Chapter 2

The Fortress

Seventeen

Mary felt something cool being pressed against her forehead, and at the same time a warmth and lightness of being for which she could in no way account. Remembering the vision she had seen of him---was it days, hours, moments before?---she opened her eyes slowly, afraid of waking from the blissful dream of his return, which could not possibly be real.

Yet the first thing she saw as they focused in the gentle candlelight, was the same beloved face, neither shrouded nor ghostly nor pale. It had aged, become more serious. But it was still of living flesh, still shared the same world as her own. He sat leaning across her on the bed, with softened, loving eyes taking in her every movement. His arms were spread to either side of her, within reach of her hands. And feeling again the swoon of emotion and disbelief, she caught at them quickly. Her fingers encircled his wrists, and he did not fade away.

Again he pressed the cloth lightly to her forehead. Then with a tenderness and swelling of the heart that erased in one moment the imprisoned hell of the past three years, he bent down and kissed her gently.

"Stay, Mary. It's your Michael, in the flesh, and he'll not leave you again." Her eyes closed hard, and the tears that flowed from them were an anguish and an ecstasy for which no words exist.

"Hold me," was all she could say. "Just hold me." He raised her up and crushed her to him, his face as wet as hers.

"Dear God, I love you." And again he kissed her, long and full. But then he drew back, and a dark shadow clouded his features, as if recalling some barrier which stood between them still.

"What is it?" she asked, terrified.

"Forgive me," he said. "I know you're glad to see me. . .and I have no right to ask." Their eyes met, and there was such astonished pain in her gaze..... "Do you still love him?" he whispered.

"Do I still love who?"

"The Englishman."

"Michael! Whoever said that I did?"

".....but your letter, the day I left to join our troops. The one you put in my pack, explaining---"

"Michael, look at me." He did, as bewildered as she. "I have never loved anyone but you. I never could. And I wrote you no such letter, then or otherwise. The only Englishman I know is my half-brother, and if in the whole of my lifetime I can learn not to hate him, I will deem it a blessing from Heaven."

He fell back further still, as if it was she who had returned from the dead. The question of who, then, had written the letter, hardly occurred to him. Only one thing mattered. Against all hope. . .she loved him too. A tortured groan escaped him, and his face so convulsed with emotion that he could only hide it in shame against the coverlet.

But slowly the paroxysm passed, and he felt loving fingers caressing his hair, and whispering words of comfort. "Michael," she said, as he drew himself up, exhausted. "It must have been my mother who gave you the letter, part of a long, bitter plot against Lord Purceville. She needed my help, and wanted you out of the way. Please forgive her. She harbored such hatred against him, that it made her blind to all else..... But that is in the past." She tried to smile, as he nodded his understanding. "You know," she said. "I have a few questions for you, too."

He put a finger to her lips. "Soon, but not now. Let us have what remains of this night, at least, free from sorrow and danger. Let us have each other."

At that moment there came a light knocking at the door, and Anne Scott entered the room. Her face was so softened, and beaming with such reborn faith that Mary hardly recognized it. Her unbound hair formed a loop of pale gold upon the shoulder of the nightdress, and she looked years younger than either could remember seeing her.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, as if this were not her home, but theirs. "If my son will give a doting mother one last embrace, I will leave the two of you in peace. I fancy I'll sleep in Mary's room tonight, and give up my chambers to you."

"Truly, Anne? Would it be all right?"

"Listen to me, Mary. God married the two of you long ago. And in this moment I'm so happy, so grateful....." She faltered, and her eyes glistened. "My son is given back to me, whom I thought to be dead. Do you think I can't share him, this one night, with the woman he loves, and the girl I raised up from a child? Please, Michael, before I make a fool of myself. Kiss me, then send me off to bed."

He rose, but not more quickly than she. Mary embraced her first, like a schoolgirl, then stood aside as mother and son said their affectionate good-night.

"In the morning hard choices await us," said the woman, addressing them both. "But for now, let us thank God. Let us thank Him." She was blinded by tears, and turned away. Michael watched her go, then closed the door softly behind her.

"In the morning I shall have to give her sad news," said the girl, remembering her purpose. "And perhaps it will grieve you as well."

"What is it, Mary?" And despite his own assurances, he felt that he must know. "Tell me now, and let us have done with dark surprises."

... "Michael. Your friend and mine. James Talbert is dead."

He was silent for a time, then asked simply.

"How?"

"Two men attacked me on the road west of my mother's hut." She thought it best not to add that they were English. As it was he came forward and took her by the shoulders, with a look of sudden anger and concern.

"Attacked you? Are you all right? They didn't---" She shook her head quickly, emphatically.

"No. James saw to that. He killed the one. . .then was shot in the back by the other, who rode away." She looked at him imploringly. "I'm so terribly sorry. I feel as if it's my fault....." He held her close to him, and closed his eyes.

"No, my girl," he said at length. "It's not your fault, and no more than I expected. I don't know if I can explain this to you. Here. Sit you down, and let me wrap the coverlet about me. I'm afraid I'm not quite well."

She did as he asked, and studied this new Michael as he spoke. He had changed both physically and spiritually, though there had always been another side of him, seeming at times so serious and worn that she could find no trace of the hardy, boisterous youth she had once known.

And even as he spoke of the hardship and sorrow of another, her woman's instinct read his own tale between the lines. And seeing his pain, she determined to learn fully of the scars and afflictions he bore, that she might nurse him again to health and ease of mind.

"James had a rough go of it in prison, as did we all. But for him the more so, because he could never master his pride and fierce temper. He didn't know when to back down, and just survive. Because of this he was often singled out for punishment, as an example to the rest. Punishment in that place. . .took various forms. But it always ended with the Cellar, a cold and solitary cell in the ancient dungeon that lay beneath our castle prison.

"For weeks on end. . .he was caged there without light or hope, like an animal. Each return to the light of day saw him more ill, and more distracted. But it never once brought him closer to submission. Towards the end, his feverish mental state had become so acute that our captors thought of sending him to an asylum. This, until it was learned that he had contracted the shakes*, which would sooner or later carry him off of their own accord.

*Ague.

"It is a wonder that he lived to see the escape, let alone survived our long flight across the countryside. What a bloody hell that was. Stealing food, horses when we could get them, riding or walking the endless miles by night, hiding out like thieves and murderers by day. All in the land of our birth, and the home that we had fought for. After what we had already been through, I don't know how he endured it. I, at least, had thoughts of you, though I had lost all hope of your love. He had nothing but fever and chills, and a strength that grew less each day."

"My God. Michael. Did he know about the letter, the one you thought I wrote?"

"Yes, love. We'd been together through so much, and were now thrown into such a desperate pass..... There could be no secrets between us. But he loved you, as cousin and friend, and never held it against you."

"Then he died thinking. . .that I was in love with those who did this to you. Oh, it is horrible."

"Easy, lass. His pain is over." Again they embraced, taking that last human comfort against young and tragic death. Then Michael began to pace again, both to warm himself, and to finish what he must say. For he, too, carried a burden of guilt and remorse.

"As I said, it is a wonder that he survived it. But some last obsession drove him: whether hope or madness, I could never say. He was determined to return to the home of his fathers, and perform some last act of heroism." He paused. "There is something else I haven't told you. Something very painful to me."

"What is it, Michael?"

He could not face her, as if she were some part of himself which he had shamed. And the look of self-reproach that she had long known in him, returned with a force she had not yet seen.

"It was a horror for me to watch his decline, his hopeless battle in the stockade. Because we are so much alike, and because I felt..... I often felt that he made my mistakes for me. That I learned, and survived, only because of him. Many is the time that my own temper was about to explode, to my injury, and possible undoing.... But it was always James who struck the guard first, or raised his voice in anger at the outrage we all felt, but lacked the courage to act upon.

