reland."

"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."

"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