"Oh, we'll set her down," answered one of them insolently, "—and glad enough too! but we'll have her on the public road with her sticks first!"
Infuriated by the man's disregard of her chief, Mistress Conal struck her nails into his face, and with a curse he flung her from him. She turned instantly on the other with the same argument ad hominem, and found herself staggering on her own weak limbs to a severe fall, when the chief caught and saved her. She struggled hard to break from him and rush again into the hut, declaring she would not leave it if they burned her alive in it, but he held her fast.
There was a pause, for one or two who had accompanied the men employed, knew the chief, and their reluctance to go on with the ruthless deed in his presence, influenced the rest. Report of the ejection had spread, and the neighbours came running from the village. A crowd seemed to be gathering. Again and again Mistress Conal tried to escape from Alister and rush into the cottage.
"You too, my chief!" she cried. "You turned against the poor of your people!"
"No, Mistress Conal," he answered. "I am too much your friend to let you kill yourself!"
"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!"