“Sir Thomas Stukely dead too?” said Amyas.

“Wait a while, lad, and you shall have that tragedy afterwards.  Well, where was I?  Oh, Fitzmaurice and the Jesuits land at Smerwick, with three ships, choose a place for a fort, bless it with their holy water, and their moppings and their scourings, and the rest of it, to purify it from the stain of heretic dominion; but in the meanwhile one of the Courtenays,—­a Courtenay of Haccombe, was it?—­or a Courtenay of Boconnock?  Silence, Will, I shall have it in a minute—­yes, a Courtenay of Haccombe it was, lying at anchor near by, in a ship of war of his, cuts out the three ships, and cuts off the Dons from the sea.  John and James Desmond, with some small rabble, go over to the Spaniards.  Earl Desmond will not join them, but will not fight them, and stands by to take the winning side; and then in comes poor Davils, sent down by the Lord Deputy to charge Desmond and his brothers, in the queen’s name, to assault the Spaniards.  Folks say it was rash of his lordship:  but I say, what could be better done?  Every one knows that there never was a stouter or shrewder soldier than Davils; and the young Desmonds, I have heard him say many a time, used to look on him as their father.  But he found out what it was to trust Englishmen turned Irish.  Well, the Desmonds found out on a sudden that the Dons were such desperate Paladins, that it was madness to meddle, though they were five to one; and poor Davils, seeing that there was no fight in them, goes back for help, and sleeps that night at some place called Tralee.  Arthur Carter of Bideford, St. Leger’s lieutenant, as stout an old soldier as Davils himself, sleeps in the same bed with him; the lacquey-boy, who is now with Sir Richard at Stow, on the floor at their feet.  But in the dead of night, who should come in but James Desmond, sword in hand, with a dozen of his ruffians at his heels, each with his glib over his ugly face, and his skene in his hand.  Davils springs up in bed, and asks but this, ‘What is the matter, my son?’ whereon the treacherous villain, without giving him time to say a prayer, strikes at him, naked as he was, crying, ’Thou shalt be my father no longer, nor I thy son!  Thou shalt die!’ and at that all the rest fall on him.  The poor little lad (so he says) leaps up to cover his master with his naked body, gets three or four stabs of skenes, and so falls for dead; with his master and Captain Carter, who were dead indeed—­God reward them!  After that the ruffians ransacked the house, till they had murdered every Englishman in it, the lacquey-boy only excepted, who crawled out, wounded as he was, through a window; while Desmond, if you will believe it, went back, up to his elbows in blood, and vaunted his deeds to the Spaniards, and asked them—­’There!  Will you take that as a pledge that I am faithful to you?’ And that, my lad, was the end of Henry Davils, and will be of all who trust to the faith of wild savages.”