She was silent, however, and I could see from her rapt, indrawn look, that her thoughts had wandered far away from us and the galleys and the wine fleet--perhaps to Spain and its shifty King. I, too, was busy thinking, and, as I conceived that we had affairs immediately before us of more importance than even Philip of Spain, I made bold to interrupt her reveries.
“We can at least gather from the two men,” said I, “how many ships were in the wine fleet. The rest of them cannot now be far off from us.”
“Yes,” said she, rousing herself from her musings like one from slumber, “they informed me that there were nine galleons in the fleet when they left Cadiz, four of them were bound for Limerick and five for Galway.”
“Then there are still four ships for us to fight,” I exclaimed. “Let the chest of gold and the King of Spain wait, say I. Would it not be well, now that the wind has fallen, to send one of the galleys to keep a look-out?”
“Tibbot the Pilot,” she replied, “already watches the Sound in _The Winged Horse_. The galleons will most likely have been separated from each other by the recent storms, but if any one of them comes into sight we will quickly be apprised of it.”
“Have you not had enough of fighting for one day?” asked Eva.
“We have vowed vengeance on Galway,” I said, and Eva said no more, but sighed deeply.
There was a knocking at the door of the cabin, and a servant entered with the message that Don Francisco de Vilela and Dermot Fitzgerald desired speech of Grace O’Malley, to thank her for her kindness to them. Permission being granted, the two men soon made their appearance. They had eaten, had washed themselves, and were attired in fresh clothes taken from the supplies on board the galleon, and looked very different, I imagine, from what they had done when they had emerged from the hole in the _Capitana_, where they had been imprisoned.
Both of them bowed with a profound reverence to my mistresses, and I took note, even in the half-light, of the contrast they made as they stood together. The Irishman was fair and ruddy, the Spaniard dark and swarthy as most Spaniards are. Fitzgerald was tall--nearly as tall as myself--Don Francisco of the middle height, but having a very soldierly bearing and an air of resolution which his comrade lacked. Thus much I saw at a glance.