When all was said, the Governor had no overwhelming force at his disposal, and he was without ships, so that we felt no whit downcast with our lot; contrariwise, there was such gladness amongst us at the promise of the fighting with which our circumstances were pregnant that the hearts of any who doubted were uplifted and made firm and steadfast.
As we were discussing our affairs Eva O’Malley entered the cabin. As our eyes met she smiled upon me, and held out her hand in greeting.
“’Twas well done,” said she, referring to our escape from Galway, her thoughts still dwelling on the adventures of the past night. But when she heard of what we had been speaking, and of the proposed attack on the wine fleet, her sweet face became pale and troubled.
“Darkness and blood,” said she, turning to me. “Oh! Ruari, the words of the Wise Man are to be fulfilled.”
“What must be, must be,” said I, “and there is none can gainsay that.”
She shook her head.
“Eva,” said Grace O’Malley, “the end is as it is appointed from the beginning.” Then she began to reason gently with her foster-sister, and to show her that if the English found they had good reason to fear her they would gladly consent before long to make peace, and to concede what she had asked of Sir Nicholas.
But it was easy to see that my dear was sad and heavy of heart. Grace, ever most tender to her, put her arms about her, and made her sit beside her on a couch, and said many loving words, so that Eva was comforted, albeit some of her brightness vanished from that day, never to return. Although she had already shown how brave she was, and was to exhibit a courage far greater than my own or that of any man I ever knew—her courage being that born of the spirit and ours but of the body—she sure was never made for that hard life of ours.
Gentle and sweet was she, yet the strain of the O’Malley blood ran in her veins, and made itself felt whenever the trials of her strength came.