Once the first shock of this terrible affair was over my thoughts were so many, and withal so dreary, that it was impossible for me to get any sleep in the short hours which yet remained before the day dawned.

I sought and found excuses for Sir John, but the excuses did not wholly satisfy me. For, if against this act of treachery of his, there might and could be set instances as base on the part of the English rulers of Ireland, that made it not the less foul.

He no doubt justified himself in his own sight by believing he had committed his brother, the Earl, irrevocably to the cause, and that now all his hesitation must cease. But would it? I asked myself.

Carter and Davell had declared that Desmond was in communication with the President of Munster; no sooner had I heard this than I felt it must be true. So, too, had said Fitzmaurice. And if it were, in what position, then, was Grace O’Malley?

After all, was it true?

Sir John had denied it; but had it not been the very fear that it was true, which had driven him as by a sort of frenzy into this dark and dreadful act of slaying his defenceless guests?

And if Desmond were a traitor, where and in what case was my mistress?

And what of Eva?

One thing was clear, and that was that Tralee was no place for me. I now regretted deeply that I had not returned to Askeaton at once after the harbour of Smerwick had been chosen by the Spaniards, and determined to get back to The Cross of Blood and to set out for the stronghold of Desmond immediately, for it was there that I should be.

With the first blush of day I roused up my own men, and bade them be ready to march. As I was standing among them in the yard, both Fitzmaurice and de Vilela approached, and beckoned to me to join them. As I came up, a dozen horsemen or more swept past us, and fled across the bridge.

“There goes the rising of Munster,” cried Fitzmaurice joyfully, nodding towards the horsemen. “They have been charged with messages to all the chiefs of the province, and before night has fallen the battle-cry of the Desmonds will have been sounded forth throughout the whole territories of the Geraldines.”

“You have heard, then, from Desmond?” asked I, greatly relieved by his words.

“Not yet,” replied he; “but, after last night, Desmond can have no choice. Surely you must agree with me in that?”

“No,” said I, very slowly. “I am not sure that I agree with you.”

“Which means you do not!” cried he, with anger in his tones. “But why?”

It was not easy to put what I thought into so many words, and I did not answer at once.

“Why? why?” again asked Fitzmaurice.

“I can hardly tell you,” replied I; “but you heard, as well as I did, the report of his dealings with the President, and”—here I spoke out quite bluntly—”I have no firm faith in Desmond.”

“Perchance, he hesitated,” said Fitzmaurice, “perhaps he did at the beginning; but all that will now be at an end. He must declare himself openly. His hand has been forced by Sir John, and he cannot stand out against us and his people.”

“What are your plans now?” I asked, rather wearily, for I was tired of this incessant reference to Desmond.

“To wait at Tralee till I hear from him,” said he. “You will wait also?”

“No,” said I, “I return to Smerwick to-day.”

“Return to Smerwick? I shall not let you!”

“Indeed,” said I, with some heat. “You are not my commander, and I owe you no obedience. It is not yours to say what I shall do; that is the right of my mistress alone.”

“Your mistress!” said Fitzmaurice with a sneer.

My hand went to my sword, but de Vilela, who had so far taken no part in the conversation, interfered.

“SeÑor,” said he to Fitzmaurice sternly, “you can mean no disrespect to the lady, Grace O’Malley; she is my dear friend——”

“SeÑor,” said I, interrupting him, “this affair is mine.”

“SeÑor Ruari” said he, “had any offence been intended, it would have been mine, too.”

Fitzmaurice, who quickly saw that he had made a mistake, declared that he had neither said nor implied anything to the despite of my mistress, but his look was sullen, and I wondered at him.

It was apparent that he had something on his mind that was not favourable to her, but he said no more. It was possible that he had heard about her in connection with Desmond, so I concluded, and this urged me to the more haste in leaving Tralee.

“I am going to Smerwick at once,” said I to them both.

Fitzmaurice was about to speak, but, changing his mind, walked away. De Vilela then asked me why I was in so great a hurry to be gone.

