“Ruari!” said Eva O’Malley; “here!”

It was that darkest time of night that preludes the day, and I could see no one with any degree of clearness, but, guided by that beloved voice, I went forward, nothing doubting.

Straining my eyes into the blank, I made out figures, moving towards the gate; Eva came to my side, and we followed close upon them. Mystified as I was at what had just occurred, it gave me a delicious thrill of happiness to be near Eva, and to feel myself a free man again.

“Eva!” I said.

“Do not speak—do not speak,” said she, “we are not yet out of danger.”

In silence then we walked through the court until we had come to the guard-house by the gate, and there we halted. One of those with us went into the room, and I could hear, though indistinctly, the sounds of him and others talking together.

Some long minutes passed, and the suspense was becoming unendurable, when two men with lanterns appeared. Without looking at us they proceeded to lower the drawbridge, the rattling of whose chains was to me then the finest music in the world, and to open the gate.

“Quick,” said Eva to me, pushing me gently on.

I was over the bridge and on the further side in a flash along with two others; turning back I heard an exclamation from the watchmen with the lanterns, and some expostulations.

“’Twas not in the bargain,” I caught; then there were more words which I heard too imperfectly to understand, but I recognised from the mere tone of one of the voices who the speaker was.

And with this there dawned on me also whose was the voice I had heard after I had been struck down. It was Dermot Fitzgerald’s! And he it was who was our guide!

In what way he satisfied the watchmen I do not know, but, having done so, he and Eva crossed the bridge. Then there was a whistle, and now a horse neighed; and thereafter the trampling of chargers broke upon the ear. The horse-boys brought the animals up to us, and presently we were in the saddle, moving off from the castle notwithstanding the gloom, Fitzgerald leading the way.

I wondered where we were going, but I had been told not to utter a word, in the one brief sentence I had exchanged with Eva when we were mounting the horses, and I followed on after her as I would have done to the end of the world, but I was fair dazed with these strange, fantastic tricks of fortune.

We had gone about a couple of leagues, as I conjectured, from Askeaton, riding for the greater part of the distance through the forest, when Fitzgerald stopped—and so did we all.

The darkness had grown perceptibly less intense, and we could now see a sort of path among the trees.

“I have done what I promised you,” said Fitzgerald to Eva O’Malley. Then he turned towards me. “Ruari Macdonald,” said he, “my debts to you are also paid. Farewell, and God help and pity us all!”

“Dermot!” cried I.

But he was already past me, galloping fast and furiously, like one hotly pursued.

“He has gone,” said Eva, and there was a sob in her voice.

In an instant I had leaped from the saddle, and was by her side. Her form was bowed forward upon her horse’s neck, and her tears were falling heavily, as I placed my arm about her waist, and drew her towards me, heedless of those who were with us.

“Eva, darling,” I said. “What does all this mean?” Not that I cared to be told at that moment; it was enough that we were together. I pressed her to my heart, and kissed away her tears while she struggled with her emotions. I spoke many words of endearment, and after awhile she regained her calmness.

“Let us ride on,” she said at length.

“But whither are we going?” asked I.

“To the camp of Richard Burke,” she replied; “it is only three or four miles ahead of us—so Dermot Fitzgerald said. And he has shown himself our friend after all.”

“To Richard Burke?” cried I, more amazed, if that were possible, even than before.

“Have patience, Ruari” said she, “you must soon know everything; but be patient—”

“Our mistress?” asked I, at no time very patient, and now devoured with questions.

“Wait a little, wait a little,” said she, and she broke into weeping again, so that my heart smote me at the sight of her grief. But when I would have taken her in my arms again to try to comfort her, she waved me off, and, shaking up her horse, rode on in front.

The day breaking clearly as we went along, I observed that those behind me were two women of my mistress’s and Eva’s, and the man I had brought with me from The Cross of Blood to Askeaton. My mind was now in such a tangle that I had to resign myself passively, and to become, as it were, rather a spectator of than a participator in what was going on.

In truth, I felt more at sea than ever before in my life, and was even inclined to prick myself, like a boy, to see if we were indeed living, or merely moving in some spectral land of shades and phantoms.

Nor did this air of unreality wear away until we had arrived at the camp of the Burkes. But as we emerged from the trees into the open, we were at once recognised by those on guard, for they had seen both Eva and myself frequently in the galleys, and thus we were well known to them.

They raised so loud and fervent a shout of welcome that the MacWilliam quickly appeared on the ground to ascertain what was happening. He gazed at us like one sorely puzzled; then, as he came forward to greet us, there was an expression of alarm.

