Nuala O'Malley Page 2

  CHAPTER II.

  THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM.

  The people of every nation--that is, the tillers of the soil, the peoplewho form the backbone of their race--are in continual expectancy of aMan and a Day. Theirs is always the, perhaps, dumb hope, but still thehope, that in their future lie these two things, a Man and a Day.Sometimes the Man has come and the Day has failed; sometimes the Day hascome and there has been no Man to use it; but now all Ireland had sweptup in a wild roar, knowing that the Man and the Day had come together.

  And so, in truth, they had. Owen, the Ruadh, or red, O'Neill, had foughta desperate struggle against the royalists. Little by little he hadcemented his own people together, his personal qualities and hissplendid generalship had overborne all else, and the victory of Benburbhad crowned the whole. Then Owen Ruadh was stricken down with sickness,Cromwell landed and stormed Drogheda, and Yellow Brian had fought clearand fled away to the kinsman he had never seen.

  Now, standing on the castle ramparts overlooking Lough Oughter, YellowBrian stared moodily out at the lake. His identity had been revealed tonone, and the name of Brian Buidh had little meaning to any in Ireland.Years since he who was The O'Neill, the same whom the English calledEarl of Tyr-owen, had fled with his family from the land. His eldest sonJohn had settled at the Spanish court.

  John was a spineless man, unworthy son of a great father, content toidle away his life in ease and quiet. And it was in the court of Spainthat Brian O'Neill had been born, with only an old Irishwoman to nursehim and teach him the tongue and tidings of Ireland which his fathercared nothing for.

  Yellow Brian had written out these things, sending the letter to thesick general who lay within the castle. His terrible news of Droghedahad created consternation, but already O'Neill's forces had been sent tojoin the royalists against the common foe. All Ireland was distraught bywar. Royalist, patriot, and Parliament man fought each against theother, and the only man who could have faced Cromwell lay sick untodeath.

  The Day was passing, the Man was passing, and shadow lay upon all theland.

  A man came up and touched Yellow Brian's arm, with word that Owen Ruadhwould see him at once. Brian nodded, following. He was well garbed now,and a steel jack glittered from beneath his dark-red cloak as he strodealong. Upon his strong-set face brooded bitterness, but his eyes wereyoung for all their cold blue, and his ruddy hair shone like spun goldin the sunlight; while his firm mouth and chin, his erect figure, andhis massive shoulders gained him more than one look of appreciationfrom the clustered O'Reillys.

  He followed the attendant to a large room, whose huge mantel was carvenwith the red hand and supporting lions of the clan Reilly, and passedover to the bed beside the window. He had requested to see O'Neillalone, and the attendant withdrew silently. Brian approached the bed,and stood looking down at the man who was passing from Ireland.

  Sharp and bright were the eyes as ever, but the red beard was grayed andthe face was waxen; a spark of color came to it, as Owen Ruadh stretchedforth a hand to take that of his visitor.

  "Brian O'Neill!" he exclaimed, in a voice singularly like that of Brianhimself. "Welcome, kinsman! But why the silence you enjoined in yourletter?"

  "My name is Yellow Brian," answered the younger man somberly. "I havenone other, general. You know the gist of my story, and here is therest. I broke with my father, for he would hear nothing of my coming toIreland. So I cast off his name and left him to his cursed idleness,reaching Drogheda barely in time to take part in the siege. I managed tocut through, as you know, and meant to take service with you--"

  He paused, for words did not come easily to him, as with all his race. Alow groan broke from the crippled warrior.

  "Too late, kinsman, too late! Cromwell is come, and I will never sit ahorse again--ah, no protests, lad! How old are you?"

  "Twenty-three."

  "By my faith, you look thirty! Lad, my heart is sore for you. I amwasted and broken. I have no money, and Cromwell will shatter all beforehim; I can do naught save give you advice."

  "I want naught," broke in Brian quickly, a little glint as of ice in hisblue eyes. "Not for that did I cast off my name and come to--"

  "Tut, tut, lad!" O'Neill reproved him gently. "I understand, so say nomore of that matter. You are Brian Buidh, but to me you are my kinsman,the rightful head of my house. You can do two things, YellowBrian--either follow my advice, or go down to ruin with all Ireland. Nowsay, which shall it be?"

  Brian gazed at him with thoughtful face. What was the meaning of thisdark speech? As he looked into the keen, death-smitten eyes of the manwho might have saved Ireland, he smiled a little.

  "I see naught but ruin, Owen Ruadh," he replied slowly. "I care littlefor my life, having no ties left on this earth--"

  "Oh, nonsense!" broke in the other impatiently. "You are young, lad--thebitterness will soon pass, trust me. Now see, here is my advice, suchadvice as I would give no other man alive. I am dying, Yellow Brian.Well, I know that Cromwell will break down all I have built up, and Ican see no brightness for my country. But for you I can see much. Youare young, powerful, the last of the old race; you look strangely likethe old earl, Brian!"

  The younger man started. For the first time in many days he rememberedthat crazed hag he had met by the Dee water the night of Drogheda.