“My place is with my mistress,” said I briefly, for I could not tell him my thoughts.

“That is a true word,” said he; and there was a strange catch in his voice, so that I looked at him curiously, expecting him to say more, but he was silent.

No objection being made to our departure, my men and I left Tralee, and, before night had set in we were at Smerwick. Having saluted the officers of the Spanish ships, and acquainted them with my intention, I weighed out from Smerwick the following morning, and on the third day came up with The Grey Wolf and The Winged Horse, which were quietly riding at anchor in the bay, not far from the castle of Askeaton.

Many had been the questionings of my spirit as we had gone up the Shannon; many my doubts and fears of I knew not quite what; but the mere sight of the galleys, thus peacefully resting on the water like a pair of great sea-birds, dispelled them at once.

Tibbot, who had been in chief command during the absence of Grace O’Malley and myself, came on board of The Cross of Blood as soon as we had let go our anchor, and I could see from the very way he carried himself that all was well with the ships. He had nothing stirring to tell me, so it appeared, but was exceedingly anxious to hear about the men from Spain, and what was being done.

But before I had gratified him in this respect, I inquired when he had last seen or had word of our mistress, and he answered that she and the Earl of Desmond and a numerous party had visited the galleys a day or two after I had sailed down the river; and that, since then, he had had no tidings of her. Nothing, moreover, save vague rumours of Fitzmaurice and the Spaniards had reached him through the people living on the shore of the stream.

So far as was known, Desmond still lay at Askeaton, and had not joined in the rising against the Queen.

Tibbot seemed sure that everything and everybody remained at the castle in the same position as when I had left it; but I resolved to go thither without loss of time, and to see for myself how the land lay.

I charged Tibbot in the meantime not to allow our men to wander away, but to keep them, as far as possible, in the galleys, and so to be prepared for any emergency. And I enjoined upon him that he was not to offer attack, but only to stand on his defence in case of assault.

Having spoken in the same terms to Calvagh, who was to act as Tibbot’s lieutenant, I took but one attendant, thinking that if more went with me I should not be able to get to Askeaton as quickly as I wished.

It was not yet evening as I came in sight of Askeaton, and as I gazed down upon it from the high ground opposite, I noticed that there was nothing unusual in its appearance, except that the drawbridge was up, and that there were perhaps a few more soldiers on the walls than was customary. Descending the edge of the stream I shouted to the watch, peering at me through the wicket, to open the gate. I could not but have been well known to them, but I was kept waiting for some minutes—at which I marvelled much. I had no thought, however, of turning back.

At length, the chains of the drawbridge, as they clashed and clattered through the sheaves, began to move, and the bridge fell into place, the gate being opened at the same instant.

What followed was so sudden that I have only a confused recollection of it.

My feet had no more than trodden the creaking planks of the drawbridge, as it seemed to me, or I may have been just within the door, when I was set upon by several of Desmond’s men.

I was taken completely off my guard, albeit I struggled with all my strength, but, being at a disadvantage, this availed me not a whit. In any case, I must soon have been overpowered; but the matter was the quicker settled by a blow on my head, under which I went down like a felled ox.

When I had come somewhat to my senses again, it was to find myself sick and giddy from the blow, while my hands and feet were tightly bound with ropes, so that my flesh was chafed and cut; there had been a gag thrust into my mouth, and my eyes were bandaged. I could not speak, nor see, nor move. I could feel I was lying on the earth, but where I was I knew not.

“He is coming to himself,” said a voice. My brain was reeling, reeling, reeling; but there was that in the voice that seemed not strange, yet I could not remember whose it was, so far off was it—as if from another world.

“Put him——” and there were other words that came to me, but so indistinctly that I could not make them out at all; nay, I could not tell, being in a stupor, whether I was awake or did only dream.

Then I was taken up and carried along—up steps and steps which appeared to be without end, and at last was thrown upon a wooden floor. A door was shut and bolted and barred; and thereafter a sound of retreating footsteps dying away, and I was left alone. I was wide awake now, for my body was one great, almost insupportable pain.

