It was the custom in these wars of ours to cut off the heads of the principal men among our fallen enemies; this the body of Sir James Fitzmaurice suffered, the head being sent to Dublin, where it was tarred, and put on a spike above the Castle gate.
But no such indignity befell the body of de Vilela, for, having obtained permission from Sir Nicholas, I took my men, made a solemn mourning for him, and buried him on the field of battle, where the waters of the Mulkern go murmuring past; and there he lies, that true and noble gentleman, in a grave without a name.
And thus ended the battle of Barrington Bridge, as it is called, entailing with it the overthrow and collapse of the rising, for the death of Fitzmaurice—although the war lingered on for long afterwards—was the death of any chance of success it had.
Desmond, who had been hanging about in the vicinity during the battle, but had taken no part in it, later met with an inglorious end, and with him perished his house.
As for Richard Burke and myself, we accompanied Sir Nicholas Malby and his army in various expeditions, until the beginning of the winter, when he set out overland to Galway, and we sailed from Limerick the same day in our ships for that city also. Heaven sent us fair and gentle gales—perhaps, to make up for all the storms through which we had passed—and we came safely into the port of Galway where we lay several days waiting for Sir Nicholas; for, at his particular request, we—Grace O’Malley and the MacWilliam, and Eva and I—were to be married in the church of St. Nicholas of Myra.
And I had heard that when these events came to pass, there were among the spectators many who loved us and wished us well, and many who did not; but to which of these classes Sir Nicholas really belonged I know not, for, in the years that came after, he and Grace O’Malley and her husband, Richard Burke, had many disputes, and the “Queen’s peace” was often broken.
As for myself and Eva, we sailed away from Ireland to my old home in Isla, where I was chosen chief in the room of my uncle, who had succeeded my father, and who was now dead. It was in The Cross of Blood—Grace O’Malley’s last gift to me—that we made our journey, and that I returned to these isles of Scotland.
Many years have passed since, and in our life there has been winter as well as summer; but still there is the same light in Eva’s eyes, and the same love in her voice. It has been our happy lot to grow old together—to grow old in our love for each other, though that love itself is as fresh and new as the flowers of the first mornings of summer.
And so we await the inevitable end.