Sir Ludar Part 24

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 pa.s.sage, 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."

The galley was a long open boat with a single square sail, and thwarts for twelve rowers. To-day six st.u.r.dy Scots took the oars, all McDonnells, who wondered much that Ludar should lie forward, leaving the fair maid and me at the helm. As for the old nurse, whose courage revived as the opposite headlands rose up to view, she ensconced herself amidships, and crooned in her native tongue with the rowers. We needed to row many a mile, round the island, before we could hope to hoist our sail. Yet, I could not help marvelling at the vigour of the oarsmen, and at the speed and steadiness of our boat over the billows.

The maiden, who by her blushes when we first met that morning had confirmed Ludar's story, was content enough to sit in the stern with me, while he courted solitude in the prow. She sat a long while silent, looking seaward, and, I think, with the self-same light in her eyes which dimmed those of Ludar. Presently, however, she turned her face to me and said, almost suddenly:

"Humphrey, tell me more of that maiden you spoke about. Why does she not love you?"

I knew not what to say, the question was so unlooked for. I tried to laugh it off.

"Ask her that," said I. "Why should she? I am not Sir Ludar."

"No," said she gently, and then her face blushed once more, and she dropped silent, looking away seaward.

I was sorry for my churlish speech, and feared it had given her offence.

But here I was wrong, for presently she said again:

"Is she the little maid who talks to you at home in French, and whom you carried in your arms. Tell me more of her, Humphrey."

To please her I obeyed. And somehow, as I recalled all the gentle ways of my sweet little mistress, and the quaint words she had spoken, and, in fancy, saw once again her bright face, and remembered how she had always taken my part and chased away the clouds from my brow--somehow I knew not how, the memory seemed very pleasant to me; and I called to mind more yet, and wondered with myself how little I had had her in my thoughts since last we parted that cruel day in Kingston street.

As I talked, the maiden listened, her eyes stealing now and again to where Ludar lay wrestling with his mighty happiness in the prow, and then returning, half frightened, half pitying, to encourage me to tell her more. Which I did. And then, when all was said, she asked again:

"And why does she not love you?"

"Indeed," replied I, "I never asked her. Nor do I know if I love her myself."

She smiled at that.

"May I answer for you? No? At least I love her, Humphrey, and for her sake and yours she shall be a sister to me and--"

"And Ludar," said I, as she stopped short.

"Yes, to me and Ludar."

Then we fell to talk about Ludar, and so the day wore on, till, as the sun stood over our heads, we breasted the fair Island of Raughlin.

Here Ludar, with gloomy face, came astern to tell a story.

'Twas neither brief nor merry; but, as he told it with flashing eyes and voice which rose and fell with the dashing waves, we listened with heaving bosoms. 'Twas of a boy, who once played with his comrades on that self-same Island of Raughlin. How in the pleasant summer time he had learned from his n.o.ble brothers to draw the bow, and, child as he was, to brandish the spear. How maidens were there, some of whom he called his sisters; and how they sang the wild legends of the coast and told him tales of lovers and fairies and heroes. And how, now and again a white boat came over from the mainland, and on it a n.o.ble warrior, gigantic in form, with his yellow locks streaming in the breeze, and the sun flashing on his gilded collar and naked sword. That n.o.ble man was the boy's father, and the scarcely less n.o.ble form at his side, less by a head than his sire, yet taller by a head than most of his clansmen, was the boy's elder brother. And how the boy followed these two wherever they went, and begged them to take him to the wars on the mainland; and they smiled and bade him wait ten years. So he was left with the women and children on the island, while the men went off in galleys to fight the invader. Then one fatal day, how they woke to see white-sailed ships in the offing and boats of armed men landing on the sh.o.r.e, and how in doubt and terror women and children and old men hastened to yonder castle on the hill, and begged the few armed men there stand to their guard.

"Then," said Ludar, with thunder in his face, "the strangers spread like flies over the fair island and surrounded the castle. To resist was useless. The armed men offered to yield if the women and children and old men were spared. 'Yield, then,' said the captain, and the gate was opened. Then the false villains shouted with laughter, and slew the armed men before the eyes of the helpless captives. 'Bring a torch!'

shouted some. 'Drive them back into their kennel!' shouted others.

