The men went into the kitchen of the farmhouse. There was no fire upon the hearth. The turf had burnt to ashes under a great black pot of potatoes that hung upon the crook, and two children sat disconsolately leaning against each other beside the cold hearth.
Buckley explored the “room,” and Green the loft; there was no trace of human being to be found; the children were the only inmates of the place.
The eldest child, a little girl of about four years old, with pretty blue eyes and curly hair, looked up curiously, but did not move. Her tiny brother was too languid to raise his head from her shoulder.
“Are you alone in the house?” asked Green.
“Ay,” replied the child.
“Where are your father and mother?”
“They are sleeping in the garden; they ha’ been there this good wee while,” answered the little one, fixing her serious eyes upon them. “Come, an’ I’ll show you where they are.”
She got up, gave her hand confidingly to the man, and led him to the garden, the other soldier following; and behind the cabbages they found a man and woman lying in a heap, stiff and cold, having evidently been piked to death.
“Come back to the house, my little dear,” cried Green, drawing the poor innocent away from the cruel sight. Her little brother still sat where they had left him, leaning his sick head against the wall. He was very faint and weak.
“Have you nothing to eat?” asked the men.