I have seen a great swell of the sea, a mountain of a wave—caused by some violent storm which has spent its worst fury many leagues away—roll in from the ocean, lift a ship from her moorings, and dash her to pieces on the rocks.

As I rose in the morning and stepped out of the tent into the dewy freshness of the day, I thought we were not unlike that ship. For I could not disguise from myself that our affairs had suffered shipwreck.

Grace O’Malley was a prisoner, and I was unable to deliver her. I, her servant, was bound before anything else to try to free her from her captivity, and I did not even know where she was; and when I had sought to find it out, it had been with the result that a furious quarrel had sprung up between Fitzmaurice, the leader of the Irish, and myself.

He had not only refused to help me to obtain her liberty, but he had slandered and contemned her to my face. Not under such a man could I or the O’Malleys fight. Nay, there now could be nothing between us but the deadliest feud.

And yet we had all come to Kerry to stand by the side of this man and his Spaniards in the rising against the Queen! That, at least, was now impossible. How could we support one who had spoken of our mistress and chief as he had done? And the Burkes were in the same position as we ourselves.

As I paced along the ground, Richard Burke, gaunt and hollow-eyed, joined me. Burning with resentment and indignation, he was eager for instant action, and made the wild proposal that I should immediately bring all the men from the galleys, and, having made a junction with him and his forces, march against Fitzmaurice.

At the first blush of the thing I had almost said yes; but a little cool reflection showed me that not only were the odds against us overwhelming, but that, even if we were successful, I should be no nearer my main object, which was the release of Grace O’Malley. So far as I was concerned, all the considerations had to bow to that.

Nor could I readily bring myself in a moment, as it were, into an attitude of hostility to Fitzmaurice, for he represented our cause against the English, and to fight him was, in effect, to help the enemy.

Having told the MacWilliam all that was in my mind, and having won him over to my way of thinking, we considered how we should now proceed. It appeared to me to be best that we should all return to the ships, for the camp of the Burkes, being in the heart of Desmond’s country, was very open to attack from the Geraldines, who could no longer be regarded as friends, and so might easily be surprised and taken.

There was also the strong argument that, if any disaster overtook the galleys in our absence, we should be completely cut off from any way of getting back to Connaught, and our situation would become desperate and well nigh hopeless.

Another reason was that we could, with even greater advantage than from the place where the Burkes were camped, send out from the galleys scouts and spies, with a view to ascertaining where Desmond was.

To that I now bent my whole energy, for I felt sure that so long as Grace O’Malley was not in the gaol of Limerick—if she were, then would she be harder to come at than ever—she would be confined in some castle which the Earl occupied with his forces, and where he would remain until he was convinced that he could neither bend nor break her will. For that, I knew, would be the end.

Having struck our camp, we marched to the westward, so as to avoid Askeaton; then, going to the north, were safely on board the galleys by the evening, having only encountered on our journey several small bands of the Irish on their way to Fitzmaurice, whom we suffered to pass on, having first asked them if they had any information as to where Desmond was. They had been told, it appeared, that the Earl had raised the standard of revolt, and was in camp with Fitzmaurice on the Mulkern. Nor did we undeceive them.

For a week I kept the galleys sailing up and down the Shannon, stopping every mile or two and sending men ashore—sometimes going myself—to speak with the inhabitants; but never a word could we hear of Desmond, though occasionally we heard of Fitzmaurice, who had not moved from the position he had taken up.

Each evening of that terrible week found me less hopeful and more despondent; in truth, I would have despaired had it not been for the constant solace of Eva, who seemed to have changed herself into another person, so brave and steadfast was she.

Hitherto I had kept well away from Limerick, but now I resolved to bring the galleys as close up to the walls of the city as I dared. Limerick was a great and strongly fortified place, and, therefore, to be avoided by us; but it was the centre of all that part of Ireland, and there might be opportunities in its neighbourhood of hearing more fully what was going forward. I was encouraged to do this, also, by the fact that there were singularly few ships in the river—no doubt owing to the presence of the Spaniards in the country.

When we were yet perhaps a league from the walls we saw a small boat with a sail coming towards us. I looked keenly at her, and even as I looked at her she was suddenly put about, and was headed back for the city, for they evidently did not like our appearance.