Then a cry went up, so terrible that on the light summer breeze it floated to the mainland, to where on the headland the n.o.ble father of that boy stood, like a statue of horror, as the flames shot up. The wretched captives fought among themselves who should reach the door and die on the sword of the enemy rather than by the fire. That boy saw his playmates tossed in sport on the swords of their murderers, and heard his sisters shriek to him--boy as he was--to slay them before a worse death befel. Then he forgot all, except that when, days after, he awoke, he was in the heart of a deep cave into which the sea surged, carrying with it corpses. For a week he stayed there, tended by a rough shepherd, living on seaweed and fish, and well-nigh mad with thirst. At last came a boat; and when that boy woke once more he was in the castle of his n.o.ble father, whose face was like the midnight, and whose once yellow hair was as white as the snow."

"That is the story," said Ludar. "I was that boy."

"And the murderers," said I, falteringly, for I guessed the answer.

"The murderers, Humphrey," said he, "were of the same race as your worst enemy and mine."

This gloomy story cast a cloud over our voyage; until, after long silence, during which we sat and watched the rocky coast of the ill- omened Island, the maiden said:

"Sir Ludar, there are older stories of Raughlin than yours. Listen while I sing you of the wedding of Taise Taobhgheal, which befel there when yonder hill was crowned by a beautiful white city, with houses of gla.s.s, and when warriors shone in golden armour."

Then she sang a brave martial ballad of a famous battle, which was fought on those coasts for the hand of the beautiful Taise Taobhgheal.

And the clear music of her voice, to which the rowers lent a chorus, helped charm away the sadness of Ludar's tale, and while away the time till, having rounded the island, we hoisted our brown sail and flew upon the waves past the great organ-shaped cliffs of the mainland.

The sun had long set behind the western foreland ere we caught ahead of us the roar of the surf on the bar which lay across the river's mouth.

Our rowers had pa.s.sed that way many a time before, and plunged us headlong into the mighty battle of the waters where river and sea met.

For a short minute it seemed as if no boat could live in such a whirl; but, before we well knew the danger, we were in calm water within the bar, sailing gaily down the broad, moonlit river.

Then Ludar and the maiden grew sad at the parting which was to come; and I, being weary of the helm, left them and went forward.

Beautiful the river was in the moonlight, with the woods crowding down to its margin, broken now and again by rugged knolls or smooth shining meadows. To me it was strange to be in Ireland and yet have all remind me of my own Thames, all except the wild chant of the foreign rowers.

Many a mile we rowed then, or rather glided. For Ludar bade the men slacken speed and let the night spend itself before we presented ourselves at Castleroe. Therefore we took in the oars after a while and floated idly on the tide.

The old nurse came forward to where I sat, very dismal and complaining.

"Ochone!" said she. "This has been a sore journey, Master Humphrey. My bones ache and my spirits are clean gone. Musha! it's myself would fain be back in London town after all. There'll be none to know Judy O'Cahan here; and I've nigh forgotten the speech and manners of the place mysel'. And my heart sinks for the sweet maiden."

"Why, what ails her?" I asked. "Has she not come to her father's house?"

"Ay, ay, so it's called, so it's called. 'Tis Turlogh owns Castleroe, but 'tis my Lady of Cantire owns Turlogh. He durst not bless himself if she forbid. She wants no English step-daughters, I warrant ye; or if she do, 'twill be to buy and sell with, and further her own greedy plans. I know my Lady; and I know how it will fare with my sweet maid.

I tell thee, Master Humphrey, Turlogh, brave lad as he was, must now do as his grand Lady bids, and 'twere better far the maiden had stayed in her nunnery school."

"Why, Judy," said I, "you forget he sent to England for her; and that now, since this voyage began, she has found a protector who will ease both the lord and lady of Castleroe of her charge."

She laughed.

"Little you know, master 'prentice. But there comes the dawn."