The usual murmur of commiseration followed this.

“Well,” said Owen, “whose turn comes next?”

About a dozen of those who had been turned out of Drum Dhu now stood up.

“We were turned out,” said one of them, who acted as spokesman, “on one of the bittherest days that God ever sent on the earth; out of shame, I believe, because your brother and ould Mary Casey died, he let us back for a few days, but after that we had to flit.  Some of the houses he had pulled down, and then he had to build them again for his voters.  Oh, if it was only known what we suffered!”

“And why did he turn you out?”

“Why, because we didn’t promise to vote as he wished.”

“He took my crop,” said another, “at his own valuation, drew it home, and stacked it until the markets rose.  I know what he got beyond the rent,” proceeded the man, “but divil a rap ever the villain gave me back of the surplus, but put it in his pocket—­and now I and my family are starving.”

“Ay, and,” said another, “he took five firkins of as good butter from me as ever was made by hand, and at his own price, too.  What could I do?—­he said it was as a friend he did it; but if I objected to it, he said he must only seize.  May the divil seize him, at any rate, as he will, the villain, I trust in God!  He got to my own knowledge, thirteen pence a pound for it, and all he allowed me for it was eight pence halfpenny.  May the devil run an auger through him, or baste his sowl wid it, this night; for of all the villains that ever cursed an estate, he’s the greatest—­barrin’ the scoundrel that employs him.”

A poor but decent-looking man rose up.  “I could bear,” said he, “his cheating, or his defrauding me out of my right—­I could bear that, although it’s bad enough too; but when I think of the shame and disgrace his son brought upon my innocent girl, undher his father’s roof, where she was at sarvice—­may God curse him this night!  My child—­my child—­when I think of what she was, and what she is, sure the thought of it is enough to drive me distracted, and to break my heart.  Are we to live undher sich men?  Ought we to allow sich villains to tramp us undher their feet?  When I spoke to his blasted son about ruinin’ my child—­’My good fellow,’ says he, ’if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I will trot you off the estate—­I will send you to graze somewhere else.  It’s d—­d proud you ought to feel for your daughter having a child by the like o’ me;’—­for that’s the way—­they first injure us, and kick us about as they plaise, and then laugh at and insult us.”

Another man got up.  “You all know,” said he, “that I hould fourteen acres in the townland of Augha-Winchal; and when Jerry Grogan went to America last spring, I offered for his farm of twelve acres, that lay into my own, marchin it.  I offered him the rent he axed, which indeed was too much at any rate—­but it lay so snug to me, that I could take more out of it than another.