"It is a terrible thing to think that he died for that courage, and that because of my cowardice I live. Seeing the black end to which we must all come, still I shunned the fight. After the first year..... I only turned the other cheek, again and again. I told myself that I had to survive, just keep trying and hoping. But survival becomes a poor excuse, when pride is lost.

"It will be many years," he concluded, "before I can look myself in the face when I think of James Talbert."

"Why?" she asked, in deepest earnest. "Because you desired life instead of death? Because you saw the futility of resistance, and chose not to follow him into the grave? For I tell you now, and from the bottom of my heart, that if you had not lived, and come back to me. . .my own sorry tale could not have gone much further.

"And what of your mother? Do you have any idea what her life has been like, without you? I will never understand. Why do men call it a virtue to die, to leave bereft the ones they love, and a weakness to return to them, and give meaning and substance to their lives?

"Perhaps that is unfair," she continued. "I have seen in the years of your absence just how bitter, how unanswerable sorrow can be. And I know that nothing is ever that simple. I only want you to know that this pain, this scar, I understand as well as you. I have felt the same remorse, the same bludgeoning sense of guilt. Until tonight.

"Do you know what he said to me, as he lay dying in my arms? `You have given my death meaning.' He performed that last act of heroism, Michael. He may have saved my life." Her voice faltered. "And if what you say is true, then he also helped deliver my love from the depths of the darkness. And to me, his name shall always be thrice blessed.

"Hold me, Michael, please. Don't ever let me go. Dear God!"

"My only love, I promise you that. With all my soul, I promise you that."

They put aside all further talk until the morning, and made their bed together for the first time. Michael was too ill, and she herself too weary, to make love. And without any words this was understood between them. They found joy and solace instead in the slow, gentle caress many lovers never feel, because they do not first feel love. Their passion would come when the skies above them were less dark, and when the fruit was ripe on the tree. Not before.

They slept far into the overcast morning. And when they rose a further bond had been established between them, that no earthly trial could ever put asunder.

He was a man, and she was his woman.

Eighteen

The Lord Henry Purceville, Governor of MacPherson Castle and the Northern Garrison, awoke in the worst possible humor. He had quarreled bitterly with his son the night before, after being informed that one of his cavalrymen had died in disgrace, and another deserted rank in consequence. His head throbbed from the excesses of food and drink that had become habitual with him; the whore that lay sleeping beside him (his mistress) stank of his own corruption; and the prisoners he had been charged to find, in the most demanding terms, still eluded him. In the chill of early morning, he felt every day of the fifty-three years he bore.

Of all these circumstances, the quarrel with his son troubled him most deeply. It was not so much the fact of a dispute, all too common between them, as the disturbing revelation which had come from it.

Because no man, no matter how far he has strayed from the path of wisdom, wants to appear low and cowardly in the eyes of his son. And no man, retaining from childhood the slightest memory of loving female attention, can wantonly desecrate the altar of motherhood without a latent stab of conscience. Yet both these things had now risen up to haunt him, in the form of a daughter he had never seen.

If the bastard child had been a boy (as he had vaguely imagined, when he thought of it at all), the problem might have been more easily reconciled and acted upon, one way or the other. But a young woman, and still more, a young woman who had evidently sparked some feeling of affection in his son---the only person he cared for in the world---this was far more complicated.

Sending his mistress to the floor with a savage kick, he bellowed for his servants, ordered her dismissed, then sent for his son to learn the particulars of the MacCain girl. He was a man of action, and action would be taken.

One way or the other.

It was the widow Scott who woke them. A premonition of danger had come to her, and whether real or imagined, she would take no chances so long as her son remained a wanted man. She knocked on their door as the mantle clock struck eleven, and asked them to dress quickly and come out, that they might formulate precautions in the event that mounted soldiers, or other unwanted strangers appeared at the house.

When the two emerged and sat down to breakfast, and again as they moved to sit by the fire to hold counsel, the woman was struck by the seriousness of both faces. Caution and determination she expected from her son, who had spoken to her the day before of the hardships and dangers he had already faced, and must face again, until he won his way to true freedom.

But Mary seemed to understand as well as he the risks and perils of their position, and acted not at all the happy, naive bride-to-be. And now, as Michael built up the fire and drew the curtains tight, she found that the girl would not even look at her, would not return her questioning gaze.

"Mary? What is it, girl, what's wrong?" Michael, who now returned to stand before her, intervened.

"Mother," he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "My fears for James Talbert have been realized. He died yesterday, defending those he loved. He has been given Christian burial, and as soon as may be, we will place a stone over the grave. I'm sorry."

The woman looked searchingly into his face, then lowered her head and wept silently. But when she raised it again, though her eyes still glistened, their look was firm and determined.

"I will notify my brother tonight. It will be hard for him, and for his wife, because he meant as much to them..... Nay, do not try to comfort me. I am a proud Scottish woman, and not rendered helpless in my grief. The times are hard, and the living must look to their own devices.

"That is why we are here," she went on. "Painful as it may be, we must now turn our attention to our own precaution. We must be prepared for the worst. We must vow to protect your union to the last. And if it comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice my safety for your own. Do not argue with me, Michael! I have had a full life, thank God, for all its latter hardship. I am determined that you shall have the same. The blood of Scott and Talbert, our family, must endure."

Having said this, she put one hand to the other, and slowly removed her wedding ring. She then placed it solemnly in her son's hand. No further explanation was needed.

"Thank you, Mother. It means a great deal to me."

Michael returned to stand by his betrothed, who looked up at him in awe and astonishment, feeling for the first time the full import of what was happening between them. They were to be man and wife, as surely, and unalterably, as he now stood before her.

"Give me your hand, Mary." She did. "With this ring, on the day of November 2, 1749, I pledge to you my life, in the eyes of God and man. Mary. Will you have me as your husband?"

She nodded fiercely, then all at once burst into tears.

"You remember then," he added gently, "that this is your seventeenth birthday as well? I have not forgotten. It is the date I set long ago, when you were but a child, to speak openly of my love for you. I tell you now, if you did not already know it, that you have been my beacon and guiding star, the hope which I held fast to my heart, when all others deserted me. I love you, Mary, with every drop of my mortal blood. I'll love you in this world, and if there is a God, then surely I will love you in the next."

He kissed her, long and full. Then began to pace, as if to master his own emotions.

"All right then," he said, moving still. "Our safety.

"The immediate danger---that of a sudden search---has already been addressed by my mother and myself. Our good steward, as the times grew dark, had the foresight to install a trap door with a small, stone-lined cellar beneath it. It has been checked, and with minor repairs, put in good working order. The cellar itself has been furnished with blankets, food and water. This occupied the better part of yesterday afternoon, the first of my return. I had determined to go in search of you this morning, when fortunately for both of us (I am still far from well, and had risked the daylight once already), you came to me first.

"So far, until we've heard your story, I remain the principal danger to us all. If trouble does come, I can be hidden away in thirty seconds time. The door is here." He rolled back the threadbare carpet. "And the latch, here." He bent down and lifted the square trap on its hinges. When he let it down again, except by close scrutiny the wooden floor seemed of a piece, the door itself invisible. He replaced the carpet and came towards her, seeming calmer.

"You see, my girl, Anne and I have already had a chance to talk. From what she told me of her meeting with young Purceville---and I expect that for my sake she did not tell all---I wonder if you are not in danger as well. We need to know fully who our enemies are, or are likely to be, and who can be trusted to come to our aid. I have one ally, a fisherman from the village of Kroe, and the beginnings of a plan, though it is still far from ripe. The first step, as it must always be, is survival. Can you tell us then, in as much detail as possible, what has happened in the time since you left the cottage?"

"Will you tell me one thing first?" she asked. "Forgive me, Michael, but after all I've been through, as you will soon hear..... It would put my mind very much at rest, if you would tell me....." Her face betrayed a deep, lingering fear of the Night. "Who, if not yourself, lies in the grave beneath your stone?"

