She was The Rosemary, a shot from which had caused the death of my master, Owen O’Malley, a few months before, and well did I remember how I saw her sail up the Shannon on her way to Limerick, with the two eerie figures shadowed against her canvas.
For an instant I felt an impulse to stand off, and to make no effort to avert the fate of any of her men—it was uncertain, I told myself, whether at the best I could render them any assistance. But, after all, we had no quarrel with these wretched mariners, about to be swallowed up by the ever-hungry sea, and, if we had had, this extremity of theirs was of a kind which we could not look upon as our opportunity and have been worthy of the name of men.
Therefore, when The Rosemary rose to the waves for the last time, and was borne aloft on the black edge of a huge roller, and then shattered to fragments upon the rocks, did we keep a sharp look-out for the bodies, living or dead, if any, which might appear on the water near where we were.
And five poor souls, by means of our boats, did we save alive, or, being as the dead, did bring to life again—and one of them was a woman.
Surely this was the queerest trick that fate ever played upon me, for the woman was none other than Sabina Lynch! Nor do I wonder that, when she had come to herself and, seeing me, knew upon whose ship she was, she did imagine she had but escaped from one kind of calamity to meet with another, and that perhaps worse: for she had to be restrained, and that by force, from casting herself back into the sea, preferring death to being in my hands.
And, verily, I was in a grievous quandary with regard to her.
She would not eat nor drink nor rest nor sleep, but only cried and sobbed and moaned, till she fell into a sort of stupor. Recovering after awhile, she did naught but cry and sob and moan again, and was so distraught that I felt a pity for her. Then, what was I to do with her? True, I could keep her a captive, and take her back with me when I returned to Carrickahooley, and give her over to my mistress, who would doubtless accord her the grimmest of welcomes. And this, perhaps, was my duty. If it were, I failed in it.
Urged on by a woman’s spite and jealousy, Sabina Lynch had played a treacherous and cruel part in regard to Grace O’Malley, and she was, in a measure, the cause of our quarrel with Sir Nicholas and the English. Sure was I that my mistress would not be merciful to her, nor would she expect me to be. Why, then, should I have been?
I have no other answer, if it be an answer, except that I was deep in love with Eva O’Malley, and that my love for her made me feel certain that Eva, much as Grace was to her—as to me—would have told me to act as I did towards this woman. For I determined to let her go free.
It is not in me to explain this matter further, nor to tell how often I argued it with myself, ever coming back, however, to what I conceived would be the desire of Eva—to let Sabina Lynch go. And if the other course was my duty, there was meted out to me, as will be seen, punishment out of all proportion to my fault.