ago?”
“The Macleans,” I gasped, for speech was still a burden to me. But before long my tongue was loosened, and I told them all I knew of what had happened.
“The Macleans,” said I, “of the Rinns of Isla, who were ever our foes, but with whom we had been at peace for a long time, suddenly set upon and surprised my father’s castle by night. I was awakened by the sounds of clashing swords and the death shrieks of men and women – the most fearsome cries – so that my blood ran cold and my heart stood still.”
I stopped and choked as I spoke. The maid nodded kindly, and put her little hand in mine.
“Although I had never seen a fight,” continued I, “I had been told often and often of battles, so I guessed at once what was going on. I got up from my couch, and in the darkness called my mother’s name, but she answered not. I was alone in the chamber. Terrified, I shrieked and sobbed. Then the room filled with smoke. The castle was on fire. Making the best of my way to the door I was clasped in my mother’s arms. She carried a lighted torch, but I came upon her so sharply that it fell out of her hand and was extinguished.
“’We are lost,’ she wailed, pressing me wildly against her bosom, while I could feel her heart beating fast and hard against my own.
“’What, is it, mother?’ I asked; but I knew without any words from her.
“We were standing in a corridor, but the smoke soon became so dense that we could no longer endure it. Hardly knowing what she did, I think, she dragged me along to a window in the room where I had slept, and opening it, looked out. The yard of the castle was alive with men holding blazing sticks of fir, and flames shot up from the burning door of the central tower in which we stood. I also looked out, and noticed dark, silent forms lying prone upon the ground.
“’Fire or sword? What matters it?’ I heard her whisper to herself. ’Lost, lost, lost! Oh, Ruari, my son, my son!’ And she kissed me – the last kisses she ever gave.”
I broke down weeping. The little hand of the maid caressed and soothed me.
“We had been spied from the yard,” I went on, after I had had my fill of crying, and a great hoarse voice rose above the din.
“’Fetch me the woman and the child alive!’ was what it said.
“’It is Red Angus Maclean,’ said my mother, hopelessly.
“Then four clansmen plunged through the smoke and flame, and burst in upon us. Seizing us roughly, they took us half dead to Red Angus.
“’Do what you will with me,’ said my mother, falling on her knees before him, ’but shed not the blood of the lad,’ she implored and prayed of him. ’He has never done you any harm.’
“He scowled at us, and played with the handle of his dirk.
“’Why should I not slay ye both?’ said he. ’When did ever a Macdonald spare a Maclean, tell me that?’ He paused, as if in thought. ’But listen,’ he began again. ’Choose you,’ said he, speaking to my mother, ’for such is my humour, choose you, your life or the boy’s.’
“’Thank ye,’ said my mother. ’Never did I think I should live to thank a Maclean. Swear you will not shed his innocent blood, and I shall die gladly.’
“’Have ye chosen?’ said he.
“’Will ye swear not to put him to the sword?’
“’Yes,’ said he, and glared at her.
“’Ye have chosen,’ said he at length.
“’Yes,’ said my mother; and with her eyes fixed on me, she fell beneath the stabs of his dirk; but even as she fell I sprang from the arms of the men who held me, and leapt like a wild cat of Mull straight for his throat, but he caught and crushed me in his grip.
“’Remember your oath!’ cried my mother to him, and died.
“Seeing that she was dead he laughed a terrible laugh, so empty of mirth and so full of menace was it.
“’Ay, I shall keep my oath,’ said he. ’No drop of his blood shall be shed. But die he too must, and so shall this accursed brood be destroyed from off the face of the earth. Bind him so that he cannot escape,’ he ordered.
“And they bound me with strips of tanned deerskin, even as you saw when I was found in the drifting boat. Then he spoke to two of his men, who carried me down to the beach, and threw me into the bottom of the boat. Getting themselves into another, they towed that which I was in some two or three miles from shore, until, indeed, I could hear the struggling of the waters made by the tide, called the ’Race of Strangers.’ And then they left me to the mercy of the sea.”
“How long ago was that?” asked the maid.
“Two days ago,” I replied. “I drifted, drifted with wave and tide, expecting every moment to be swallowed up; and part of the time, perhaps, I slept, for I cannot remember everything that took place. And then you found the boat, and me in it,” I added simply.
“’Tis a strange story,” said the maid’s father; and he turned away to see to the working of the ship, which was straining and plunging heavily in the swell, and left us two children to ourselves.
I looked at the maid, who had been so tender and kind.
“Who are ye?” I asked timidly.
“I am Grace O’Malley,” said she proudly, “the daughter of Owen O’Malley of Erris and of Burrishoole in Connaught – he who has just gone from us.”
And then she told me of herself, of her father, and of her people, and that the ship was now returning to Clare Island, which belonged to them.
“See,” said she, pointing through a window in the stern, “there are the headlands of Achill, only a few miles from Clare Island,” and I looked out and saw those black ramparts of rock upon which the ocean hurls itself in vain.
“Now Clare Island comes into view,” she continued, and peeping out again I beheld the shoulder of the hill of Knockmore looming up, while beyond it lay a mass of islands, and still further away the mountains on the coast.
“All this,” said the maid with a sweep of her hand, “and the mainland beyond, is the Land of the O’Malleys.”
“And is the water also yours?” I asked, attempting a boy’s shy pleasantry, for so had she won me from my grief.
“Yes,” replied the maid, “the water even more than the land is ours.” And she looked – what she was, though but a little maid – the daughter of a king of the sea.
CHAPTER II.
THE PRINCESS BEGINS HER REIGN
Ten years, swift as the flight of wild swans winging their way southward when the first wind of winter sweeps behind them, passed over our heads in the Land of the O’Malleys; nor did they pass without bringing many changes with them. And yet it so happened that no very startling or determining event occurred till at the very close of this period.
The little maid who had saved me from the sea had grown into a woman, tall of stature and queenly in carriage – in a word, a commanding figure, one to be obeyed, yet also one who had the gifts which made obedience to her pleasant and easy. Already she had proved herself in attack by sea or assault on shore a born leader, brave as the bravest man amongst us all, but with a mind of larger grasp than any of ours.
Yet were there times when she was as one who sees visions and feeds on fantasies; and I was ever afraid for her and us when I saw in her face the strange light shining through the veil of the flesh which spoke of the dreaming soul.
But more than anything else, she possessed in perfection a woman’s power to fascinate and charm. Her smiles were bright and warm as the sunshine, and she seemed to know what she should say or do in order that each man should bring to her service of his best. For this one, the ready jest, the gay retort, the laughing suggestion, the hinted rebuke; for that, plain praise or plain blame, as she thought suited the case. She understood how to manage men. And yet