"It is you who must forgive me. I should have told you sooner." He

took her hand, and held it firmly. "It is no wraith who stands before you, and no one has raised me from the dead.

"I can't be certain, but I believe it to be a man of my regiment. He was about the same height and build as myself, with roughly similar features. Poor beggar. The only name I ever heard him called was Jack. He was one of the younger lads, and shivering so dreadfully on the morning of the Battle ---from cold and fear alike---that I gave him my coat, his being tattered, and far too light to serve. It's hard to believe to look at me now, wrapped up as for a winter storm, and pacing like an animal just to warm myself. But I was never cold in those days, as you'll recall." He gave a bitter laugh, then shook his head, as if to drive away the feeling.

"Looking back, I guess I was luckier than some. A ball grazed my head very early in the fighting, and I knew nothing more, until I found myself being dragged away by two English infantry..... What is it, Mary? What have I said to upset you?"

"They dragged you to a grove of dark trees! You were dazed and pale, but still they pulled at you fiercely, as if to throw you to the ground and run you through."

"How on earth did you know that?"

"I saw it in my dream! I thought I was witnessing your death. Oh, Michael, I've been so afraid!" It was some time before he could calm her enough to give voice to his own bewilderment.

"It's all right, now. It's over. But the strange truth is....." He hesitated, not wanting to upset her further. "I thought it was the end for me as well, though they only took me to stand with the other prisoners. That day, and especially those first moments when I regained consciousness, have woven themselves in and out of my nightmares ever since. I don't understand. How could you have known?"

Surprisingly, it was the widow Scott who shed light on this first part of the mystery. "I've heard it said that twins, or merely siblings who have been close since childhood, can be miles apart, after a separations of years, and suddenly know when the other is ill or in danger. The two of you, growing up as brother and sister, were every bit as close. And in some ways you shared a bond that was closer still, because you were in love.

"I once heard you, Mary, cry out `Wolf!' in your sleep, only to learn the next day that Michael had had a terrible dream, in which he was being torn apart by wolves. I thought it unnatural, and an ill omen, at the time. Now I do not. There is obviously a deep spiritual link between you, such as I felt at times with my own husband. It is not for us to question God's gifts," she concluded, "but only to use them as well and honestly as we can."

"That is why I came when I did," the man confirmed. "I knew that you were hurting and afraid. Somehow I knew."

"But the man in your grave," Mary persisted. "You gave another man your coat. . .I remember they would not let me see the body. But surely that was not enough, of itself, to mistake him for you."

"I'm afraid I must take the blame for that," said the woman sadly. "The body, when it was brought to me for identification, was so mangled by grapeshot. . .the face nothing but a bloody pulp. . .that I'm ashamed to say I lost my self-control. Knowing that Michael's papers had been found on him, I went into such a swoon of grief..... Our poor countrymen who brought him could only assume that he was, in fact, my son. The coffin was brought and sealed, and the next day we buried him, along with all my hopes.

"I was trying to protect you, Mary, and was far too devastated to think clearly, or to search for further proofs. His hair and features, what could still be seen of them, were enough to complete the illusion. I suppose that in after times some doubt of it crept back to me. But as the months turned into years, and brought no word, I despaired. The only defense I can make, is that the pain of not knowing was greater still..... I could not ask myself, or those around me, to bear it any longer."

There was silence. And then, without prompting, the young woman knew that the time had come to tell her tale. The spirits of the Night, and the shadows of Fear, must not be allowed to dwell inside her, but must be held forth in the hard light of day. She was afraid, and many times in the telling felt the pain of it too great to bear. But as Michael had done in the hearing of a wise man of the sea, so Mary now poured out the cup of her grief, not asking for pity, or answers, but only speaking the words that would not lie still.

And when she had finished, Michael was there beside her, and her own flesh still lived. Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone, fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.

"Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?"

"No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?"

"Yes," she replied. "More than anything."

"The answer is simple," he said. "It is music: a magic that is real, disproving a magic that is not."

"I don't understand."

"Bagpipes, Mary. Bagpipes. Twice you heard them, and twice after saw the `spirits' which gave credence to all else, the foundation on which the whole illusion was built. Here is what must have happened.

"The first spirit I can answer for plainly, for it was myself. James and I had at last crossed the high road, and returned to land we could think of as our own. He had been given the pipes by a crippled soldier, one of our own, who took us in along the way. And now James would be silent no longer. He insisted that we return as proud veterans, and not skulking thieves. So as we parted ways at the last, and when he deemed me safely hidden by the rise that shields the cottage, he began to play, and marched off in defiant glory.

"Shortly afterward I found you in tears, lying across a grave that bore my name. It broke my heart to leave you there, even with the spoken promise---you did not imagine it---that I would come back to you. But I was determined to bring no danger upon you, or upon this house, until the pursuit had cooled, and the chance of discovery grown less. Looking back, it was a cruel mistake. But I was obsessed. I was going to escape, and bring no danger upon you. I hope you can understand, and forgive me."

"Of course," said his mother, for both of them.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Mary nodded gently, and asked him to continue.

"All right.... And yet again, by the Standing Stone, you heard bagpipes. Did they play Scotland the Brave?"

"Yes," she answered, understanding at last.

"It is the only song James knew, or ever wanted to learn. It was he you saw: pale with affliction, kilted as a sign of defiance, as he could not be by day. He must have been half dead by then.....

"For he, too, was determined to bring no harm upon his family. Like myself he would not go to them, though he was too proud, and too far gone, to conceal himself as I did. I could not convince him to follow me to the hiding place, and I could not force him. I believe now that he must have spent those last nights in wandering and delirium, waiting for the chance to perform his final deed. But unstable as his mind had become, the heart beneath remained intact. And there were moments of perfect lucidity, as when he looked up from the ravine, and saw you.

"He fled from your mother not in fear, but to protect her, and yourself." He released a deep breath. "The Stone, and the words of the spell, were impotent but for the power you gave them. The mind creates worlds of its own, every bit as tangible, and every bit as dangerous, as the physical reality we all share. Give up your common sense, your right to question, and you become a helpless lamb among the wolves of this world."

"Yes," said Mary. "Now it all seems so clear. The trunk filled with charms, the talismans to drive away your spirit, the spell my mother believes she cast over Stephen Purceville: all but the fabric of illusion, given substance by the wholly independent actions of men. I, too, have no more need of such miracles."

"But," said Michael firmly. "Though the shadows of evil fade in the light of day, the evil itself does not. The Purcevilles, both young and old, are still very much to be feared."

Nineteen

As if in answer to his words, the thunder of hoofbeats came suddenly to their ears, approaching unexpectedly (for the British fortress lay in the opposite direction) from the west. The widow Scott, who had felt the danger growing as the day wore on, was the first to react. She was up and out of her chair, and pulling back on the carpet before her son had a chance to stand clear.

"Michael, quickly!" And she forced her trembling hands to find the latch, and pull open the trap door.

"Michael, quickly!" And she forced her trembling hands to find the latch, and pull open the trap door.

Michael moved toward the opening, then turned to say a last word to his betrothed. But by chance his eyes lighted on her portrait, and for the first time he saw the bullet-hole at her throat. In horror he thought of Stephen Purceville, and in a flash read between the lines of what the women had (and had not) told him. And even as his mother tried to urge him down the steps, he reached out and took his lover by the wrist.

"Mary, too! Until we're sure!" She nodded gratefully, not wanting to be parted from him, and the two descended.

"Remember my words," the widow whispered through the crack, before sealing them in darkness. "You must be willing to sacrifice me. No arguments!"

She closed the trap and pulled the rug to, even as the snorting of hard-driven animals mingled with men's voices and the sounds of dismounting. Heavy boots rattled the front steps, followed by a thumping fist upon the door.

