The poor little rotten roof, mossgrown as it was, did not burn as rapidly as Peter could have wished, but by dint of much coaxing and a plentiful sprinkling of paraffin, the fire at last gained ground, and a dense smoke began to issue from the smouldering thatch.  Peter coughed and choked, and at last calling out to his men that he would be with them again as soon as that part of the job was over, climbed up the rocky hillside, pausing only when he had reached the summit, and turning round with a long gasping breath.  The air was clearer there, and it pleased him to look down from this eminence on his destructive work.  The smoke of the burning roof hung over the little dwelling as though to hide its degradation; jets of flame leaped through it now and then; from time to time one of his men approached with the bottle of paraffin, but the rest stood together looking on, somewhat sullenly.  Farther down the lane a few women and old folks had gathered together; from his altitude Peter watched them, marking their eager gestures and imagining the horror and disgust in their faces.  “Let them say what they like,” he muttered to himself grimly, “I’ll not leave a bit o’ the place standin’.  Aye! they may curse an’ swear as much as they like, it doesn’t hurt me.”

Suddenly he bethought him how Mike had threatened him before setting fire to his rick; his hard-heartedness would bring a curse upon him, the boy had said.  Peter asked himself now, with a dry chuckle, upon whom the curse had fallen most heavily.  It was certainly a piece of bad luck to lose his splendid rick, but he had paid the villains well out for it.  There was Mike in gaol, the old people living on the charity of their neighbours, with no prospect before them but to end their days in the workhouse; their goods scattered, their cabin razed to the ground—­who was the most accursed?

Ha! one of those women down there had fallen on her knees and was raising her hands to heaven; another crone was shaking her fist in his direction.  Let them pray and let them threaten—­Peter was not afraid of anything or anybody, neither God nor man—­not of the devil himself!

A sudden sound of stones falling just behind him made him turn round quickly.  He could see nothing, but a curious scraping and rustling were still to be heard.  He was standing almost beneath a low stone wall which traversed the summit.  The sound appeared to him to come from a spot immediately above his head; he looked up and could see through a fissure in the wall what seemed to be a moving form.  His gaze remaining fixed and fascinated on this object, distinguished at last a dark face with two gleaming eyes surmounted by horns.  All Peter Rorke’s vaunted courage deserted him; conscience-stricken and smitten by sudden agonising fears, he uttered a shrill quavering scream and began to totter down the hill with all the speed he could muster.

The steep path had been rendered more slippery than usual by recent rain, and afforded very insecure footing.  Peter, rushing blindly forward, soon lost all control over his limbs, and fell at last, rolling over and over until he dropped on the rocks below.