“Eva O’Malley!” he exclaimed. Then he came up to me, and as I held out my hand he gasped with astonishment, for my hands were bleeding from the unhealed cuts inflicted by the ropes with which I had been tied, my dress was in disorder, and my feet, which were bare, were spattered with blood.

“What has happened?” cried he hoarsely. “Where is your mistress? What? What?”

“Fetch wine,” said I, partly to divert his thoughts, partly because it seemed as if Eva were about to swoon. “Go, fetch us wine!”

“Yes, yes!” said Eva faintly. Then, with an effort of the will, she added, “I will tell you everything—when I have recovered a little.”

Leading us to his tent, he called for wine, and when Eva and I had drunk, and our attendants also, she and the MacWilliam and I were left by ourselves, all the others being told to withdraw.

“Have you heard?” she asked, looking at Burke.

“Nothing,” replied he, “save that the Spaniards are come. The messenger Ruari sent told me that de Ricaldo had arrived at Askeaton, and I have since heard that their ships lie at Smerwick.”

“Nothing more?” asked Eva.

And he shook his head.

“I hardly am less in the dark than yourself,” said I. “All that I know besides is that when I returned to Askeaton from Smerwick no more than two days ago, I was set upon in entering the castle, overpowered, knocked senseless, bound, and made a prisoner.”

“Made a prisoner!” cried Richard Burke. “God’s wounds! And why?”

“That I as yet know not,” I answered. “But Eva will perhaps inform us; this very night did she and Fitzgerald deliver me out of Askeaton.”

Richard Burke gazed from one to the other of us, too much astonished to speak. I looked at Eva, whose eyes were sad and weary, but the colour was in her cheeks and her lips trembled only a very little.

“Yes,” said she, “I can tell you; but let me begin at the beginning.”

“More wine?” said I, and she took a sip from the goblet I handed to her.

“I am tired,” said she, with a moan like that of a hurt child; “but you must know all, and that quickly. You remember the night in which Juan de Ricaldo reached Askeaton?” asked she of me.

“I left some hours later that very night,” I replied, “to meet the Spanish ships.”

“You remember also that two of the justices of Munster had come from Limerick with a letter from the President demanding that Grace O’Malley should be sent to him, so that he could cast her into prison?”

“I had not heard of that!” exclaimed Burke.

“Yes,” I said; “I well remember it.”

“Oh, how am I to tell it!” said Eva piteously, and I bled for her in all my veins. “But say on I must. Perchance,” continued she, speaking to me again, “you observed that Garrett Desmond was infatuated with her, and that she did not rebuke him as she might have done?”

“It was to keep stiff that weak back of his,” said I, “and to get him to declare boldly against the Queen.”

Richard Burke’s face was like a black cloud, and a groan, deep and terrible, came from his lips.

“That was it,” said Eva. “Do I not know that it was?” said she to Burke. “Ay, well do I know it. And Desmond, too, knows it now.”

“Desmond knows!” cried Burke more cheerfully, and he looked almost happy. This was not my case. What horrible thing was coming? I asked myself, for that something horrible had taken place I had no doubt whatever, and my spirits sank like a stone.

“Listen,” said Eva. “Desmond sent back the two justices empty-handed to the President, but what he bade them tell him I cannot say. When they departed I noted their demeanour, and it was not that altogether of men who were wholly dissatisfied with the issue of their mission. Even then,” cried she, with a fierceness the like of which was never seen in her before, “I believe he meditated treachery.”

“Treachery! A Desmond a traitor!” said Burke, upon whose countenance the cloud had come back, for the drift of Eva’s words was clear enough.

“No sign, however,” said she, “did the Earl show of anything of the kind. Never was he gayer than during the next few days, and I hoped that all was as fair for Grace O’Malley’s plans as it seemed. Two days after you had gone, Ruari, he and his chief men and our mistress and myself, with a great host of attendants, went down the stream from the castle, and made a visit to the two galleys lying in the bay.”

“Tibbot told me of it,” said I.

“Desmond had a purpose in it,” said Eva, “as I can see now. He wished to show Tibbot his friendship for our mistress, and never after that manifestation of it would Tibbot suspect, he thought, that there would be aught amiss with her at Askeaton in so long as she was with him.”

“A shrewd trick,” said I bitterly.

“What has taken place? Where is Grace O’Malley?” cried Burke, restless, troubled, tortured even.

“I know not where she is,” said Eva slowly, while the tears gathered in her eyes. “I know not.”

