“Ah,” said Cary, “there, as in Ireland, we are proving her majesty’s saying true, that Devonshire is her right hand, and the young children thereof like the arrows in the hand of the giant.”

“They may well be,” said his son, “when some of them are giants themselves, like my tall school-fellow opposite.”

“He will be up and doing again presently, I’ll warrant him,” said old Cary.

“And that I shall,” quoth Amyas.  “I have been devising brave deeds; and see in the distance enchanters to be bound, dragons choked, empires conquered, though not in Holland.”

“You do?” asked Will, a little sharply; for he had had a half suspicion that more was meant than met the ear.

“Yes,” said Amyas, turning off his jest again, “I go to what Raleigh calls the Land of the Nymphs.  Another month, I hope, will see me abroad in Ireland.”

“Abroad?  Call it rather at home,” said old Cary; “for it is full of Devon men from end to end, and you will be among friends all day long.  George Bourchier from Tawstock has the army now in Munster, and Warham St. Leger is marshal; George Carew is with Lord Grey of Wilton (Poor Peter Carew was killed at Glendalough); and after the defeat last year, when that villain Desmond cut off Herbert and Price, the companies were made up with six hundred Devon men, and Arthur Fortescue at their head; so that the old county holds her head as proudly in the Land of Ire as she does in the Low Countries and the Spanish Main.”

“And where,” asked Amyas, “is Davils of Marsland, who used to teach me how to catch trout, when I was staying down at Stow?  He is in Ireland, too, is he not?”

“Ah, my lad,” said Mr. Cary, “that is a sad story.  I thought all England had known it.”

“You forget, sir, I am a stranger.  Surely he is not dead?”

“Murdered foully, lad!  Murdered like a dog, and by the man whom he had treated as his son, and who pretended, the false knave! to call him father.”

“His blood is avenged?” said Amyas, fiercely.

“No, by heaven, not yet!  Stay, don’t cry out again.  I am getting old—­I must tell my story my own way.  It was last July,—­was it not, Will?—­Over comes to Ireland Saunders, one of those Jesuit foxes, as the Pope’s legate, with money and bulls, and a banner hallowed by the Pope, and the devil knows what beside; and with him James Fitzmaurice, the same fellow who had sworn on his knees to Perrott, in the church at Kilmallock, to be a true liegeman to Queen Elizabeth, and confirmed it by all his saints, and such a world of his Irish howling, that Perrott told me he was fain to stop his own ears.  Well, he had been practising with the King of France, but got nothing but laughter for his pains, and so went over to the Most Catholic King, and promises him to join Ireland to Spain, and set up Popery again, and what not.  And he, I suppose, thinking it better that Ireland should belong to him than to the Pope’s bastard, fits him out, and sends him off on such another errand as Stukely’s,—­though I will say, for the honor of Devon, if Stukely lived like a fool, he died like an honest man.”