It was now my turn to ask questions, and I inquired how many men Fitzmaurice had with him, and if these were all, or were we to look for more?
“There are four hundred of us—Spaniards, Italians, Irish, and English; these English,” he added, “are not of the Queen’s religion. And as to what we may expect, Father Sanders will tell you more,” and he turned to one of the priests standing near. “Father,” said he to the priest, “this is Ruari Macdonald, foster-brother of Grace O’Malley of Erris and the Isles of Connaught.”
“You have just come from Desmond,” said Sanders; “I have heard something of what you have been saying, and your mistress is with us.”
“Yes,” I replied, “Grace O’Malley is at Askeaton.”
“She is firm in the cause?”
“She, and all of us, are proclaimed rebels,” cried I, “so you may judge for yourself.”
Then he exchanged glances with Fitzmaurice, and continued, “And Desmond? what of him?”
Thereupon I gave them an account of what had occurred at Askeaton since our arrival there.
“I do not see,” said Sanders, when I had done, “how the Earl could have acted otherwise. As he said, he had to wait till the time was ripe. But now, the time is ripe, and the Desmond war-cry will soon resound on every side!” And the priest looked fixedly at Fitzmaurice, who, however, remained silent.