Mr. Whittret stood undecided. Fitzherbert was furious. He had already issued his orders to the men to proceed, when his arm was grasped from behind. He turned round--the Honorable Giles Sympelton was at his elbow, his simple youthful face quivering with emotion. "Fitz, Fitz," cried the lad, "stop this--I cannot bear it. I wll' not see it; if you destroy that noble fellow's house I will never enter Gillravidge's again. Take care what you do--they are better men than we." Mr. Whittret looked up. Mr. Lumsden had his note-book in his hand, and was writing. The mean soul of the agent writhed within him. That Mr. Lumsden was writing an exposure of his conduct he never doubted; he would be covered with infamy and shame; at least it should not be without cause. "Simpson," he cried, "take the fellow at his word--proceed with your work." Vain evil-thinking of the evil-doer! Mr. Lumsden, in fear of the compulsory removal of the invalid, was writing to his sister to send up a chase immediately from Portoran, and in a moment after, had despatched the most ungovernable of the lads to carry his note to the Manse. Duncan Macalpine stood looking calmly at his cottage. His sister Jean, following his heroic example, had hurried into it, and now returned, leading a feeble woman of seventy--their mother. Duncan's wife stood beside her husband; two of his little boys lingered in childish wonder by the cottage door. The men began their odious work--the straw bands were cut, the heather thatch thrown in pieces on the ground. The children looked on at first in half-amused astonishment. They saw their home laid open to the sky with all its homely accommodations--their own little bed, their grandmother's chair by the fire, the basket of oatcakes on the table from which their "eleven-hours piece" had been supplied. The eldest of them suddenly rushed forward in childish rage and vehemence, and springing upon the ladder, dealt a fruitless blow at one of the devastators. He was thrown off--a piece of the thatch struck upon his head--the child uttered a sharp cry and fell. His mother flew out from among the crowd. The Macalpines were shaken as with a wind, and with various cries of rage and grief were pressing forward again. Again Big Duncan stayed them. "Fuils that ye are, would ye lose your guid fame with your hames? would ye throw everything away? Be still I tell you. Can I no guard my ain bairn mysel?" The wave fell back: muttering in painful anger, the Macalpines obeyed the king-man among them, and restrained themselves. Big Duncan in his stern patience went forward. Before him, however, was a slight boyish figure, with uncovered head and long fair hair--the child was lifted in the youth's arms, "I will carry him--good woman, come with me--come away from this place. It is not right you should see it--come away."