflected that my whole world was on board this galley, to say nothing of the fact that every timber of it was dear to me, my heart well-nigh fainted within me. Here was that great woman whom I served; here also the woman whom I loved.

Was it to this destiny they had been born? Notwithstanding our danger, I could not believe it.

What was the worst that the spite of fortune could wreak upon us?

Either The Cross of Blood would be sunk by the enemy’s fire, and we would perish in the sea, or she would be captured, many of us being killed in the struggle, and the rest taken—what would be their fate?

But there was no need to ask that; for I was well assured that the people of the English ship knew who we were, or, at least, whose galley it was, for who in Ireland had such a vessel as The Cross of Blood, except Grace O’Malley?

Such were my thoughts when my mistress spoke in my ear, and said that as it was impossible to escape from the Englishman we must fight him.

“With all my heart,” cried I; “but how?”

Then she told me what to do.

I went forward to Calvagh, and bade him order his oarsmen to row with all their might until I gave a signal; when it was given they were to get their arms ready, but without making a noise or leaving their benches, and having their oars resting on the water.

The Cross of Blood raced on, but the English ship went faster, until a shotted gun fired across our bows made us well aware of what we had known sufficiently already—that we must be sunk, or give ourselves up, or, at least, appear to do so.

Calvagh looked at me, but I gave no sign. Grace O’Malley changed the galley’s course, so that we gained a little by it; and on we plunged again, making for the open sea. But the advantage we had thus obtained was of no real value to us, and the Englishman, with his square bulging sails swelling in the breeze, was quickly at our heels.

And now a second and, as it were, more peremptory message of iron bade us throw up the game and lie to. The great shot fell so close to the poop of the galley, and made so heavy a splash in the water, that the spray from it might almost have fallen on our deck but for the wind. I glanced at my mistress and she nodded.

There was no purpose to be served in rowing any longer, for in another second we might be sent below the waves. Nor did we make any attempt to return the enemy’s fire, and so, perhaps, invite a broadside from him which would probably have settled our affairs for ever.

Calvagh’s eyes were fastened on me, and now I gave him the signal; his voice roared hoarsely through the galley; the oarsmen sat erect on their benches, and the rowing ceased.

Something that was between a sob and a groan came from the lips of our men; a sort of quiver passed over them, as each of them quietly got his sword or battle-axe from its place; and then there was a silence, only broken by the waters as they lapped along our sides and swished under the blades of the oars.

De Vilela, who had gone into his cabin to put on his armour as soon as the chase of us began, now appeared. Approaching my mistress and me, and in accents tremulous as I had never before heard from him, he asked a question of Grace O’Malley.

“SeÑorita,” inquired he, “tell me, you do not intend to give up the galley thus tamely to the English? Surely it were better to die.”

“Better to die,” said she, “yes, by the Cross!” And then she rapidly spoke a few words, which I could see were not displeasing to him. And I like to recall the man, as he stood beside me that day; clad in his suit of mail, with the crest of his house shining on his helmet, his naked sword drawn, its point resting on the deck of the poop; and his eyes bright and steadfast, while a smile was on his lips. And we looked towards the English ship, saw the scowling faces of our foes hanging over her bows, and waited on the will of the God of Battles.

Grace O’Malley in the meantime went down to her cabin to speak words of hope and comfort to Eva. When I thought of my dear, my heart again fainted within me; then it seemed to grow so big and strong, calling, as it were, loudly to me to play the man this day, that I felt there was nothing that was wholly impossible to me!

My mistress now returned to the poop-deck, and taking the helm from the steersman, as we stood close in by the enemy’s vessel, she put it down sharply, so that the galley was thrown into the fore-chains of the Englishman.

“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!” I cried, and quicker than a flash, before the English had got over the suddenness of the movement, our men, with de Vilela and myself at their head, had leaped on board of her.

With thrust of sword and blow of battle-axe we made good our footing on the deck, and for a space the English fell back before us. Their captain, a towering figure in armour, save for his head, on which was a broad cap with a dancing plume of feathers in it, rallied them, and led them on at us, shouting for St. George and England.

They were more in number than ourselves, but despair nerved our arms, so that we withstood them, albeit we were hard pressed, and the fighting was terrible beyond all words. I sought to engage the captain, but de Vilela was before me.

Then there occurred an unexpected and almost unheard-of and incredible thing.

I knew the voice at once, and, turning in the direction from whence it came, and thus being partly off my guard, could not altogether ward off the dart of a sword, so that I was wounded in the throat, and, had it been but a little truer, would have been slain.

Above the clang of meeting weapons and the rattle of armour and the shouts and sobs and the catchings for breath of the foemen, the voice of my mistress was heard crying in the tongue of the Irish:

“Let the O’Malleys divide, and stand on each side of the ship!”

It was a difficult matter in itself to accomplish, and some there were of the Irish who were unable to do so; but such of us who could obeyed her command without pausing to try to understand what she would be at.

Then there came forth a great tongue of fire, a blinding cloud of smoke, and so tremendous a report that the ship was shaken from stem to stern.

And this is what had taken place:

When we had sprung on board of the English ship, Grace O’Malley was left standing at the helm of The Cross of Blood. She had watched the contest, and, fearing that we were overmatched, had cast about for some means of assisting us. Then, taking with her a few of the men whom she had kept in the galley for her own guard, she had climbed up into the forecastle of the enemy, and, as their attention was entirely occupied with us, had, unperceived by them or seen too late, run in board one of the Englishman’s bow-chasers, and had turned it on its owners.

The piece, thus levelled at this terrible short range, swept the deck of its defenders, and among the heaps of the slain and the wounded were several of our own people who had not been able to gain the bulwarks.

I was myself leaning against one of the ship’s beams breathing hard, and clutching with the fingers of my left hand my bleeding throat, while my right still grasped my sword. So dreadful was the sight of the deck that now met my eyes that I could not help closing them, while a shudder shook my whole frame.

But our work was not yet done. For when we essayed to carry the poop we were beaten back in spite of all our endeavours, and what might have been the end I know not if Grace O’Malley had not held possession of that piece of ordnance. A second and a third discharge from it shattered and destroyed the poop, and at length the ship was ours, its whole crew being killed or captured or drowned, for many of the English jumped into the sea and perished.

Having collected her men together, and along with them having brought away the prisoners and what treasure was found on board of The Star of the Sea, which was the name of the ship, she ordered it to be scuttled, and then withdrew to the galley.

But when we came to count up what this battle had cost us, our loss was so great that my mistress deemed it expedient to go no further with her journey at that time, and thus we returned again to Clew Bay, having been absent but a few days. And there was much mourning among us, for many of our people had been slain. De Vilela, however, had come unscathed from the fray, and my own wound was, after all, not much more than a scratch.

But the uncertainty of the issue of our whole conflict with the English had been brought home to me in so decided a manner that for the first time I realised how dark and menacing was the path that lay before our feet.