More than once Brian laughed grimly at the care he was getting, to the simple end that he should hang over Galway gates as a warning to the City of the Tribes and to all who entered the ancient Connacian town. For in that day Galway was a second Venice, and its commerce made rich plundering for the O'Malley's both of Gorumna and of Erris in the North, though the war had somewhat dimmed the glory of the fourteen great merchant families. Brian wondered often what had become of Cathbarr and his two hundred men, and Murrough could give him little satisfaction. It was known that the force had slipped away from Cathbarr's tower and had vanished; Brian guessed that Turlough had either led them north, or else into the western mountains where the O'Flahertys held savage rule. However, it was certain that neither the Dark Master nor the royalists had scattered them as yet. So Brian lay in his tower four days and might have lain there four-score more by dint of Red Murrough's lies, had it not been that on the fourth evening Colonel Vere managed to stay unexpectedly sober. Being thus sober, it occurred to him that he had best make sure he had the right man by the heels. So he ordered his ten Scots troopers in from the camp outside the walls, and the Dark Master sent for Brian to be identified. "I'll have you carried down," said Red Murrough on coming for him. "Play the part, _ma boucal_, and when these royalists get into their cups again they'll forget all that is in their heads. Here's a cup of wine before ye go, and another for myself. _Slainte!_" "_Slainte_," repeated Brian, and went forth to play his part. When the four men, with Red Murrough at their head, carried him down into the great hall, Brian found it no little changed. Tables were set along the walls, each of them being some ten feet in length by two wide, of massive oak, and in the center was another at which sat O'Donnell, Colonel Vere, and one or two other officers. Besides these there were a score more of the royalist officers mingled with the Dark Master's men, and it seemed that there would be few sober men in that hall by midnight, from the appearance of things. Only the ten Scots stood calm and dour before the fireplace. After that first quick glance around, Brian lay with his head back and his eyes closed, careful not to excite O'Donnell's suspicion that he was stronger than he seemed. He was set down in front of the ten Scots, and there was an eager craning forward of men to look at him, for his name was better known than himself. "Zounds!" swore Vere thickly. "The man has a strong and clean-cut face, O'Donnell! Strike me dead if he does not look like that painting of O'Neill, the Tyrone Earl, that hangs in the castle at Dublin! Though for that matter there is little enough of his face to be seen. You must have borne hardly on him with your cursed tortures."