“Aye! he is the outrageousest ould villain that ever stepped,” was the general verdict.  Nevertheless, as in all communities there is generally one ill-conditioned person, even in the little village of Donoughmor there was to be found a time-server who, wishing for reasons of his own to ingratiate himself with Peter Rorke, was base enough to report to him old Pat Clancy’s hasty words.

“He’s saying he wished Mike had burnt ye in your bed, an’ more by token,” added Peter’s informant, “he’s tellin’ every wan that it’ll be no time at all before he’s back in his own place again the same as ever he was, an’ that you may do what ye like on him, he doesn’t care.”

“He says that, does he?” cried Peter, crimson with fury; “I’ll soon show him he’s makin’ a bit of a mistake.  ’Pon me word, did ever anybody hear the like o’ that?”

“Well, that’s what he says,” repeated the other. “‘I wisht,’ he says, ‘that Mike had burnt the ould villain in his bed,’ says he.  That’s the very word he said, ‘the ould villain’ he says; ‘an’ got shut of him,’ says he, ‘but it’ll be no time at all before herself an’ me is back in the ould place,’ he says.  He did so—­it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye, that’s the very way he said it.”

“I’ll show him different then,” repeated Peter.  “I wisht I’d thought of it first off—­the way he’d have seen it.”

“An’ what’s that, sir?”

“You’ll soon see.  ’Pon me word, I wisht I had him there now in his bed, the ould raskil, the way I could do on him what he’s wishin’ his spalpeen of a son had done on me.  Are ye there, Pat?” he cried, raising his voice.

“I am, sir,” returned some one from the region of the stables.

“Is Barney there?”

“He is.”

“Bring him along wid ye then; an’ call Jack McEvoy and a couple more of the boys.  Bring a pick wid ye, an’ a couple of them hatchets—­an’ Pat!”

“Sir?” replied Pat, suddenly appearing from behind the stable-wall.

“Run round to the kitchen an’ fetch the big bottle of paraffin off o’ the long shelf there.”

“I will, sir.  Where will we be goin’ to, sir?”

“I have a little job for yous to do down at Donoughmor,” said Peter.  “Hurry up now the whole of yous; I don’t want to be losin’ more time over it nor I can help.”

The officious visitor, finding that matters were likely to become more unpleasant than he had anticipated, disappeared while preparations were going forward, and it was only at the head of his own startled and unwilling band of followers that Peter at length sallied forth.  Not a word said Peter Rorke until he reached the Clancys’ deserted cabin, and with his own hands set fire to the thatch; then falling back a step or two he rubbed his hands and chuckled.

“There, now,” he cried, “let us see if I can’t make near as good a bonfire as Mike Clancy himself!  Throw a sup more paraffin on, you, Pat; now stand back all of yous, an’ look at the fine blaze.  As soon as we have the roof off of it, you can all set to work an’ pull the whole place down.  Then we’ll see if the Clancys will come to their own again, as the ould blackguard Pat keeps tellin’ every one.  I don’t think it’ll be worth his while to step back in it when I’ve done with it.”