"Open," came a heavy voice. "In the name of the King, and on peril of your life. Open!"

Anne Scott looked quickly about her for any tell-tale signs of company. There were none, and gratefully she recalled the other precautions she had taken: both bedrooms had been straightened, the dishes cleaned and put away. But for Mary's cloak, which she could pass as her own, the two still wore all the clothing they had brought.

Mastering her fright as best she could, fiercely determined to protect her young, she went to the door. . .and opened it.

But for all her resolve, her eyes were unprepared for the spectacle which greeted them. The Lord Henry Purceville himself stood before her. And beyond his hulking form, she saw the bodies of two men slung across spare horses, one of which, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, pale and stained with earth..... It was only by supreme exertion that she kept herself from swooning. There were twenty riders at least, all tainted with the smell of smoke.

"Where is she?" bellowed Lord Purceville, pushing her aside with such force that she really did stagger. Then to her bewilderment his son, who had followed him in, caught her up, and in the moment it took to steady her, whispered in her ear:

"Tell him nothing. I'll do what I can to protect you." The older man whirled angrily.

"I tell you I want her. Ballard! Tear the place apart. Stubb! Take the rest of the men and search the surrounding countryside. Meet me back at the barracks with your report; and if you value your hide, don't come back empty!"

With this all but two of the men---the one called Ballard, and another he detained by seizing his collar and shoving him forward---rode off. These entered quickly, and began going through the rooms, opening drawers and overturning furniture.

Of the two only Ballard, a large, swarthy man whose hands and face were darkened with soot, seemed to enjoy the work. The other, a lad of sixteen or thereabouts, only followed with a scared look, doing what his Lieutenant commanded. As for Lord Purceville, he sat himself in the chair that Mary had occupied, and stared at the woman icily, beckoning (ordering) his son to sit across from him. The widow Scott could only look back at him in dismay, and try not to notice his thick black boots, resting at the very edge of the carpet.

He was heavier, and grayer than she remembered, those many long years ago. But her first impression of him then---that of a bull about to charge---still held true. He was a big man, both taller and more thickly muscled than his son. Their faces were much alike, except that the father's was fuller: more rudely carved, more deeply lined, more savage.

But if harsh features were a mark of lesser intelligence, then the rule was broken here. His mind was more than a match for his son's, or even Mary's. The truly frightening thing about him, as she would soon learn, was that this glowering beast, this physical brute, was also sharper and shrewder than any man she had ever known. She could not feel brave in his presence, only vulnerable and afraid.

But as the two men returned from the loft, reporting, "No sign that anyone's been here but herself, though the upper room is undoubtedly a young lady's," she remembered the dangerous nearness of those she had sworn to protect, and the injuries they had already suffered at the hands of such men. Her pride returned, along with the instinctive cunning of a woman cornered.

"Of course," she said, feigning indignation against the search alone, and total ignorance of what they could want from her. "It is my niece's room, to return to if and when she chooses."

"And where is she now?" demanded the tyrant.

"She has gone to live with her mother, as I told your son not a fortnight since. I suggest you look for her there." It occurred to her only after she had said this that it might endanger her sister-in-law.

"It may please you to know," he said calmly, taking a sharpened letter-knife from his coat and twirling it carelessly between his fingers, "that we have already been to see the widow MacCain. She, too, had the insolence to speak to me in such a manner. Would you like to know what we did to her? Tell her, Ballard."

"Burned her for a witch, we did---tied to a tree, right up on her own roof." The man smiled, as if he found this detail particularly satisfying. "My one regret, Lord, is that you hit her so hard in the questioning, she never regained her senses to enjoy it. One would have thought she was dead already."

"That will be all, Lieutenant. Take the bodies back to the Castle. But first, check the neighborhood. See if you can't flush out a kilt and jacket for our amorous red-haired friend, if you follow my meaning."

"I do at that, sir. And I don't suppose it would hurt to brand him for a prisoner as well?"

"Number 406. Good day, Ballard." The Lieutenant pushed the younger man forward, then followed him out, closing the door behind.

"As you see," continued Purceville, "I have ways of arranging circumstances to meet my own ends. And I have no qualms at all about eliminating women who oppose me. I can think of at least a dozen pretexts to end your life right now. Would you like to hear them?"

"I have told you already," said the woman, vainly trying to suppress the image of her sister engulfed in flames. "I have told you that my niece is not here, that she left me a week ago. Your son himself can attest to that..... I do not know where she is."

"That is the second time today you have referred me to my son. The truth is, dead woman , that I have no strong inclination to believe him. I don't know what it is about the MacCain girl that causes those around her to feel so protective---the illusion of innocence, no doubt---but it seems I must accept the fact. My own son has lied to me about the `cousin' who saved her from assault, neglecting to mention that the man was also a Jacobite, and one of the fugitives we sought. Fortunately, as you saw, I take nothing for granted. I found it out for myself, and now have the evidence I need to hang her, if I so desire."

"On what charge?"

"Harboring a fugitive!" he bellowed. "And conspiracy to murder soldiers of the crown! One of my men was killed in this alleged `assault', and another has disappeared entirely. All serious crimes, punishable by death." He paused, letting this new threat sink in. "Now do you have anything to say to me, to save the girl's life, as well as your own?"

The widow glanced quickly at the son, wondering when, if not now, he intended to come to her aid. But he only turned away, and she surrendered all hope of it. Looking back at the father, who had stopped twirling the knife, and only stared back at her with cold murder in his eyes, she could not help but feel that the end had truly come.

She had been prepared for the worst, and ready to sacrifice all. Because of this, and because of the skilled aggression of the Lord Purceville, everything she saw and heard only worked to confirm her darkest imaginings. Her heart went cold inside her as he rose to his feet, the knife clenched firmly in his hand. Her eyes misted and her limbs trembled; but she never once thought of betraying her son. She hung her head and was silent, waiting for death.

She waited in vain.

Stephen Purceville did not intervene, among other considerations, because he knew that his father was bluffing. Even a Governor could not kill a woman without cause, and Stephen was astute enough to know it. The political winds, to which his father was not immune, were shifting. A move toward reconciliation had begun, and such acts of wanton violence, as well as the men who employed them, were rapidly losing favor in the eyes of the Court. Also, his father had made many enemies in his rise to power, men who would use such a thing against him, as they had tried to use the escaped prisoners. To burn a corpse as a scare tactic was one thing. To murder a woman in cold blood was quite another. Not that the younger man put it to himself in this way. He did not have to. He knew the realities, and he knew the man. His father was bluffing.

The woman was startled out of her black study by the last sound on earth she expected. Rather than the slow, sinister footsteps she had tried to anticipate, she was called back instead by the sound, infinitely more mocking than laughter, of strong male hands striking together. She looked up, and he was clapping!

"Madame," he said, "I salute you. You have withstood the first assault. I can afford to be magnanimous, for you will not survive the second." And again the face turned deadly serious, though the look of restless violence was gone. It was impossible to believe that it had been feigned. It had not. But neither had it brought the desired result; and he was wise enough, now, to adopt a different course.

For he had no doubt that the woman was hiding something. The hard edge of his foil remained, but the strokes became finer, more mincing.

"A lesson for you, Stephen. Most women, indeed, almost all, can either be bought, or threatened into giving up what is wanted. Why? Because they lack the simple courage---to face life in the first case, and death in the second. They use money, and men, as a shield against life; and nothing on this earth can induce them to face death, or even the thought of death.

"I have heard it said that if women ruled the world, there would be no war. That is true, but hardly a compliment. The reason there would be no war is that none of them would have the courage to fight it. At the first shot they would all throw down their arms and run away. Deceit, manipulation, love. These are the weapons they employ.

