And then—the thing was plain enough.
A woman’s wit is a wonderful thing, and well is it for us men that the loves and the hates of women do dim the brightness of it, else would we be dazzled and blind and dumb all our days, and our strength be but a vain thing.
“What think you of my plot?” said the young gentleman adventurer, this Spanish knight, who was my mistress.
“You are a great magician, señor!” said I, taking her humour. “And what would you with this Ruari Macdonald—once the sworn servant of an Irish princess, known as Grace O’Malley?”
“By my faith,” cried she, “I would not have him changed for all the world.”
And the words were dear to me, so that my heart glowed within me—even as it does now at the memory of them.
Then she spoke to me with some fulness of the snare she was preparing for the two galleons, now beating up towards the Sound.
It was the case, no doubt, said she, that the five ships of the wine fleet had been scattered over the western seas by the storm, but those Tibbot had seen had managed to keep by each other or had come together again, and were travelling as slowly as possible, with a view to picking up their companion vessel, and, further, that their sailing powers would most probably have been reduced by the damage wrought upon them by the tempest.
Her purpose was to stand off and on in the Sound, manœuvring the Capitana in such a way as to indicate that she had also suffered from the violence of the weather; to allow the ships to come up within near hail of her—which they would be certain to do, as they could have no suspicion of what had befallen the Capitana, especially as they would be able to see nothing strange in the appearance of the galleon or in the dress of those on board of her—and then to trust to the chances of the hour for the rest.