The air was so darkened by smoke, and there was such a tumult from the shoutings of the soldiers and the clang and clamour of their weapons and all the wild work of war, that it was some time before I could make out de Vilela among the Spaniards. But there he was, his long sword gleaming in his hand, his lips moving, and, though I could not hear what he was saying, I could well imagine that he was exhorting his men to remember Spain, and to acquit themselves as became her sons. Then, as the battle raged, now here, now there, he passed out of my sight.
It is a soldier’s duty to do what his general bids him; but I was glad when Sir Nicholas called upon Burke and myself to lead our people against that part of Fitzmaurice’s army which was chiefly made up of the Geraldines, and which was commanded by Sir James himself. Sir Nicholas rightly judged that our animosity would burn more fiercely against them than against the Spaniards, and we sprang upon them with a fury they could not long withstand.
At the first onset they met us bravely, and for awhile there was much fierce and terrible fighting. Above their hosts there rose the Pope’s banner of blue and gold, and around it and Sanders, who held it, and his priests, they made a stubborn resistance. But they were forced back, and ever back.
I strove to come at Fitzmaurice, but could not for the press. We had a score to settle, and settled it was, but not by me, for it was Burke who dealt him the fatal blow. I had just parried the cunning thrust of a sword, as I was trying to reach Fitzmaurice, when I saw the flash of a pistol in Burke’s hand, and then Sir James swayed and fell forward from his horse. When the Geraldines knew what had taken place, they turned and fled, bearing Sanders and his banner along with them, into the thicknesses of the forest.
Having witnessed the defeat and flight of their Irish allies, the Spaniards could not but be aware that they had small chance of retrieving the fortunes of the day, and they now began to retreat. Attacked on the flanks as well as in the front, they were thrown into disorder, and their retreat became a rout, each man striving to save himself. A few, however, stood their ground to the last, and among them was de Vilela.
“Take him alive!” I shouted; but the words came too late.
I was almost beside him, for I had hoped that he would surrender to me if I asked him to do so, and with that purpose had fought my way even through the English to get near him; but before I reached him he had fallen, his armour all stained with blood, and his sword broken in his hand.
With a great, wild cry of grief, the sharpness of which was like the sundering of my spirit from my body, I threw my sword upon the ground, and, kneeling beside him, called to him to speak to me if he were yet alive. His hand feebly pressed mine, while I wept and sobbed like a little child. The lips trembled and opened; the half-shut eyelids faintly quivered; but he could not speak. Again, however, my hand was feebly pressed. And so he passed—still with his hand in mine—this noble gentleman of Spain.
Nor does there go by a day when I do not think of de Vilela, the man to whom I owed so much—so much that I can never repay.