“There are no English spies alive now in Tralee,” said he more calmly, “to carry tales to Limerick.”
He had stabbed to death Carter and Davell, as they lay asleep, with his own dagger.
And one of them had saved his life, and both had counted themselves his friends!
I felt myself growing sick with horror of the man and his deed. To slay men in a fight was one thing, but to kill sleeping men under one’s own roof was another and a very different thing.
And with the horror there came a nameless fear.
CHAPTER XX.
SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS.
Once the first shock of this terrible affair was over my thoughts were so many, and withal so dreary, that it was impossible for me to get any sleep in the short hours which yet remained before the day dawned.
I sought and found excuses for Sir John, but the excuses did not wholly satisfy me. For, if against this act of treachery of his, there might and could be set instances as base on the part of the English rulers of Ireland, that made it not the less foul.