Well do I recall the occasion on which I first heard her voice. In truth I was so situated at the time that while other recollections may pass out of my mind, as assuredly many have passed away, the memory of that never will.
“Do not kill him, do not kill him!” said a shrill treble, piping clear and high above the hard tones of men’s voices mingled together, and harsh from the rough breath of the sea.
“Throw him into the water!” cried one.
“Put him back in the boat!” cried another.
“Best to make an end of him!” said a tall, dark man, who spoke with an air of authority. And he made as if to draw his sword.
“No! no!” cried the shrill treble. “Do not kill him. See, he is only a little boy, a child. Give him to me, father.”
There was a burst of laughter from the men, and the shrill treble, as if encouraged, again cried, “Give him to me, father.”
“What would you do with him, darling?”
“I know not, father, but spare him. You promised before we set out from Clew Bay to give me whatever I might ask of you, if it was in your power. And now I ask his life. Give him to me, father.”
There was a silence for a short space, and I opened my weary, fear-haunted eyes, gazing dazed and distracted about me. Then I saw a small, ruddy-cheeked, black-haired maid on the deck of a ship, while around her and me was grouped a band of sun-browned, unkempt, and savage-looking sailors, clad in garments not very different from those of my own people. In the midst of them was the man whom the maid addressed as father. I, the little boy, the child of whom she had spoken, was lying bound at her feet.
My mind was distraught and overwhelmed with the terror and horror of what I had already undergone. Hungry and thirsty, and bruised and sore, I cared but little what might happen to me, thinking that death itself could hold no greater suffering than that I had just passed through. But the sight of the maid among these men of the sea awoke my boyish curiosity. As I gazed at her, a great wave carried the vessel up on its crest, and had she not put forth her hand and caught me by the thongs of deer with which I was bound, I would have rolled like a helpless log into the hissing waters.
“See,” she said, “he is mine.”
“Then be it so,” her father agreed, after some hesitation. “And yet, it may not be well. Do you understand our language?” he asked of me.
“Yes,” I replied. I knew the Irish tongue, which is almost the same as our own, in which he addressed me. For there was much traffic between the Scottish Islands of the West and the North of Ireland, where many of my own clan had settled, the “Scots of the Glens” of Ulster. So I had heard Irish spoken frequently.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Ruari Macdonald, the son of Tormod Macdonald of Isla,” I answered, but with difficulty, for my mouth was parched and my tongue swollen.
“I know the breed,” said he, with a smile, “and the Clandonald are men who may be trusted. Besides, you are but a boy.”
He stooped down and cut away my bonds. I tried to stand up, but only fell half swooning upon the deck.
“Water, water!” cried the shrill treble. “He is fainting from thirst.” And the voice seemed to keep my consciousness from ebbing utterly away.
Then the maid in another instant was wetting my cracked and thickened lips from a silver cup, and I drank and was refreshed. Next she brought me food and a little Spanish wine.
“Let him eat and drink,” said she, “so that his life may be whole within him again.”
Taking me by the hand as soon as I had sufficiently recovered, and followed by her father, she led me to the poop of the ship, where there was a sort of cabin, or “castle,” as it is called.
“Now, Ruari Macdonald of Isla,” said the man, who was evidently the commander of the vessel, “tell me how it was that you came to be on the wide sea, lying bound and nearly dead, in that small boat we picked up an hour or so ago?”
“The Macleans,” I gasped, for speech was still a burden to me. But before long my tongue was loosened, and I told them all I knew of what had happened.
“The Macleans,” said I, “of the Rinns of Isla, who were ever our foes, but with whom we had been at peace for a long time, suddenly set upon and surprised my father’s castle by night. I was awakened by the sounds of clashing swords and the death shrieks of men and women—the most fearsome cries—so that my blood ran cold and my heart stood still.”
I stopped and choked as I spoke. The maid nodded kindly, and put her little hand in mine.
“Although I had never seen a fight,” continued I, “I had been told often and often of battles, so I guessed at once what was going on. I got up from my couch, and in the darkness called my mother’s name, but she answered not. I was alone in the chamber. Terrified, I shrieked and sobbed. Then the room filled with smoke. The castle was on fire. Making the best of my way to the door I was clasped in my mother’s arms. She carried a lighted torch, but I came upon her so sharply that it fell out of her hand and was extinguished.
“ ’We are lost,’ she wailed, pressing me wildly against her bosom, while I could feel her heart beating fast and hard against my own.
“ ’What, is it, mother?’ I asked; but I knew without any words from her.
“We were standing in a corridor, but the smoke soon became so dense that we could no longer endure it. Hardly knowing what she did, I think, she dragged me along to a window in the room where I had slept, and opening it, looked out. The yard of the castle was alive with men holding blazing sticks of fir, and flames shot up from the burning door of the central tower in which we stood. I also looked out, and noticed dark, silent forms lying prone upon the ground.
“ ’Fire or sword? What matters it?’ I heard her whisper to herself. ’Lost, lost, lost! Oh, Ruari, my son, my son!’ And she kissed me—the last kisses she ever gave.”
I broke down weeping. The little hand of the maid caressed and soothed me.
“We had been spied from the yard,” I went on, after I had had my fill of crying, and a great hoarse voice rose above the din.
“ ’Fetch me the woman and the child alive!’ was what it said.
“ ’It is Red Angus Maclean,’ said my mother, hopelessly.
“Then four clansmen plunged through the smoke and flame, and burst in upon us. Seizing us roughly, they took us half dead to Red Angus.
“ ’Do what you will with me,’ said my mother, falling on her knees before him, ’but shed not the blood of the lad,’ she implored and prayed of him. ’He has never done you any harm.’
“He scowled at us, and played with the handle of his dirk.
“ ’Why should I not slay ye both?’ said he. ’When did ever a Macdonald spare a Maclean, tell me that?’ He paused, as if in thought. ’But listen,’ he began again. ’Choose you,’ said he, speaking to my mother, ’for such is my humour, choose you, your life or the boy’s.’
“ ’Thank ye,’ said my mother. ’Never did I think I should live to thank a Maclean. Swear you will not shed his innocent blood, and I shall die gladly.’