A few of the peats cut in the summer had not yet been removed, not having dried so well as the rest, and the owners of some of these, two widows, went one day to fetch them home to the new village, when, as it happened, there were none of the clan besides in the moss.
They filled their creels, helped each other to get them on their backs, and were setting out on their weary tramp home, when up rose two of Mr. Palmer's men, who had been watching them, cut their ropes and took their loads, emptied the peats into a moss-hag full of water, and threw the creels after them. The poor women poured out their wrath on the men, telling them they would go straight to the chief, but were answered only with mockery of their chief and themselves. They turned in despair, and with their outcry filled the hollows of the hills as they went, bemoaning the loss of their peats and their creels, and raging at the wrong they had received. One of them, a characterless creature in the eyes of her neighbours, harmless, and always in want, had faith in her chief, for she had done nothing to make her ashamed, and would go to him at once: he had always a word and a smile and a hand-shake for her, she said; the other, commonly called Craftie, was unwilling: her character did not stand high, and she feared the face of the Macruadh.
"He does not like me!" said Craftie.
"When a woman is in trouble," said the other, "the Macruadh makes no questions. You come with me! He will be glad of something to do for you."
In her confidence she persuaded her companion, and together they went to the chief.
Having gathered courage to appear, Craftie needed none to speak: where that was the call, she was never slow to respond.
"Craftie," said the chief, "is what you are telling me true?"
"Ask HER," answered Craftie, who knew that asseveration on her part was not all-convincing.
"She speaks the truth, Macruadh," said the other. "I will take my oath to it."
"Your word is enough," replied the chief, "—as Craftie knew when she brought you with her."