She gazed at me, as one who considered anxiously a thing which puzzled her.
“It is not the treasure, surely?” said she. “When did you care for anything save the taking of it?” Then a light leaped into her eyes, and she laughed more heartily than she had done for days. “You do not like Don Francisco? That is it!” And she laughed again.
“Don Francisco is well enough,” said I, but she passed the empty words by.
“Eva is but a young lass,” said she, with the hardness gone from her face, so tender had it become all at once, “and the Don, who is certainly a gallant gentleman, and not a love-sick boy, gives her pleasure with his tales and romances. That is all!”
A love-sick boy! That was I, Ruari Macdonald. So Grace O’Malley knew my secret; did Eva know it also?
“Grace O’Malley,” said I, resting on the oars, in anguish, for her words brought no solace to me, “my heart is sore.”
“Ruari,” said she impatiently, “you are nothing but a big boy. Eva had a liking for de Vilela, and so have I, but neither of us has any love for him.”
“She does not love him!” cried I doubtfully, yet with a gladness unspeakable conquering the doubt; “she does not love him!”
“Listen, Ruari!” said my mistress, with a deep, almost melancholy gravity. “If this noble Spaniard love her truly, and she do not him, consider how terrible a misfortune has befallen him. To love greatly, nobly, truly—”and then she paused—”and to find that such a love is unreturned——” and again she stopped. “But love is not for me; these Caves of Silence give me strange thoughts,” continued she.
Here was my mistress in a mood that was new to me, and I held my peace, wondering. I had deemed that her thoughts were set on war and her quarrel with the Governor of Galway, forgetting, as I so often did, that she was a woman as well as our princess and chief.