Two of the men in her seemed to be soldiers, and I signalled Tibbot, whose galley was leading, to capture her—which he did after a short chase, the occupants of the boat surrendering without any resistance.

I had the two soldiers, as they proved to be, brought on board of The Cross of Blood, and having assured them that I intended them no harm, asked how matters stood in the city. The first words they uttered were enough to stun me.

“Grace O’Malley,” said one of them, “was brought into Limerick yesterday, and delivered up to Sir Nicholas Malby.”

“Grace O’Malley in Limerick,” I cried, “and Sir Nicholas Malby there also!”

The fatality of the thing completely broke down my control, and I could not speak for some minutes. I had somehow felt all along that my mistress would be given up to the English by Desmond, but to be told that this had actually come to pass was none the less a crushing blow. And to Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught, our implacable foe!

The two men gazed at me curiously, seeing how overcome I was.

“How comes Sir Nicholas Malby to be in Limerick?” I asked, pulling myself together. “Connaught is his government, not Munster; how does he happen to be here?”

“You surely must know,” said the man who had spoken before, “that Sir James Fitzmaurice, one of the Desmonds, has arrived in the country at the head of a large army from Spain, and that the Irish people are flocking in to him from all quarters?”

“Yes,” said I, shortly, “I know all that.”

“Sir Nicholas Malby was summoned by the President of Munster,” said the soldier, “in hot haste to the defence of Limerick. We were in garrison at the time at Athlone, several hundred of us, and Sir Nicholas, having marshalled us in our companies, immediately set off in response down the Shannon, and two days ago we arrived here. The President is terror-stricken, and the whole city trembles with fear.”

“How came you to be without the walls?” I asked. “And at such a time?”

“We were trying to escape,” said the man, “for we heard that the city would soon be taken by the Spaniards, of whom there are thousands, and that everyone of us would be tortured and slain by them.”

“Is the Earl of Desmond in Limerick?” I next inquired—noting, however, how the number of Fitzmaurice’s men had been exaggerated.

“No,” replied the man. “He sent Grace O’Malley bound in chains into the city to Sir Nicholas Malby, but he came not himself. ’Tis said that he will neither join the Spaniards, nor yet assist us, but holds himself aloof from both until he sees on whose side fortune will declare itself.”

And this reed of rottenness, this catspaw of the wind, was the man whom my mistress, led on by the memories of the past greatness of the house of Desmond, and by the hope that under him the Irish might unite, had called our natural leader!

It had been the noble dream of a noble soul, that vision of hers; but, like many another noble dream, it was woven around a man incapable of filling the part he was called upon to play, and so was nothing but a dream.

The folly and wickedness of Desmond seemed to me to be almost inconceivable. Baulked by the firmness of my mistress, he had wreaked his wrath upon her by handing her over to the one man in all Ireland who might be supposed to regard her capture with the utmost joy, and who would take a fiendish delight in torturing her.

Having gratified his hatred of her—for such his love no doubt had become—the Earl sought to stand in with both sides in the approaching struggle by coming out openly on behalf of neither. It needed not that one should be a prophet to forecast that Desmond would fall and be crushed between the two.

While such thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, the chief thing which I had just been told—that Grace O’Malley was immured in the gaol of Limerick—threw everything else into the shade. In the hope that the men might have heard what had occurred to her after her arrival in Limerick, I asked them:

“Do you know, or did you hear, what Sir Nicholas Malby did in respect of Grace O’Malley, after she had been delivered up to him?”

“I was one of his guard,” said the man who acted as spokesman for the twain, “when she was brought before him. Sir Nicholas eyed her with great sternness; albeit it was easy to see that he was well-pleased to have her in his power, for she had wrought the English terrible injuries in Galway, and had set him at defiance. However, she did not quail nor humble herself, but bore herself like a princess, as, they say, she is.”

“What said Sir Nicholas?” asked I.

“He demanded of her many things,” replied the man, “but she would answer him not at all. Whereupon he was enraged against her, and gave orders that the city gallows should be got ready forthwith, and that she should be hanged immediately.”

“Did she not speak even then?”

“No. She looked at him very calmly and tranquilly, like one, indeed, who had already tasted of the bitterness of death and had no fear of it. A strange woman, and a brave! But ’tis said she is a witch.”

“What happened after that?”

