“They are good folk all,” said Conachúr. “They are very good folk. You have no other news?”
“There is nothing to report, master, but that everything is well.”
“You have no tidings from Scotland?”
“None, master, or little.”
“Even a little news is news,” said he. “Tell it, however little it be.”
“They have been chased again,” said Lavarcham in a low voice. “Everywhere they go they are hunted like foxes. They live under the weather, crouching like wild creatures in the bracken of a hill-side, or hiding in rocks and caves by a howling shore.”
“They were delicately reared,” he murmured.
“They never knew hardship,” Lavarcham whimpered, “and my babe——”
“Ah yes, your babe! How old would she be now, that babe of yours?”
“Close on twenty-three years, master.”