A couple of hours were spent in this way, and, disturbed beyond measure by reason of my inability even to breathe a word of warning to my mistress—I had resolved to say nothing of their peril to the woman I loved, fearing lest it might prove too hard a trial for her, wherein I misjudged her strength most grievously—I bade them farewell for that day.
As I left I encountered the Governor, who was coming up the street. He reined up his horse, and, after uttering a few courteous words, asked me not to fail to go through the square of the town cross on my way to the quay. He said this with so much curious insistence in his tone that my interest was roused to the quick.
As a man enters this square from the east side the first object which meets the eye is not the town cross, but the town gallows. As soon as I had turned the corner of the street I perceived that from the gibbet there swung in the wind, forward and backward as the breeze rose and fell, the figure of a man. That the Governor had intended me to see this, and that it had some special lesson for me, I did not doubt, so I pressed forward smartly. Yet it was with an amazed horror that I beheld the dead man’s face.
For the victim was none other than Michael Martin, my antagonist of the previous afternoon. The Governor had followed the matter up, and had discovered him whom he had called the aggressor in the interrupted duel. Verily was the Queen’s peace being maintained with a vengeance. I had read the ruthless character of Sir Nicholas aright. Here, what had been a man, had been tried, sentenced, and executed in a few hours; and that Martin had occupied no inconsiderable position in Galway showed that the Governor was afraid of none.
If he would not hesitate to act in this fashion in the case of one of the English of Galway, how much less would he care for the Irish of Connaught? This I perceived plainly enough was what he desired Martin’s death to intimate to me. For myself, notwithstanding what had passed between Martin and me, I was hot and indignant that a man so brave as he should have been put to so foul a death.
It was in a melancholy mood that I bent my steps to the quay, albeit I made a great effort to keep from my face the troubled thoughts of my mind. Not only had I failed in acquainting Grace O’Malley with her real position, but I was also well aware that the hatred with which she inspired the people of Galway would be made all the fiercer by the death of Martin.
Striving to cast aside these sombre reflections as unmanly, and likely only to hamper me in any plan I might make for the freeing of my mistress, I went on board The Cross of Blood. I, at least, was free as yet, and ready to do and dare all. But so far I could not see my way, and had I been left to myself to carry out the device Richard Burke and I had formed, would probably have suffered some such fate as that of Michael Martin.
The next three days passed without any striking event. I had seen my mistress once at the Mayor’s mansion, and the attempts I made to reach her private ear were met and checked as effectively as before. I noticed, however, that while she appeared as gay as ever, there was a something about her that suggested in one way or another she was now conscious that she was not at complete liberty.
She had desired—so I got to know later on—to go down to her galley, but obstacles had been put in her path and objections had been raised. Then she had grasped the situation in which she had been placed, but had both the courage and the wisdom not to let this be evident.