“What?” cried he.

“Patience,” urged I, myself consumed with impatience, anger, and a multitude of terrible passions.

“Let me go on,” said Eva, with a choke. “It was shortly after we had returned from the ships,” continued she bravely—”three or four days perhaps—when there was a great stir at the castle, for messengers had come with tidings of the landing of the Spaniards. A letter, too, they brought from Sir James Fitzmaurice, who was in command, as it appeared, of the expedition. I questioned one of the messengers,” said Eva shyly, “if he had seen you, Ruari, and he told me that he had.”

I secretly blessed my dear for this reference to me, but as I did not desire to interrupt her story I kept silence.

“We were all in good heart,” said she, “by reason of the coming of the men from Spain, and Grace O’Malley in particular rejoiced exceedingly. Desmond himself, however, was strangely quiet. Then that night—How can I tell you?” and she broke down utterly and wept aloud.

Burke’s eyes were full of fright, but mine too brimmed over when I looked at my dear and saw her shaken with sobs. And I wept also, nor am I ashamed of these tears of sympathy.

“’Tis no time to weep,” said she after a pause, and resumed her tale, but in broken accents. “That night, as we were retiring to sleep, I observed that Grace O’Malley had lost all her gaiety and brightness, and was in some great distress of mind. I implored her not to withhold her confidence from me, and to tell me what was her trouble.

“Then it appeared that Desmond had read to her the letter of Fitzmaurice, and, when she had heard it to the end, declared that he had placed his whole future in her hands, as he loved her passionately and could not live without her. If she would consent to become his wife, it would be a very easy matter to get a divorce from the countess, and thereafter they would be married.”

“His wife!” ejaculated Burke.

“If she agreed, he said, to this proposal,” continued Eva, “she might do with him and all the Geraldines as she had a mind, and he would immediately put himself at the head of the rebellion against the Queen, if that was her wish.”

Richard Burke, unable to control his feelings any longer, jumped to his feet.

“What was her reply?” he demanded.

“Wait—wait for another moment,” entreated Eva.

“Patience,” urged I once more, though God knows I had no stock of it myself.

“If she refused——” said Eva.

“She did refuse,” cried Burke.

“If she refused,” continued Eva, “to become his wife, then not only would he not join with the Spaniards, but he would aid the English against them. When she pointed out to him that he had compromised himself both by his intercourse with Spain and with Fitzmaurice, and also by harbouring herself, a proclaimed rebel, he hinted—for at first he would not put his thoughts into so many words—that he knew of a way in which he might very readily make his peace with the President of Munster, and that was by sending to him a pledge of his fidelity to the Queen, which he was well informed would be acceptable to him and to her Highness.”

“Fidelity to the Queen!” exclaimed I, glowing with wrath.

Any child could have foreseen what was coming. My mistress had indeed played with fire, and it needed no wizard to tell me that she had been scorched by its flames.

“Grace O’Malley,” Eva went on, not heeding my interruption, “did not fail to understand his meaning. She herself was the pledge of his fidelity to which he had referred. She must give herself to him, or he would betray her to the English; that, and not obscurely, was the threat he made—that, and nothing else. And she knew that she was in his power.”

“Horrible, horrible!” said Burke in anguish.

“Desmond,” said Eva, “strove, however, to conceal the trap under the cloak of an appeal to her devotion to the cause. She had only to say the word, and the standards of the Geraldines would be arrayed against the Queen, and then, with the English so unprepared as they were, success was certain. It rested with her. Hers was it to bid him go or stay.”

It was a strong temptation, I thought, but I was too overcome to speak.

“Then,” continued Eva, “he sought to inflame her ambition. As his wife, suggested he, might she not become not only Countess of Desmond and the greatest lady in the south, but even Queen of Ireland, once the English had been driven out of the country?”

Another strong temptation, thought I.

Desmond had certainly played his cards adroitly enough. He had sought to touch her through her hatred of the English, her love for her country, and her ambition—all powerful forces. Women had sacrificed themselves, nay, had willingly given themselves, for less. And I could well understand that to a soul like hers self-sacrifice was very possible.

“But even,” said Eva, “in the background of all his speaking, there lurked, like an evil beast, that hint of what he would do, if she refused to submit herself to him.”

After all, I said to myself, Desmond was a fool, for that was the worst way to address a woman who had the spirit of my mistress.