"But as witnessed here, there are a few scattered instances of honest character, of a woman standing up to death. But almost always it is done in the defense of her immediate family: her husband, her child. That is what puzzles me here. Having threatened her own life unsuccessfully, I took the next step, as I taught you long ago: threaten the thing she is trying to protect, and mean it. But even this brought no result. Why? At such times one must draw back, look beneath the surface, examine motive .

"The implied motive here is to protect her niece alone, but I do not believe it. No woman is willing to die for the bastard child---oh yes, I know!

---of her sister-in-law, and a man she both fears and detests. Perhaps she raised her from a child? Still not enough. We must look for some deeper relationship.

"Did you see, when she thought I meant to kill her, the way she hung her head, and reached down into some secret place she believes I cannot touch? Whose image did she turn to in her moment of need? For I tell you, Stephen, she was prepared to die. And it wasn't for any half-breed girl."

He took a sheet of folded parchment from an inner pocket, and settling more deeply in the chair, smoothed it open against his thigh. "I have here a list, names and numbers. It was brought to me yesterday, along with more detailed information, concerning the prisoners still at large---thankfully, very few. I think you will find our information quite thorough and up to date. Now I know not only the men who hail from this country---and are therefore likely to return---but also the friends they kept in the stockade, and the smaller groups they split into after the escape.

"You heard me tell my Lieutenant to brand the number 406 on our dead comrade's body---though I warn you, I may still use it to incriminate your niece. Why that particular number? I will tell you. It is the number of one of the men decidedly traced to this area: the companion, protector, and...could it be...the cousin of our heroic James Talbert? Are we coming nearer the mark, Mrs. Scott? You look quiet pale; would you like to sit down?"

"I will stand," she said desperately, trying to prepare herself against the coming blow. For now he had found the weak place in her armor, the secret refuge of her soul. One thought only kept hammering at her brain. Admit nothing. At all costs she must not let this shark catch scent of her son's blood.

And in fact the identity of the second prisoner was not known to him, though his insight and shrewd guesses had brought him dangerously close to the truth. Beside the number 406, the reported friend and fellow fugitive of James Talbert, were written these words: No name given, possible memory loss from head wound, called by fellow prisoners `Jamie' . This was the small victory that Michael had won during the first brutal year of his captivity: he would not give up his true name. His identity, and therefore his life, remained hidden.

But through the uncanny memory for persons and places which every tyrant must possess, the Lord Purceville recalled a sturdy youth, several years older than his son, who had once accompanied the Scotts on a visit to Margaret MacCain, during the time of her employment at his estate---the fierce disdain he had shown as he stepped from the carriage, and spied its hated Master. Where was this fiery-eyed youth now, who must surely have been of fighting age and temperament at the time of the revolt? Had he been taken prisoner, and escaped along with James Talbert, or merely been killed in the war? In any event the mention of his name was bound to cause an emotional reaction in the mother, which might lead him in turn to the girl. Like a skilled fortune-teller he would draw her out, read the story in her face, and follow where it led. Between pauses:

"What was this prisoner's name, you ask? Why, his last name appears to be Scott. Could that be your son? Has he been here of late, to visit you? Is it he you are trying to protect? Is he in hiding along with Mary? Yes, of course. That's it. They grew up together, did they not? Were they very close, your strong, golden-haired son and fair, emerald-eyed niece? They say that cousin is a dangerous relationship; surely there was an attraction. Could they have been more than friends. . .even, lovers?" At this Stephen's head jerked towards her, as if he had been scalded.

The woman could bear it no longer; she felt herself ready to explode. But just as fear and rage rose irrepressibly inside her, she instinctively channeled the outburst to lead him away from her son.

"Have you no shame, sir! My son is dead and buried these three years, as a short walk to the gravesite of our clan will plainly show. He was a brother and father both to my niece, and as fine a man as you could ask. You will not speak against his honor in my house! He was willing to die to stand up to the likes of you, and so am I. Kill me, if you have the courage. By God, I'll listen to no more of this!"

"Careful, Mrs. Scott. You say your son lies yonder in the grave, but that too could be a hoax. I have unearthed two bodies already. I will not hesitate---"

This was too much for her. For the first time in her life, hatred flared into animal violence.

"You will do no such thing! Check the funeral record at the vestry, then take yourself to the Devil!" Seizing her husband's stout walking stick from its place in the corner she flew at him, screaming. "You get out of my house! Get out, you Godless bastard!"

And though she was but a woman---though her blows were blocked and the stick taken from her---the suddenness of her fury served its purpose. The man believed her son was dead, and saw plainly there was nothing more to be got out of her.

Yet in his answering rage he might still have done her serious injury, if his son had not intervened. Henry Purceville pushed her back against the stone hearth wall, and cocked his great fist for a blow which might well have killed her. Stephen caught his father's arm and pulled him away from her, slowly but firmly.

"You don't want to do this," he said.

"No one speaks to me like that. I'll kill her!"

"And give Earl Arthur the weapon he needs to call an Inquest? Destroy yourself for a moment's passion?"

"She has defied me! I will have my daughter brought before me."

"Then leave her to me, if that is all you want. I know more of this family than you do. Promise me now, in front of her, give me your word, that you will do nothing to harm the girl, or put her on trial for conspiracy." His father only struggled more fiercely, outraged that anyone should force on him such a condition.

But he found himself breathing too hard: his chest ached, and the exertions of the day had begun to take their toll on him. He was tired. He felt old.

Still, had the request not come from his son, and had he not already been willing..... With a last sweep of his arm he broke free, and relaxed his great limbs. Then looked his son full in the face.

"I will do it for you , to show that I am not what you think. If you bring the girl to me, tonight, I will drop all charges. And I never meant to harm her.....

"You accused me of many things last night. You are very naive. Since your mother's death, it is true that I have not been kind. Kindness gains a man nothing, nor does the illusion of love, as you will find. Yes, I sent the MacCain woman away, as the scheming slut she was. But I have no intention of hanging my own daughter. Perhaps you will not believe it, but as much as anything..... I just want to see her." He threw up his hands in disgust. "I promise, damn you all! Bring her to me, tonight, and the charges will be dropped."

Stephen stepped away, and to the center of the room, feeling awkward and stiff. This was the closest thing to a confidence that his father had shown him in many years.

"Thank you, Father. That should be agreeable..... You might as well start back. If I may speak to Mrs. Scott alone, I think I can convince her that it is the only way."

"See that you do!" he growled, turning on the woman once more. "If you can't, bring her instead. I'm not over-fond of hostages, but they usually bring the desired result. Good day , Mrs. Scott." Without further speech he filed past and out the door, remounted his fierce gray, and rode off.

Stephen was silent for several minutes, as if confused in his loyalties. Then turned again to face the woman. He spoke stiffly.

"Mrs. Scott. I must apologize to you for my conduct at our last meeting. You have no reason to believe it, I'm sure. But I am not the same man now, that I was. Your niece, my sister, has forced me to look at myself in a new light. I don't much like what I see. I make no excuses, except to say that I am my father's son, and was raised without..... Nevermind. I am sorry, too, that you had to endure his wrath for so long. There was no other way. Had I spoken before I did, it would simply have made matters worse."

The woman could only stare at him in disbelief.

"And now all you ask," she replied, "in exchange for my own freedom, is that I turn an innocent young woman over to the man who burned her mother at the stake, and threatened to violate my son's grave. To say nothing of what you yourself have done. Why should my answer to you be any different than the one I made your father?"

His face flushed with anger, which he then suppressed. "First, because I am trying to protect her. And you, though you don't believe it. Second, because he didn't kill her mother, or even strike her, as he told his men. She was dead when we arrived..... You don't believe me. Here. She left this note for Mary."

He handed her a single sheet, on which was written the woman's dying message to her daughter. The hand was weak and failing, but undoubtedly that of her sister. Anne Scott read it quickly, then looked searchingly into the young man's face.

