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.