“Your carriage—I want your carriage!” gasped poor Giles Sympelton. “Order it first, and I will tell you afterwards.”
Mrs. Catherine did not hesitate. She rang the bell, and ordered the carriage immediately.
“Immediately—immediately!” cried the lad. “The cold may kill him.”
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Catherine, “till it is ready; and tell me what has moved you so greatly.”
The youth wiped his hot forehead, and recovered his breath.
“The cottagers up the glen—their name is Macalpine—Lord Gillravidge has evicted them. There is not a house standing—they are all unroofed. The people have no shelter. And the lad—the dying lad?”
Mrs. Catherine rose. Amazement, grief, and burning anger contended in her face.
“What say you? The alien has dared to cast out the Macalpines of Oranmore from their own land! I cannot believe it—it is not possible!”
“The lad is dying!” cried young Sympelton, too much absorbed with what he had seen to heed Mrs. Catherine’s exclamation. “They are covering him with cloaks and plaids—they say the cold will kill him. It is a terrible sight!—old men, and women, and little children, and the dying lad! Not a roof in the whole glen to shelter them!”
Mrs. Catherine left the room, and went down stairs. An energetic word sent double speed into Andrew’s movements as he prepared the carriage. Mrs. Euphan Morison was ordered to put wine into it; blankets and cloaks were added, and Mrs. Catherine, with her own hands, thrust Giles into the carriage.