“To gain a little time, perhaps to escape from Askeaton,” continued Eva, “Grace O’Malley asked to be allowed the night to consider what he had said. And to this he agreed, saying roughly, however, as they parted, that she must have her answer ready for him in the morning, and that there must be an end to trifling. All this she told me, and then we sought some way of escape, but Desmond had taken good care that there should be none, for we soon found that we were prisoners.”

“She had no intention of consenting to Desmond,” said Burke, and his voice was full of pride and joy.

“No,” said Eva, looking at him with kind eyes, notwithstanding the grief in which she was.

“Go on, go on,” urged I, half vexed with them both.

“I know not,” said Eva, “what was said or done when the morning came, but I have not even seen her since.” And her tears fell fast again, while Burke and I were smitten into a gloomy silence.

“Have you heard nothing of her?” asked I, at length.

“One of my women—she is here now—found out that Desmond had taken her to one of his castles nearer to Limerick than Askeaton is, with what object may be easily guessed.”

Burke started up madly.

“What is to be done? What is to be done?” cried he.

“A moment!” said I, and I turned to Eva. “There is more to tell, is there not?”

“Yes,” replied she. “After Grace O’Malley had been carried away I was given a certain liberty, for I was permitted to move about a part of the castle, although I was always watched. One day I chanced to see Dermot Fitzgerald, and though he tried to avoid me as soon as he perceived me, I ran up to him and caught him by the arm. I begged and entreated him by our old friendship to tell me what had become of our mistress, and what was going on.

“When he would not answer, I went on my knees,” said my dear, bravely, looking at me, “and reminding him of what I had done for him when he lay wounded, and of what Grace O’Malley had done both for him and de Vilela, besought him to have some pity on me, a woman.”

“Go on, go on!” said I hoarsely.

“He was so far moved,” said Eva, “as to tell me that my mistress was well, and that no hurt would be done me. Not that I thought about myself. I saw him again once or twice, and besought him to find some means by which I might communicate with Grace O’Malley, but he said that was impossible. Then I implored him to set me free, but that, too, he said was not in his power.”

Eva stopped speaking; then she began again, her voice strangely soft and tender.

“I saw you, Ruari, carried up the stairs two days ago—bound, bleeding, almost dead as it seemed, and Fitzgerald was along with the men who bore you in their arms. Later that evening I saw him, and anxiously asked what had occurred. I now perceived that he was unhappy, like one burdened with remorse.

“Then he said that you had come to the castle unexpectedly, and that, while it was deemed necessary to make you a prisoner, no violence had been intended towards you. He declared that he would give all the world if only it would put our affairs right again; indeed, he was like one gone clean mad with trouble, exclaiming that he was the cause of all our woes!”

“The cause of all our woes!” cried I.

“You remember Mistress Sabina Lynch, Ruari,” said Eva. “She it was, said he, who had told the President of Munster to demand Grace O’Malley as a pledge from Desmond of his loyalty to the Queen, and it was through him—for he loves this woman—that she knew our mistress was at Askeaton, though he had never meant to betray her.”

Verily, as I said before, if I failed in my duty when I suffered Sabina Lynch to live, I was grievously punished for it.

“Yet not so does it appear to me,” said Eva, as if she had seen into my heart! “For Desmond is Desmond—a mass of treachery, a thing, a beast! But when I saw how Dermot Fitzgerald felt about the matter, I implored him to try to set you, Ruari, at least, at liberty. And he was the more ready to listen to me because of this very Sabina Lynch, for, said he, she owed her life to you, and he wished to pay back the debt for this woman, whom he loves.”

Richard Burke kept muttering to himself, repeating, as I thought, “Sabina Lynch! Sabina Lynch!” and what else I could not guess.

“Next day,” said Eva, “a large number of the Geraldines left Askeaton, and Fitzgerald, being won over entirely to me, told me he would endeavour that night, there being but few men in the castle, to effect your escape and mine also. In the evening the gallowglasses drank deep—deeper even than they knew, for their wine and aqua vitÆ had been drugged—and then, when all was still, he came to me who was ready, waiting. I asked him where you were, and he replied that he wished me to go with him to you, as you would trust me, and not, perhaps, him.”

“I see it all,” said I.

“Going up to the room where you lay,” continued Eva, “we heard a noise; that made us pause, then we went on again—and you know the rest. The noise we had heard had so far alarmed us that we thought it best to tell you what we did. Fitzgerald had seen to everything—said I not rightly that he was my friend?”

And now Burke cried again, as Eva stopped speaking, “What is to be done? What is to be done?” For myself, while I echoed his question, I was in so great a coil that I was as one dumb.