“We were leading her away to the square in which the gibbet stands, when Sir Nicholas called to us to come back, for he had changed his mind, as it now appeared. Said he to her, ’You will not dance in the air to-day, mistress, but I shall take good care that you dance not out of Limerick as you did out of Galway!’ But to what he alluded when he said that I know not. Thereafter she was cast into one of the dungeons of the place.”

“One of the dungeons?” asked I.

“Yes—there are several deep, dark dungeons below the gaol of Limerick, and she was thrust into one of these.”

I had heard enough, and having sent the two soldiers away in charge of some of my men, I went and told Richard Burke the evil tidings. Up to this moment he must have cherished the hope that Grace O’Malley would in some way or other escape, for he was utterly unmanned on hearing where and in whose hands she was, and abandoned himself to the wildest grief. The very colour of his face showed that he already regarded her as one dead. As for myself, there had grown upon me a kind of coldness, and an icy numbness, as it were, which seemed to have killed all feeling within me for the time.

And perhaps it was well that this was the case, else I should never have been able to carry the news to Eva. Yet she must be told, and tell her I did.

“So long as she is alive,” exclaimed Eva, when I had come to the end of my tale, “there is hope. I will not believe that it is her destiny to perish in this manner!”

What had become of the timid, shrinking girl? For my dear was transformed altogether, being now full of courage, and of purpose and determination.

“Remember,” said she, “what Sir Nicholas is; how greedy of money he is, how avaricious! Think you he would not sell Grace O’Malley for gold? Only offer him enough, and he will set her free.”

I thought of the immense treasure which lay in the Caves of Silence under the Hill of Sorrow, and for a minute I considered that Eva’s suggestion might avail us. But the caves were far away from Limerick, and to go thither was out of the question.

Besides, the English rule was too seriously threatened to permit Sir Nicholas to be moved at this time by bribes, however rich they were. If he opened his hands, liberating Grace O’Malley with his right, and taking her gold with his left, it would not be now: the situation of the English was far too perilous for that.

All this I saw with perfect clearness, and when I spoke to Eva of it, she was at first inclined to fly out at me, and to reproach me for my apathy. Yet, God wot, it was not apathy; I simply could not see any way out for us, or, rather, for our mistress, no matter in what direction I looked. All that I could think of was that I should get into Limerick under some disguise, and then endeavour to find the means of effecting her escape.

When I mentioned this to Eva, she replied that to carry out such a plan would, or might, involve too long a delay, for our mistress, being already condemned, might be executed at any moment. This was true; but, as I could not conceive of any other scheme, I resolved to set about undertaking it, and that no later than next day.

That night my sleep was troubled and uneasy, and I tossed restlessly about, so that when the first light of day was seen I sprang from my couch. As I did so I heard Calvagh O’Halloran call my name loudly, and at the same instant there was the sound of oars; then Calvagh, as I stepped on deck, came running towards me, crying something I could not quite distinguish, and pointing to The Grey Wolf, which had slipped her anchor, and was now being rowed away from us in the direction of Limerick.

All this came upon me so suddenly that I could scarcely grasp the meaning of it, until I noticed Eva O’Malley standing on the poop of The Grey Wolf, and waving her hand to me in farewell.

“Stop! stop!” I cried; but on went the galley at racing speed. “Stop! stop!” I cried again; but received no other response than that given by those waving hands. I was on the point of ordering Calvagh to get The Cross of Blood under weigh, when I observed that Eva had sent Art O’Malley by one of the small boats of The Grey Wolf to my galley with a message for me.

“What is this? What is this?” I asked of him.

“Eva O’Malley bids me tell you,” replied he, “that she is going in to Limerick to see Sir Nicholas Malby.”

“What?” I cried. “Has she gone crazed! To see Nicholas Malby! What frenzy is this?”

“’Tis no frenzy, Ruari Macdonald,” said Art O’Malley, “but her settled will. And she bade me say that you must wait here, and she will return to-night, or else, if she come not, that we must all go to Limerick to-morrow.”

“What is her intention?”

“That I know not. It was not till I was in the boat that she gave me these words for you, and none of us imagined, when the galley set out, that you were not aware of what she was about.”

I looked at the man in wonder.

“Have you no suspicion at all of what she would be at?”

“To see Sir Nicholas Malby—as she said; I know no more.”

In the circumstances there was nothing left me to do but to wait and wonder, to wonder and to wait.

