“That pestilent and notable woman,” said he, “Grace O’Malley, and all her tribe of robbers and murderers and pirates.”
Then he told me how she had destroyed the wine fleet of Galway, and so had come near to ruining the trade of the port.
“She is a devil,” quoth he, and he crossed himself, “and the Governor will kill her and her people.”
“A woman!” cried I, with a great show of being astonished beyond measure.
“Ay, a woman,” said he, “but she must be a devil.” And he crossed himself again. Then he added: “If she be not the very devil in the shape of a woman, there is with her a man, a giant—a great, strong giant—whom she calls her brother, but who is said to have come out of the sea, and is no man at all, but a devil too. Some say he is a Redshank of the Scots, but I tell you he is a devil too.”
And thus the fellow maundered on, while I found some trouble in restraining myself from bursting into laughter in his face. Having, however, thanked him civilly for his alms and information, I gave him my blessing—a devil’s blessing—and so left him.
We were devils!
What, then, were those who thought nothing of breaking a safe-conduct, or of poisoning the wine at banquets to which they had invited their victims as loving guests? Yet the first had happened in the case of my mistress, and the second had been the fate of many an Irish chief.
We were devils, and so to be feared! It was no such bad thing at that time and in that land to be counted as devils, for men who had no fear of God before their eyes, nor of his saints, were afraid of devils.