“Ruari Macdonald!” thundered he with curses, “you always had a proud stomach! Who are you to speak to me in this fashion? What have I to do with your mistress? What if I do know where she is? What affair of mine is it? Go and seek Desmond.”
But he had said enough.
“You know where she is,” cried I, wildly. “Tell me, and I will go and find Desmond.”
“Ay, and ruin all,” said he half to himself. “No, I will not tell you; that would be but to add to the mischief. No! Grace O’Malley must yield to Desmond, and then all will be well.”
“Yield to Desmond!” exclaimed I. “She will never do that.”
“Ay, but she will be forced to do so,” said he, with a horrible smile.
“Never!” said I. “I know her better than you do; she will die rather than submit.”
“Then,” said he, fiercely, “let her die!”
“Is that your last word?” asked I, furiously.
He rose up at me like an angry beast, and, shaking his outstretched hand at me, shouted, “Curses on you both! Who is your mistress, as you call her, and what is she to stand in the way of a Desmond? Who is she to come between us and the deliverance of Ireland? Shall a woman block up the path—only a woman!” And on he went in his wrath, saying many injurious things of Grace O’Malley, until at last he applied to her the vilest of names.