And terrible as was the anguish of my frame, that of my mind was more; but first came the racking of the bones and the torture of the flesh, and these, in their turn, brought consciousness and memory, and an indescribable agony of the soul.

I tried to move—a thing well-nigh impossible to me, trussed up as I was, and by reason also of the pain I suffered; and I was constrained to abandon the attempt. I should have borne up better perhaps if my eyes had been open and my tongue free; but there I lay in the darkness, like one already dead, and had nearly given way to despair.

And as the shadows and mists of stupor cleared away from my mind, I was overwhelmed at the extent of the disaster which had befallen me, for I saw in it but too surely an indication of some dreadful evil, some fearful calamity which had overtaken my mistress and her fortunes, and that, too, at the hands of Desmond.

And I was powerless to help her! I had allowed myself to be caught—running, blind fool that I was, my own head into the noose.

Where was she?

Where was Eva?

What had happened?

What was to be the end? Was this it?

Around such questions as these did my thoughts move, as if in a circle; ever asking the same questions, and ever without reply; until I felt that there was no more than the breadth of a thread between me and madness.

After a great while—how long I wist not, and perchance it was no such great while as it seemed to me in that wild fever of my spirit—the door of the room in which I lay huddled upon the floor was opened. I verily believe that it was the mere opening of the door at that very moment that kept me from becoming a maniac, so strained were those fine chords which subtly hold mind and body as if in a balance.

The bandage was untied from about my eyes, and the gag was taken from my mouth; the ropes were partly unloosened from my arms, and food and water were placed beside me.

Two men were in the room, both bearing drawn swords, and one carrying a lantern, for it was night, and but for its light we had been in total darkness. Yet so sore were my eyes that I could scarcely bear to look at the men, and when I essayed to speak I could not utter a word so swollen was my tongue.

“Eat and drink,” said one of them; but I could do no more than roll my head helplessly from side to side.

Then the other, seeing how foredone I was, put the pitcher to my lips, and I drank, although each mouthful I swallowed of the water was a fresh torment. But with the blessed water there came relief, nay, life itself, for the frenzy died out of my brain, and my mind became calm and clear. Thereafter I ate, and essayed to speak with the two men, but they had evidently been forbidden to converse with me, for they would answer nothing. After a short time they withdrew, bolting and barring the door behind them, and I was left to myself.

Hours dragged slowly by, and, at length, the sleep of exhaustion fell upon me, and when I awoke it was broad daylight. The repose had restored me in a great measure to myself; but the stinging of the cuts made by the bonds on my legs and arms, and the dull throbbing, throbbing of my head, quickly recalled me to the misery of my situation.

In the morning, however, I was released from the ropes, and more food and water were brought me. Again I endeavoured to get the men, who I perceived were the same that had come to me the previous evening, to speak to me, but in vain.

Before they had made their appearance I had seen that I had not been cast into one of the dungeons of Askeaton, but was imprisoned in a chamber which I judged, numbering the steps up which I had been borne, to be at the top of one of the towers of the castle. As soon as they had gone I set about examining the room, albeit I was so stiff and sore that at first I could only crawl and creep on the floor. As this exercise, however, gave me back the use of my limbs, I was soon able to stand and move about with ease.

The room was small and bare, without even a stool or a bench, and was lighted by a little, narrow window, from which I caught glimpses of distant masses of trees and the slopes and peaks of far-off mountains. During my first visit to Desmond, I had made myself familiar with every part of the castle, and I knew that the surmise I had made that the room was high up in a tower was a true one.

There were only the two ways of getting out, the one by the door, the other by the window. The door was firmly secured, for I had tried it, but I might as well have sought to move the stone walls of the chamber. And the window was many feet above the ground or the river, so that it was impossible to escape by it, unless by means of a ladder or a rope, neither of which I possessed.

It therefore required very little reflection on my part to understand how complete was my captivity, and how small was the chance of my being able to deliver myself from it.

