When I spoke of him to de Vilela, he said he had heard that Fitzgerald was madly in love with a lady who was staying in that city, and that that probably accounted for his being there. Knowing what Fitzgerald’s disposition was, I could not forbear smiling, and now fancied that I had discovered the cause of his want of spirits in that he had not been very successful in his wooing.
I thought no more of him or of his affairs, little dreaming who the lady was, until the mention of her name one day filled me with lively feelings of astonishment and vexation, and, as I pondered this new and perplexing turn of events, with something close akin to terror.
It so happened that I was talking and jesting with one of the Geraldines, when the conversation came round to Sir Nicholas Malby, and the iron rule he had imposed on Galway and a large part of Connaught.
“Grace O’Malley,” said he, “was more than a match for him.”
“Sir Nicholas,” said I, “is the best soldier the English have in Ireland, and if he did not prevail against my mistress, it was rather because he underrated her strength and her prowess, than from any other reason. He esteemed her as no more than a feeble woman, and so was deceived.”
“By the way,” asked he, “are you well acquainted with Galway?”
“Yes—well enough,” replied I, somewhat crisply.
“And do you know the Mayor of the town, one Stephen Lynch?”