"The third reason, and I do not say it as my father would..... I know she's here, Mrs. Scott. The soiled cloak on the peg, is hers. She was wearing it yesterday when..... When I found out what kind of man I had become. I can't forgive myself for that. I can only try to make amends, by seeing to it that she is never again brought to such a pass.

"But I'm afraid the first step toward that end, must be the visit to my father. You must believe me, he will do nothing to harm her, so long as I remain as her protector. He is angry now, and afraid that she may pose some new threat, when his skies are already darkened for a storm. But when he learns her true nature, as I have, he will realize his mistake. And if I have anything to say about it, he will make restitution as well, for the years he left her destitute.

"Mrs. Scott. I don't ask you to forgive the wrongs that were committed in the past, only that you trust me to know the realities of the present. If he is defied, my father will only become more ruthless. He will scour the countryside; he will never stop. You must let me take her to him. There is no other way."

The woman moved wearily to her chair, and sat down. Violence she had been prepared to withstand, and treachery. But a seemingly genuine offer of help, from the one man with any influence over their most deadly enemy. . .confused her utterly.

Where did her responsibility lie now? For though she tried to suppress it, another thought had occurred to her. If Lord Purceville dropped the charges against her niece, and sent to Edinburgh (or merely buried) the body of Mary's assailant as prisoner number 406, would that not end the search for her son, and make him, in time, a free man? Try as she might, she could not help but wonder at this chance, and weigh it against the possible danger to her niece.

"Will you do something for me?" she asked him. "Will you return to me in an hour's time? My niece, as you guessed, is close by. But I must have time to think, and speak to her at length, before I can come to any decision."

"You understand that I cannot go far? And that if either of you try to escape, I merely become an extension of my father---just as hard, just as ruthless."

"Yes," she replied. "I ask nothing more."

... "Where would you suggest I go?"

"Our ancestral gravesite lies in the wooded dell, a quarter of a mile from here, by the back path. There you may satisfy yourself that my son was in fact killed in the war. Nay, don't be angry. I saw the look that crossed your face when your father said those things about him. If you are to remain as Mary's protector..... It's important to me that you know they were not true."

"All right. I will remain in the dell for thirty minutes, no more. Then I will ride in wide circles

about the house, to insure that no attempt is made to escape. I must take her back, tonight. And the day is already growing long."

"Thank you," said the woman. "If you will truly act as the friend and benefactor of my niece..... You will not only have my forgiveness, but my gratitude as well."

Stephen nodded with an unreadable expression, and left the house. As soon as his horse's hooves could no longer be heard, she went to the trap.

Despite all Michael's objections, when she learned the chance existed to free him from the pursuit and persecution of the English, Mary too insisted that it must be taken, the plan tried. And his mother told him plainly:

"You are unwell, and a wanted man. If nothing else, this buys you time to recover from the harrows of your affliction. You are the one among us most in danger, and most in need. We are going to do this for you; there is no time for pride and fear!"

He would never have consented, no matter how great the pressure, if he knew that Stephen Purceville himself had assaulted Mary, and that his father had violated the grave of James Talbert, to obtain for him this `chance'. But he did not know. And it soon became clear that the only way to stop the two from going---Anne Scott accompanying her as a guardian---would be to try to restrain them physically, to the possible undoing of them all. For at irregular intervals they heard the hoofbeats of Stephen's horse, now nearer, now farther away. And the hour was nearly expired.

As it was he was far from pacified, and had nearly to be forced down the steps as Purceville drew rein, and approached the door.

And when two more hours had passed, and he forced open the trap door beneath the added weight and resistance of the carpet..... They were gone. The house was dark and empty. Purceville had ridden ahead to send a carriage back to meet them, as the two women he loved more than his own life, advanced slowly north along the road to MacPherson Castle.

Twenty

When the carriage at last arrived for them, looming up out of the fog like a great floating skull, it was full Night, and the shadows had again grown long across the young girl's heart.

Walking beside her like a wraith in the gloom, explaining to her the `details' which she withheld from Michael, Anne Scott had seemed less and less a loving guardian, more and more the whispering narrator of the black comedy into which she had so suddenly returned, after a brief and unreal respite of light and hope.

But of all the things the woman said, only one would take solid hold in her mind, dimming and obscuring all others like the wreathing mists that had engulfed her fated cousin upon the margins of Death's Kingdom:

Her mother, who in her short-lived happiness she had all but forgotten, had joined him there. She was dead.

Dead. Her mother, who had suffered so much, whom she had promised both in thought and word to restore, if not avenge..... Gone forever. Small voices, peeping like crickets in the dark silent halls of Damnation, told her she had done everything she could, and must now surrender her to memory.

"Would have told Anne this evening. . .before she set out for the Talberts. . .from there to send a doctor." All useless now, swept away, as the Lord Purceville had swept away her mother's love, and then her life.

And now, just as surely, she herself was being drawn into the heart of that great spider's web, to be sucked dry and then discarded. She remembered her mother's words: the man you most want to love, but in the end must despise more than any. Her spirit palled as the door of the plush carriage, like the padded lid of a casket, sealed them in. Fear and cold and grief at last overcame her, as she sloughed in near unconsciousness against the known and unknown woman beside her.

But a moment before all was consumed in the black sleep of despair, a tiny figure stood at the heart of the abyss and whispered a single, heart-breaking word.

The figure was herself, and the word:

"Michael."

Twenty-One

Mary woke to find herself in a strange bed, with monogrammed sheets and a broad, crimson canopy. She lay still and tried to realize all that had happened. It was impossible. Her recollections of the night before were so confused. . .and her present surroundings in such flat contradiction to the naked exposure she felt. . .that the aura of unreality remained.

She let out a bewildered breath, and pressing her fingers to her temples, tried to reshape in some logical pattern the events of her journey, and later installment in this room. Images came to her in sharp detail, but would not arrange themselves to any firm order or conclusion.

She saw again the pale interior of the carriage. Then through the window, the grim Castle looming upon the promontory: above the mists, beneath the moon . She saw the drawbridge raised again behind them, and the spiked portcullis lowered in the arch beyond. And then the great, hulking form of a man, seated as if in Judgment upon a raised throne of oak at the head of a long reception hall, hung with bright banners and fading tapestry. She walked towards him, came closer, then stopped.

At this point, had she known it, she did in fact lose consciousness, collapsing to the apparent (and unexpected) distress of her father. He had been the first to come to her aid, and loudly summon a physician. Afterward she had been taken to the rooms she now shared with her aunt, who was stationed in the adjoining chamber.

A door opened in the wall to her right, calling her back to the present. The widow Scott entered quickly, seeming no more assured or at peace than herself. With a troubled look she approached the bed, and took her niece by the hand.

"I fear we have made a serious mistake," she said.

The words were so obvious, and such a gross understatement of their position, that the one reaction the girl felt capable of was annoyance. The widow read this in her face, shook her head.

"That's not what I mean. Whether we did right or wrong in coming here, and whether it will help Michael---" She looked about her, as if fearing the very walls, then went on in a lowered voice.

"Whether or not we can do anything to call off the search. . .I have found a dangerous weakness in our story, and the one physical detail I overlooked. I cannot hope Lord Purceville did not notice." She lifted Mary's hand before her, and slowly she understood.

The ring .

Such a bitter irony: the very symbol of life and enduring love, of the common purpose that bound them together. . .might work to the undoing of them all.

For at that same moment the Lord Purceville sat alone in his study, pondering many things, not least among them that slender band of silver, set with a single diamond.

The contradiction to the facade of innocence which the widow had tried to plant in his mind was obvious. Why did the girl wear a wedding ring, while the woman did not? Who, and where, was the man who had given it to her? And what string had Stephen pulled, perhaps inadvertently, to bring them here? For though in his hard way he loved his son, he was not blind to his shortcomings. It was unlikely that Stephen had, of his own devices, unearthed and exploited some weakness which he himself had missed.