But it was something that I could see, that I could breathe freely, and that I could speak aloud, and hear, at least, the sound of my own voice. And these somehow brought with them a faint ray of hope. As I paced up and down the room—that I was permitted to go without chains showed in itself how convinced my gaolers were that I could not break free—I determined not to despair. But as the day passed wretchedly by, and night came on again, it was difficult to keep any degree of firmness in my heart.

A thing which kept constantly recurring to me was the haunting recollection of the voice I had heard, or fancied that I had heard, after I had been struck down, and was half-alive and half-dead, and so certain of nothing. Then, knowing, as I well did, what was the usual horrible fate of one taken prisoner, I could not but ponder with surprise the comparative tenderness shown me.

I had not been thrown into a noisome cell beneath the castle, or, what would have been worse still, under the bed of the stream, and left to die of madness and hunger, a prey to rats and other vermin.

Nay, I asked myself why I had not been slain outright? That, it was manifest, had not been the purpose of those who had set upon me, for, once I was down, nothing could have been easier than to despatch me.

Then, whose voice was it that I had heard? For the life of me I could not remember.

When evening was come, food and water were provided as before, but in the same obduracy of silence. The men were as speechless as mutes, beyond one saying, “Eat and drink,” and I was strangely glad and even moved to hear these simple words.

Once more being left to the solitude of my prison-chamber, a thought came, sharply shooting like an arrow, through my sombre musings. The same two men always appeared with the food; just two men, I told myself, against one. True, they were armed, and I was not; but might not a quick, dexterous, unexpected assault give me my opportunity? And if I could but get out of the room, could I not trust to my star, and to my knowledge of the castle, to find some way of escape? And if I failed? Well, the worst was death, and I had faced it before. And so the project grew, and took a firm hold of me.

Not thus, however, had it been ordained.

So agitated was I by the mere prospect of regaining my liberty, that it was long ere I went to sleep, and then methought I dreamed a happy dream.

There was, as it were, a light in that mean room—not a great brightness, but a dimly burning light, itself a shadow among other shadows. And behind that shadow, a pale presence and a ghostly, stood Eva O’Malley, and by her side a muffled figure, vague and indistinct, but seen darkly as in a mirror over which the breath has passed. Clearer, and yet more clearly, there were bodied forth the face and form I knew and loved; her hand touched me, and my name was whispered softly in my ear.

“Ruari! Ruari!”

I heard the rustle of her garments; then the shadow danced along the wall and died away, as the light came closer to my face.

“Ruari! Ruari!”

“O my love! my love!” cried I.

“Ruari! Ruari! Come!” said she.

“Hush! Hush!” said the muffled figure, and all at once I was aware that this was no dream, but a verity.

This was no other than my dear herself.

And the muffled figure—who was that? A man’s voice surely had I heard say “Hush!” And why were they come? Wherefore, indeed, but to deliver me. And I sprang up from the floor in haste.

“Softly, softly,” said Eva, as I clasped her hand—a living hand, thank God!

Then she whispered low that for the present they must leave me, for if we all went together, the suspicion of the guards might be aroused, but that I must find my way out as best I could. Her words bewildered me, but there was no time for explanations, which would come afterwards.

“You must contrive to get down by yourself to the court,” said she. “We will meet you there, but wait here first for about an hour, then start. You will find the door of this room open; take the left turn, and make no noise or you will be lost.”

I did as I had been bid. After what I supposed might be an hour I felt my way out of the room, and stepping slowly and with a cat’s wariness succeeded, but with many quakings and alarms, in reaching the great hall without attracting the attention of anyone. Never could I have done this had I not been familiar with the castle, and even as it was I had frequently to stop perplexed.

In the hall were many men asleep, each with his weapon by him, as I could see, though uncertainly, from the dull glow of the embers on the wide hearth. Near the fire itself sat two men, and for awhile I looked at them fearfully, for past them must I go. But as I watched them carefully I saw their heads nodding, nodding—they, too, were asleep.

Out through the slumberers did I step, praying dumbly that they might not waken through any slip of mine, and, reaching the door in safety, was, in another moment, in the court.