Mrs. McLeish stood up as straight as she could, and glanced from the traveller to the two men who had put her out of her home.  Then, in the strongest terms her native Gaelic would afford, she addressed these two men.  She assured them that, sooner than enter that contemptible little hut again, she would sleep out on the bare moor.  She told them to go to their master and tell him that she did not want his house, and that he could live in it himself, if he chose—­that she was going in the cart to Killimontrick, and she would take lodgings in the inn there until she could get a house fit for the habitation of the mother of a man like her son Andy; and that if their master had anything to say about the rent that was due, they could tell him that he had satisfied himself by turning her out of her home, and if he wanted anything more, he could whistle for it, or, if he didn’t choose to do that, he could send his factor to whistle for it in the main street of Killimontrick.

“Come, Sawney boy, put my two bundles in the cart, and then help me in.  The gentleman will drive, and I’ll sit on the seat beside him, and you can sit behind in the straw, and—­you’re sure it’s two pounds a week, sir?” she said to the traveller, who told her that she was right, and then she continued to Sawney, “I’ll make your mother a present which will help the poor old thing through the winter, and I’m sure she needs it.”

With a heavier load than he had brought, the pony’s head was turned homeward, and the cart rattled away over the rough stones, and splashed through the water on the roadway, and in the dark cloud which hung over the highest mountain beyond the moor, there came a little glint of lighter sky, as if some lustre from the Incas’ gold had penetrated even into this gloomy region.