"We have orders, Macruadh, to set fire to the hovel," said one of the men, touching his hat respectfully.
"They'll roast my black one!" shrieked the old woman.
"Small fear for him," said a man's voice from the little crowd, "if half be true—!"
Apparently the speaker dared no more.
"Fire won't singe a hair of him, Mistress Conal," said another voice. "You know it; he's used to it!"
"Come along, and let's get it over!" cried the leader of the ejection-party. "It—won't take many minutes once it's well a going, and there's fire enough on the hearth to set Ben Cruachan in a blaze!"
"Is everything out of it?" demanded the chief.
"All but her cat. We've done our best, sir, and searched everywhere, but he's not to be found. There's nothing else left."
"It's a lie!" screamed Mistress Conal. "Is there not a great pile of peats, carried on my own back from the moss! Ach, you robbers! Would you burn the good peats?"
"What good will the peats be to you, woman," said one of them not unkindly, "when you have no hearth?"