“Tell me,” said I again, “why have you sought to know all this?”
“Ask Dermot Fitzgerald,” said he, and would say no more, but I understood—all.
Dermot Fitzgerald was in love with Sabina Lynch! And she was in Limerick, where were the President of Munster and his soldiers, and Fitzgerald too! Here, indeed, was a pretty heap of faggots, and it was my hand, as it were, that might have placed the fire beneath, and set it in a blaze!
I saw at a glance how easy it would be for Fitzgerald, without intending in any way to do mischief or to betray us to the English, to let drop a word or a hint that might suggest to a quick-witted woman to inquire further into his meaning, and that so dexterously as not to excite in the least any alarm on his part.
And what might not be looked for when she learned that Grace O’Malley, the woman she hated most, and Richard Burke, the man she loved best, were together at Askeaton? And Fitzgerald was said to be madly in love with her! He would therefore be as wax in her hands, and she could mould him to her will as she pleased. Small wonder, then, that I was disturbed, and felt that we were far from secure.
And now there fell out what, at the time, gave me the keenest regret and even pain, though afterwards it proved to be of the most inestimable service to us.
It had become very plain to anyone who gave it the slightest thought, or, indeed, to anyone who used his eyes, that Desmond was infatuated with my mistress. Every moment that he could find was spent in her society, to the neglect of other matters, however important they were. Before he had seen her he had been fascinated by what I had told him of her and her deeds; now that he saw her for himself, and marked how like a queen she was, he was as one bound hand and foot before her.
Grace O’Malley had a great power over men when she chose to exercise it; and now, on her side, she appeared not only to encourage him, but also to be bent upon his complete subjugation.
I marvelled at her, yet assured myself that she could have no love for the man, but that, perceiving the weakness of his character, she took this course in order to make certain of his firm adhesion to our cause. But it was a course full of danger, for the strength of the passion of a man, even of a weak man, is no more to be reckoned up and measured than is the force of a mighty tempest, beginning in a breath and dying out in ruin.