From the wild men here—half soldiers, half mariners—we heard—not that I could understand a word of their tongue, but Ludar and the old nurse could—that Sorley Boy, Ludar’s father, was already across, hiding in the Antrim Glynns, where, joined by many a friendly clan, he was waiting his chance to swoop down on the English and recapture his ancient fortress. Turlogh Luinech O’Neill, the maiden’s father, we heard, was still lending himself to the invaders, and in return for the Queen’s favour, holding aloof, if not getting ready to fall upon the McDonnells when the time came. Of these last, Alexander, Ludar’s brother, first and favourite son of the great Sorley Boy (for Donnell, the eldest of all, had been slain in battle), was reputed, next to his father, the bravest; he was also in the Glynns; but James and Randal, his other brothers, were in the Isles, raising the Scots there, and waiting the signal to descend with their gallow-glasses on the coveted coast.
Ludar, had he been alone, would have stayed, I think, to join them. But, with the maiden there, he could think of naught until he had rendered her up safely to her father, foeman though he might be. So to-morrow we were to sail for Castleroe, Turlogh’s fort on the western bank of the River Bann, whence, having left our charge, we would repair, Ludar said, sword in hand to his father’s camp.
At daybreak we quitted the McDonnells’ hut in which we had sheltered and went down to the little harbour in the bay. The long Atlantic waves thundered in from the west as if they would bar our passage, and I wondered much at the peril of crossing that angry channel in so frail a craft.
But Ludar laughed when I questioned him.
“These galleys,” said he, “have carried my fathers on stormier seas than this—ay, and the maiden’s fathers too; therefore they may be trusted to carry you now, Humphrey.”
“I care naught for myself,” said I, “and you know it. Nay, Ludar, if it comes to that, I had as soon be under those waves as upon them.”
He looked at me in his strange solemn way.
“Friend,” he said, “you are unhappy. Was it always so, or is it because I, with a great happiness in me, see more than I once did? Humphrey,” added he, “that maiden has said to me that she loves me. Can you credit it?”
I locked his hand in mine. Would that I could show him to you as he stood there; his face ablaze with triumph, yet almost humbled with his good fortune. Then, as he looked on me, the blaze softened into a look of pity.
“I am selfish,” said he, “while you are far away from her you love. Yet I could not help telling it, Humphrey. Heaven give you the same secret one day to tell me! But here she comes. Take her beside you at the helm. As for me, the light is too strong in my eyes for me to steer. I must be alone here in the prow, till the world take shape again.”