  "Now, harken well. I tell you that our house lies in the dust, Brian;there is no hope for it or for any O'Neill. But for Yellow Brian thereis hope. You must carve out a holding for yourself, for you are a rulerof men by your face, lad. Go into Galway, and there, where Cromwell'smen will have hardest fighting of all, gather a force and make head. Ihave heard strange tales of a man who has done this very thing--they sayhe has seized on a castle somewhere near Bertraghboy Bay, in Galway,and-- But I am getting weak, Brian lad. Hearken well--Ireland is lost;carve out now for your own hand, for the Red Hand of the old house, lad!And take this for my sake."

  Almost whispering the last words, Owen Ruadh took from his finger asignet graven deeply with the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. Brian accepted itgravely, kissed the hand that gave it, and with tears choking histhroat, left the chamber of the man who was passing from Ireland.

  He had been there a brief fifteen minutes, yet it seemed that an age hadpassed. Both he and the sick man had said much in few words, for theywere both men who spared speech and did much. But Brian had received agreat wrench.

  As he had said, he had cast off his father, for the grandfather's bloodran riot within him, and had kindled to burning rage against thesluggard who had made his name a thing of reproach in all lands. Withthe overstrong bitterness of youth he had meant to die sword in hand,fighting for Ireland. The few burning words of Owen Ruadh had strippedall this false heroism from him, however, and had sent a flame of sanityinto his brain.

  Brian returned slowly to the round tower, and stood looking out over thewaters, for the castle was built on an island in the lake a mile fromshore. It was nearing sunset, and snow was in the air--the first snow,for this was the end of September.

  "Ruin--the storm of men!" He repeated unconsciously the words of the hagwho had stopped him by the Dee water. "What shall I do? Which is thepart of a man, after all; to fall for Ireland or to hew out new landsand found a new house in the west? By my hilt! That old hag told metruly after all!"

  At that thought he stood silent, his eyes troubled. What was this fatewhich seemed to drive him into the west, instead of leading him to theflame of swords as he had so long hoped and dreamed? Death meant littleto him; honor meant much. All his life he had lived in Spain, yet it hadbeen a double life. He had ridden and hunted and learned arms with theyoung nobles of the court, but he had talked and sorrowed and dreamedwith the old Irishwoman who had nursed him.

  After all, it is often the dreams of the youth which determine thecareer of the man, he reflected.

  Which path should he take? As he stood there struggling with himself,his hand went unconsciously to his long, powerful jaw; it was a gesturehabitual with him when in deep t
hought--which he seldom was, however.Now the youth in him spoke for death, now the sanity which had flashedinto his brain from that of the sick man spoke for the life of deeds andrenown which lay in the west.

  An incident might turn him either way--and the incident came in theshape of a very tall old man who wore the Irish garb of belted,long-sleeved tunic and woolen hose, with iron-soled shoes. The old man'sface was cunning, but his eyes were bright and keen and deep gray; hisgray hair hung low to conceal his lopped ears, and there hung about himan indescribable air of shrewdness faced with apparent openness ofheart.

  Brian glanced at him, remembered that he had heard him called TurloughWolf, and looked away carelessly, absorbed in his own thought. But theold man halted abruptly with an exclamation:

  "_Corp na diaoul!_ Where got you that face and that gesture, Droghedaman?"

  Brian looked at him, frowning.

  "What mean you, Turlough Wolf?"

  The other stared, his thin jaw fallen.

  "Why--why," he stammered, "I thought it had been The O'Neill come tolife again! When I was a boy I have seen the earl hold his hand to hischin--often, often! And--and you look like him, Brian Buidh---"

  "Nonsense!" Brian forced a laugh, but as he folded his arms again theglitter of O'Neill's ring on his finger caught the sharp gray eyes.

  Turlough Wolf started.

  "Listen!" he said, coming forward insinuatingly. "Yellow Brian, no manknows who you are, nor do I ask. But Turlough Wolf knows a man when hesees one, a chieftain among men. I owe no man service; but if you willneed a swift brain, a cunning hand, and an eye that can read the heartsof men, I will serve you."

  Brian looked down into the shrewd face in wonder, then waved animpatient hand.

  "No use, Turlough Wolf. I have no money to pay for service, and to-nightI must ride out to seek I know not what--nay, whether I ride west oreast or south, I know not!"

  He turned abruptly, wishing to close the matter, but the old man laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.

  "I seek no money, Yellow Brian. I seek only a master such as yourself; aman who is a master among men, and whom I can set higher still if hewill heed my counsels. I am old, you are young; I know all parts of theland by heart, from the Mayo shore to Youghal, and I am skilled at manythings. Take my service and you will not regret it."

  Brian hesitated. After all, he considered, the thing came close to beinguncanny. The Black Woman by Dee water; Owen Ruadh himself, and now thisUlysseslike Turlough Wolf--whither was fate driving him? Was he reallyto meet such persons as the Bird Daughter and Cathbarr of the Ax, orwere they only the figment of a crazed old woman's brain?

  So he hesitated, gazing down into those clear gray eyes. And as helooked it seemed to him that he found strange things in them, strangeurgings that touched the chords of his soul. After all, adventure lay inthe west, and he was young!

  "Good!" he said, gravely extending his hand. "To-night we ride to thewest, you and I. Come; let us see O'Reilly about horses."

  And this was the beginning of the storm of men that came upon the west.