“Put that hope out of your mind,” replied he. “Sir Nicholas is merely playing with her—with what object you can easily guess. It is for no other reason than to make her ruin the more complete.”
I assented gloomily.
“Now we know what to expect,” I said. “We are forewarned and so forearmed.”
“Your mistress pays no heed to warnings,” said Burke hotly.
I thought of the arrow and its message.
“The arrow!” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I could not send you word openly, so I chose that way, getting one of my men, who is a famous archer, to send the shaft into your ship.”
I thanked him warmly, remarking, however, that Grace O’Malley would pay no attention to any warnings whatever, once she was resolved upon any particular course.
“She must be told now of her danger,” he said, “and at once.”
“I suppose,” said I, “I can still see her.”
“That I know not,” he replied; “but news of your fight with Michael Martin is all over the town, and you will have to walk circumspectly. Sir Nicholas spoke of his meeting with you, and declared that all such conflicts must be severely punished. Go not into Galway—unless with a strong guard.”
The counsel was wise, but I was quite determined, if necessary, to disregard it. My mind, however, suddenly went on another tack, and I spoke out what my thought was.
“I must see her, and that without delay,” I said; “but you mentioned that you were friendly with the Lynches. Could not Grace O’Malley be sent a message through them? If the Mayor is not to be trusted, surely Sabina Lynch, his daughter, cannot sympathise greatly with the dark and terrible projects of the Governor. Would she not convey a letter to my mistress?”
Richard Burke looked at me fixedly and searchingly.
“That is doubtful,” said he, at length. Then he added, “I do not think that we can place our confidence in Sabina Lynch in anything that concerns Grace O’Malley.”
“Why?” I asked simply.
He did not answer immediately, but stopped and pondered awhile before he replied—
“I am about to tell you, Ruari, what I never thought to say to you or any other living soul. But the need is urgent, and I must speak. The Lynches and myself are old friends. I have known Sabina Lynch since she was a child, and I have been made aware in many ways—there is no need to go further into that—that I am not displeasing to her now she is a woman. And her father has as much as intimated that he regards me with eyes of favour.”
I saw it all in a minute. Sabina Lynch loved Richard Burke, and Richard Burke did not return her affection. Did Sabina suspect that she had a rival? Did she regard Grace O’Malley as a rival? These questions passed through my mind with the speed of light.
“What has Sabina Lynch to do with Grace O’Malley?” I asked.
“I will not conceal from you,” said Burke, “that I am not in love with Sabina Lynch, but am in love with your mistress. Once I imagined that it was Owen O’Malley’s intention to wed you to his daughter, but neither you nor she has a passion for the other. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” I replied. “She is an elder sister to me—I am no more than a younger brother to her.”
“I love Grace O’Malley,” said he, “with all my soul and with all my strength. I mean to ask her to be my wife——”
I broke in harshly.
“This is no time, surely, to talk of such a matter,” I cried, “now when she is a prisoner, and helpless in the hands of people who are her bitter enemies. Rather let us cast about for some means of delivering her.”
“I ask nothing better,” said Burke, “than to assist you—only remember it is not well to place any confidence in Sabina Lynch.”
Then we spent the next hour discussing plans, and having formed one which had some promise of success, Burke left the galley as secretly as he came—his boat disappearing into the darkness of the night.
After he had gone, I tried in vain to sleep, and finding my thoughts but dismal company, had myself rowed over to The Winged Horse, where I saw Tibbot, the pilot, whom I informed of the visit of Richard Burke, and of what we had concerted to do for the deliverance of Grace O’Malley. And as we could not foresee what the next step of the Governor might be, it was agreed that Tibbot’s galley should be kept ready for instant action, and to provide against any surprise by keeping her out in the bay, at such a distance that she should be out of the range of the calivers and bombards mounted on the walls of Galway.
CHAPTER VI.
GRACE O’MALLEY DANCES OUT OF GALWAY.
As early in the morning as was possible, without causing remark or exciting suspicion, I went into the town, taking with me several of my own men. The same officer who had been in charge of the guard the previous day was at the gate, and I advanced towards him boldly, as if I had no notion in the world that there could be anything amiss, nor, so far as he was concerned, was there.
For he gravely returned my salutation, merely giving me “Good-day” without waste of words, and waved his hand in the direction of the church of St. Nicholas of Myra.
When I had arrived at the mansion of the Mayor, I could see no difference in the manner of the reception I was accorded, except such as there would be owing to my mistress not being present on this occasion.
I sent in my name, with a request that Grace O’Malley might be informed of my arrival, and after a short time—short as far as the actual minutes, but it appeared an age to me, so impatient and anxious was I—I was conducted into a spacious room, where I found my two ladies, Sabina Lynch, and several gentlemen, most of whom were Irish. They were in the midst of a conversation as I entered, and I quickly gathered that they were talking about the entertainment the Mayor was to give in honour of the Governor before many days. They were speaking of corantos and other dances, in which I had but small proficiency, and I could not help saying to myself that Grace O’Malley could have no suspicion how slippery would be the floor for her feet!
On endeavouring to get speech with her privately, I found myself completely baffled, and that so subtly and craftily that I raged and fumed inwardly. For when I attempted to draw her aside we were instantly joined by Sabina Lynch, who smilingly disguised her purpose of preventing us from talking together by ourselves under a mock of empty but pleasant words. Indeed, so skilfully and readily did she speak, and with so much apparently of goodwill, that I had constantly to remind myself of all that Richard Burke had told me only a few hours before.
What my feelings were may be guessed, but I did my utmost to conceal them, although not very successfully, as I afterwards was told by Eva O’Malley. I never was one who could play the part of gallant or courtier, and what I knew to be in the wind did not tend to assist me in the efforts I now made to be at my ease and to seem confident that there was not a cloud in the sky.
And it could hardly be that one, who had seen so much of me as Eva had, but would observe my clumsy attempts at gaiety and light-heartedness. What she thus saw in my manner made her very uneasy, but at the time she kept her ideas to herself. It was enough, however, to put her on her guard, and caused her to watch more narrowly whatever was going on.
A couple of hours were spent in this way, and, disturbed beyond measure by reason of my inability even to breathe a word of warning to my mistress—I had resolved to say nothing of their peril to the woman I loved, fearing lest it might prove too hard a trial for her, wherein I misjudged her strength