But most puzzling of all was a question far more simple. Why, after facing death to protect her, had the woman suddenly put her niece, his daughter, into the palm of his hand?

Back in their chambers, the two women saw they had no choice but to see it through. To switch the ring back to the widow's hand might prove disastrous, while to change any element of their story (much of which was still unclear to Mary), would prove equally perilous.

It was decided that they should speak of the ring as an heirloom, which had been passed on to the sole inheritor of Scott blood and tradition. This might also lend credence to the guardian's fierce determination to protect her. And in this same hurried conference, Anne Scott went over again all that should, and should not be said at Mary's inevitable, and surely imminent meeting with her father.

Still, if she had been summoned to him in that moment, and had he not been distracted, he might easily have picked her story apart, and held them all at his questionable mercy.

But he was distracted, and distraught. A courier had arrived the night before, only hours ahead of his daughter's carriage, bearing news that he was loathe to hear. Earl Emerson Arthur, his sworn enemy of so many years, had been appointed Secretary of State for Scotland. And full of his new-found authority, the vindictive old man had decided to abandon his long siege---waiting for some damning evidence to arise against his rival---and decided to attack instead, on Purceville's own ground, while the tide of disfavor was still strong against him. A review was to be called, if not a formal Inquest, and evidence gathered to dismiss him. And while losing his seat as Governor was not a literal matter of life and death, to the aged and slowly despairing Lord Purceville, the two amounted to one and the same thing.

For no man is so strong that he can hold off forever the grim whisperings of age. His power and station were all that remained to him, a last shield of illusion, which so narrowly blocked out the sureness and finality of Death. Without it, he would have to look its grim harvest square in the face. And for all his mockery and outward courage (unfeigned), this was something he was consummately unwilling to do.

Now he was cornered. And the cornered beast is most to be feared. Twenty-Two

Several hours later a man-servant came to the women's quarters to announce:

"The Lord Purceville," (his exact words), "requests a private interview with his daughter."

Whatever their desired affect, upon hearing these words something shook in Mary's heart, as she felt again the sudden pang of the orphan. Because she realized in that moment that this simple phrase, `his daughter', had never once been applied to her. For an instant the tears started in her eyes; and for all her fear of him, her one desire was to run and fall weeping in his arms.

But then she remembered all that her mother had told her. She remembered, too, the life of empty hatred to which he had driven her, at the cost of all that was gentle and giving inside her. And the way he had burned her very corpse.

The tears stopped. A look of such implacable will came into her eyes that the widow Scott, who had been plaiting her hair in preparation, took a step back in dismay. All the brooding anger that she had once seen in Stephen, the forerunner of violence, now showed itself in the girl, with a keener edge, and yet whiter fire.

"Mary, listen to me," she whispered closely. "You must not do or say anything to upset him. Our lives, all of them, are in his hands."

But her words were without effect. Mary stood like a fierce, enchanted statue, waiting only for the sculptor to finish, to come to life and fulfill its vengeful purpose. And when the last lock of hair was in place and bound she stalked silently from the room, following the startled servant.

After two long hallways she hardly noticed, she passed by several doors in a third, then was ushered in to the great man's den. Her eyes took in nothing but his seated form, which stamped itself forever in her mind as the living embodiment of evil, and sole object of revenge.....

If Henry Purceville had harbored any notions of winning the girl over, or of displaying even the most distant paternal affection, he soon forgot them. Her iron gaze quickly despatched the small stirrings of tenderness (and guilt) which he had felt the night before.

But strange to say, the fearless disdain she showed him was not without reward. In truth it was the one emotion he still respected. It at once cut through his predisposition toward women as weak and spineless manipulators, and gave her a separate identity. She was his daughter, and she was not afraid.

There could be, for the moment, no thought of killing her.

"Well, girl," he said, settling back in his chair as the servant closed the polished doors behind them. "If you have hard words to say to me, say them."

"I hate you," she hissed.

"And why is that?" His face remained immobile, whatever the underlying emotions.

"You raped my mother."

"Yes, though she did not ask me to stop. And if I hadn't, you would not exist." The thought staggered her, but she pressed on.

"You burned her body! You denied her Christian burial."

"Your mother was not a Christian. By the look of her hut, I'd say she fancied herself a Daughter of the Trees. Such as she are not buried, as you must know."

"If not for your countrymen, and their accursed King, my cousins....." She struggled. "They would not have been killed in the war."

"And if not for your countrymen, and their drunkard Prince, there would have been no war.

"No," he continued, raising his hand to stop her. "Don't tell me that you were oppressed, and had no choice but to rise in revolt. The strong have always dominated the weak: it is Nature's unchanging law. Had you been strong enough to defeat us, you would have won your freedom, and left the women of England to mourn the dead."

Mary looked hard at him, disconcerted. She had been ready to pour out the crucible of her wrath upon him, and at the slightest mockery, to rush forward and scratch out his eyes. But he only remained before her, unmoved and unmovable, with no apparent effort refuting her every grievance. Worst of all, his words held the power of a twisted truth.

"You have an answer for everything. That doesn't make you right. In the eyes of God---"

"God ?" he sneered, as if the very thought were offensive. "You have reached young womanhood and still not seen through that, the cruelest and emptiest of farces? Look at me, girl."

She did, then wished she hadn't. Those cold and knowing eyes seemed to look straight through her. Hatred deserted her, leaving only fear. And in that moment she was sure it was not her father, but the Devil himself who stood before her. His wicked tongue was a foil far too clever for her innocence, and she knew it. She felt her innermost temples exposed, and had little doubt that he could ridicule and undo the most sacred feelings she possessed.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I I don't believe? Are you afraid? I am going to tell you; and if only once in your fairy-tale existence you listen to the voice of reason, then let it be now." He spoke evenly at first, but it was clear that she had stirred the cauldron of his emotions.

"I disbelieve for the simplest, and most undeniable reason of all. Experience . For forty years I have taken what I wanted, disobeying each Commandment, each precept, a thousand times over. And not only do I go unpunished. . .but I have thriven, and raised myself to great power.

"I will tell you something I have never told anyone; you may take that any way you like. Listen! From earliest manhood I have fought against the principles, nay, the very heart of Christianity. In truth, a part of me longed for punishment and reversal: to be put in my place, as a sign there was some meaning, some Order in the world. But there is none, unless it be survival of the fittest. Hardly the kind of world that a God would make, unless his sole purpose was to punish its weak, pathetic creatures."

He paused, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself. "The only `earth' that the meek shall inherit. . .are the indifferent shovelfuls the diggers throw back into their graves!

"What have you to say of that , little whore of my flesh? Answer me!"

She knew not where she found the words, nor the courage to speak them. She only knew that they were right.

"The final reckoning has not yet come," she said quietly. "Your imagined victory will slip through your fingers like sand."

He bolted from his chair and came at her, before either realized what had happened. Pinning her against the door, he mastered his wrath only long enough to cry out in a dreadful voice:

"Be gone! Out of my sight!"

Mary fled from the room in tears. He slammed the door after her, then struck it so violently that the oak shivered and his hand nearly broke. For she had committed the one act that no evil man can tolerate.

She had spoken the truth.

That evening Lieutenant Ballard appeared, to escort the ladies to, "More suitable quarters." He led them, along with two armed guards, to the high tower at the furthest extremity of the Castle.

After a long and torturous spiralling of stairs (for their escort would not let them rest), they came at last to the uppermost story. There Ballard took a long iron key, and forcing the eye of the lock, pulled back the thick wooden door, pierced by a single, barred window.

They were ushered in, and all doubt of their position left them. It was a prison cell. Piled hay on the floor comprised the beds, two water buckets, one filled, the other empty, their only toilet. Two woolen blankets had been rudely thrown down, as if their captors resented even this small show of humanity. But for these, and for the water, the place might have gone unchanged for a hundred years.