What interpretation was I to put on this extraordinary, this rash act of Eva’s? Did she think she would be able to bribe Sir Nicholas? Was that her idea? Or did she have some other plan?

But all these surmises were powerless to console me; and it was with a gladness of heart to which I had long been a stranger that I saw The Grey Wolf come up alongside of us in the afternoon.

And who was that who stood by the side of my dear on the poop-deck? Richard Burke was with me, and I cried to him to look.

“Who is that?” asked I, astounded, doubting if my eyes did not juggle with me.

“You may well ask,” said he. “Some miracle must have come to pass!”

“Then ’tis he!” I cried.

“Sir Nicholas Malby himself,” said Burke, and his face was instantly lighted up with a new hope rising in his breast.

“Ay, ’tis Sir Nicholas!” cried I. “By God’s wounds, this is a strange thing!”

There they stood together—the Colonel of Connaught and Eva O’Malley. Like Burke, my heart grew light, as if a great weight had been taken from me, for I knew that Malby must have some proposal to make us which must be to our advantage, otherwise he would never thus have ventured to come.

If he was not exactly alone, he had apparently but few of his soldiers with him; and evidently, therefore, he was determined to show us that whatever it was he was to offer us was offered to men in whom he had implicit faith.

And what had Eva said, what promised, what undertaken for us? How had she managed to bring him? What had this little weak woman, who could yet be so great and strong, done?

And I still glow with a pride in her that is too deep and too high for words when I think of it all. Surely, it was nothing but a miracle, as Burke had said. One thing, at least, was now certain, and that was that Grace O’Malley was alive, or Malby would not have come to us.

The Grey Wolf having dropped her anchor, Eva and Sir Nicholas immediately made signs to Richard Burke and me to go over to them, and we hastened to comply with their wish. As we approached, Sir Nicholas saluted us both very courteously, and we bowed low in return. Eva was the first to speak.

“I went this morning to Sir Nicholas,” said Eva; “I was detained at the water gate, but——”

“You are a brave as well as a beautiful woman,” said he, interrupting her, “and I regret that there was any delay at the gate.”

“It would have been singular,” replied she, smiling, “if there had not been some opposition. However, having stated who I was, I prevailed after some time upon the captain of the watch to send me to Sir Nicholas. I wished to see if Sir Nicholas utterly refused to accept a ransom for our mistress.”

“Yes,” said I, eagerly. “We will pay it gladly.”

“He refused to receive a ransom, however,” said Eva.

“Then——” asked I.

“He had better tell you himself what he proposes,” said she. “He asked me if I thought you would agree, and knowing how you and the MacWilliam now feel with respect to Sir James Fitzmaurice, I answered that I deemed it probable enough. He next wished to know how he was to convince you of his sincerity, and I suggested his coming with me as a proof it. But that I have passed my word to him, pledging you and Richard Burke also to his safety, he is in our hands.”

“I will be frank with you,” said Sir Nicholas, bluntly, “and not waste words. You wish to free your mistress, and you have a quarrel with Sir James Fitzmaurice so that you no longer can fight by his side against us. If you and the MacWilliam will join your men to mine, I will not only set Grace O’Malley at liberty, but will confirm her in possession of her estates in the Queen’s name, and also grant what I know she desires in respect of her ships.” Sir Nicholas paused, eyeing us narrowly.

“The MacWilliam and I are proclaimed rebels,” said I.

“Come to the aid of her Highness,” said he, “and you will be rebels no longer.” Then, as he saw that we both were silent, he said—and here he touched us to the quick—”Have you no desire to be avenged on Fitzmaurice and the Desmonds?”

“Ay, by the Mass, yes,” cried Burke.

“What say you, Ruari Macdonald?” asked Sir Nicholas.

“Tell me first,” said I, “how stands Desmond in this matter?”

“He has gone to Askeaton again,” said he, “and as he will not declare himself for the Queen, he must be judged to be against her.”

“Did you say anything to Grace O’Malley of this errand of yours to us? Does she know of it?” asked I.

“Yes,” said he.

“And what is her word to us?”

“’Bid these men of mine avenge me, and that right speedily.’ That was what she said.”

“Well spoken!” cried Richard Burke.

“I have never disobeyed her yet,” said I, “and I shall not do so now.”