“It’s a wonder you told it at all,” said the cat, going to the door. “And where did you see His Majesty?”
“You shouldn’t have spoken,” said the man’s wife.
“And how did I know a cat could understand?” said the man.
“When you have done talking amongst yourselves,” said the cat, “would you tell me where you met His Majesty?”
“Nothing will I tell you,” said the man, “until I hear your own name from you.”
“My name,” said the cat, “is Quick-to-Grab, and well you should know it.”
“Not a word will we tell you,” said the woman, “until we hear what the King of the Cats is doing in Ireland. Is he bringing wars and rebellions into the country?”
“Wars and rebellions,—no, ma’am,” said Quick-to-Grab, “but deliverance from oppression. Why are the cats of the country lean and lazy and covered with ashes? It is because the cat that goes outside the house in the sunlight, to hunt or to play, is made to suffer with the loss of an eye.”
“And who makes them suffer with the loss of an eye?” said the woman. “One whose reign is nearly over now,” said Quick-to-Grab. “But tell me where you saw His Majesty?”
“No,” said the man. “No,” said the woman, “for we don’t like your impertinence. Back with you to the hearthstone, and watch the mouse-hole for us.”