Ballard approached the girl, and took her roughly by the wrist. Too numb to react, she could only watch as he pulled the ring from her finger, and flung it out of the high, paneless window. No explanation was given for this action, or for the sudden change in their status. And when they tried to ask, the Lieutenant only smiled, and said in a harsh voice:

"Little Mary, Queen of Scots, locked in the Tower, waiting for death." And he let go a laugh, so void of compassion that it made the blood run cold. He strode back out onto the landing, then turned again to face them through the closing door.

"Master `enry has a visitor, and needs no more trouble of you. If you want to live a little longer, do nothing to call attention to yourselves. Quiet as mice, my pretties, or bad men will be sent to keep an eye, and more `an likely both hands, on you ."

He pulled the door to, and left them in darkness.

Twenty-Three

That same evening, after observing the necessary formalities surrounding the arrival of Earl Arthur, Stephen at last broke away from the banquet and went in search of his sister. Whatever his father's feelings, he was both glad to have her under his roof, and firmly set in the belief that he was acting on her behalf. His motive for seeing her now (so he told himself) was a sense of responsibility for her comfort and well-being.

The affection which he felt for her at their first meeting had not changed, his thoughts continued, except that the lust had gone out of it. And in a sense, even this was a relief. His greatest need now was for friendship and a sense of family, both of which might only have been lost and obscured, had they become conventional lovers.

He had drunk more than his share of the wine served at dinner, seeming unconcerned by his father's tension, and the measured severity of Earl Arthur. And now, as he walked the long corridors he fell to reminiscing, to gentle, water-color thoughts of their long ride together across the countryside. And he remembered their first kiss, so innocent, so full of feeling. To see her now, and to know that it was in his power to bring her back to pride and prosperity, aroused in him a feeling of warmth and tenderness which he had not experienced since childhood. To speak with her late into the night. To kiss and to touch, her..... The door was ajar.

The room was empty. She was gone.

An old peasant woman was making up the bed. He wasted little time on her. "Where is my sister?" he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed at this. But after a moment's pondering, she seemed to understand doubly. "Ah. She and her guardian have been moved to other quarters."

"What other quarters?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir."

"What do you know!" he cried angrily.

"Only it was the Lieutenant as took `em, and that he was none too gentle." And she turned away, concealing her purpose, as ever.

Stephen stormed out of the room, blind with rage. Those who passed him in the hallway drew back as from a fire. Even those servants of long standing. . .none had seen him in a state like this.

He entered the banquet hall just as the Earl and his entourage were leaving. The withered Arthur nodded stiffly in greeting, but Stephen never saw him. His eyes knew the presence of one man only, and that man stood at the head of an emptying table.

His father eyed him darkly as he approached, and with a stern gesture, ordered him to keep silent until they were alone. Then giving final instructions to his steward about the service and lodging of his guests, he turned and walked sharply to an auxiliary den, with his son a brooding tempest behind. No sooner had the doors closed behind them than the deluge broke. At first the father tried to weather his son's wrath, hoping that it would soon spend itself, like all his passions.

But Stephen was not merely upset. He was outraged. For perhaps the first time in his life, he knew the intoxicating power of righteous anger. His sister, whom he loved and had sworn to protect, had been locked away like the coarsest and commonest of criminals. And he knew Ballard well enough to imagine the state in which he must have left her, and what she must be feeling now. The thought of his thick, gnarled hands upon her, dragging her away, was the final straw.

"You bastard ."

It has been truly said that a father shall be judged by his sons, and that if he is found wanting, they will be a bane and a curse until death. All the enmity and resentment he had ever felt toward this man, all the shortcomings of his own character, indeed, every injury he had ever suffered, he now held to be the fault of the fat, corrupted animal before him.

"You will set her free, now ," he ejaculated. "Or so help me God, I will find her and do it myself!"

"Stephen ....."

"You fear Earl Arthur? It is I you should fear. I know enough to have you transported, along with the lowest horse-thieves and highwaymen!"

"You had best calm yourself, Stephen," replied Lord Purceville coldly. "And if you know what is good for you---"

"Are you threatening me ? Do you think I'm bluffing!" he cried, coming to within inches of his father's face. "I am going to the Tower, now. And if I am in any way resisted, I will go to Earl Arthur instead, and put an end to your sorry game."

"You will not ---"

"Watch me!" And he turned on his heel, and made for the door.

Henry Purceville seized his son by the arm, and jerked him back into the center of the room. "Be still , I'm warning you! Don't make me lock you away as well."

With a scream of rage Stephen pushed him off, then flew at him, fists reeling. So great was his fury that he knocked the larger man down and, pinning him there, began to pummel him with half-blocked punches to the face.

Then he felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and falling forward, knew no more.

Twenty-Four

The first night that Michael spent alone was indescribable. To have held the treasure of his heart so near, after both had suffered so much, only to be forced to turn her over to the most feared and hated man of the district, and a name of ill repute since childhood..... There was no reconciling himself to the facts.

That she was his daughter might afford her the narrowest margin of protection. But who could say what an English Lord---his noble birth a sham, at that---might do when confronted by the threat of an illegitimate child?

And the son, Stephen Purceville. Both Mary and his mother had doctored their accounts of him, knowing Michael's fiery temper of old. But he was wise enough, with the passing years, to know when he was being shielded from the truth. The bullet-hole in the portrait spoke for itself, a constant reminder that the younger Purceville was a force, and a danger, unto himself. At best he was an emotional powder keg, prone to sudden threats (and possibly acts) of violence. At worst he was as cold and calculating as his father. The effectiveness of his methods could not be questioned. He had taken the two women he loved, without a fight, from under his very wing. What nest-thieving fox could claim as much?

Such was the image he began to form of his imagined nemesis.

The morning after was no less a torment. Because for all the unquenchable fear and concern he felt for them, Mary and his mother had been right about one thing: he was not well. Nothing short of bed-rest and shelter from the cold would begin to rid him of the debilitating fever, and the deep, constrictive cough that had settled in his chest.

But how could he remain calm, and rest, when those he loved remained in unspeakable danger? Several times he started for the door, only to be halted by the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do. Not only would the exposure to the elements do injury to himself, but his very presence, in any way connected with them, would only increase their peril ten-fold. And the still deeper question, which lay at the back of all others, which haunted him and gave him no peace:

What could one frail, unarmed man do against the grim, unyielding walls of MacPherson Castle?

As evening began to deepen, and in the same hour that the cell door was being closed upon the women, his inner turmoil reached a fever pitch. Something had to be done! He paced back and forth, howling his rage at the walls.

And yet his mind knew, for all the throbbings of the heart, that he could not yield. He had learned the hard way, in the stockade, that there were times when self-denial and an iron discipline were the only way. And for all the pain it cost him, he knew that he must wrap himself warmly and try to sleep. In the morning there might be some meaningful action he could take. And there was nothing, save pneumonia, that he could accomplish how, alone and in the dead of night.

So he prepared to pass the dark hours as he had passed those previous. Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he took the stones that had been heating before it, wrapped them in a sling, and carried them up the ladder-stair to Mary's bed, where he would sleep. In the loft he would at least have some warning in the event of a sudden search, as well as the advantage of height in a struggle. There was, perhaps, no reason for the English to return to the cottage.....

Still, he could take nothing for granted. The evening fire was a necessary evil, now smoldering to ash. All else must be patience and concealment, until the morning light brought clearer counsel, or dealt him some new card unforeseen. Until then, patience and hiding. Patience and hiding.....

He fell asleep.

Twenty-Five

Clear your mind, begin again All that came before is gone; There is no truth, there is no past The day is gone, the light is lost. The long fought hours slip away To whited stones; The stones are ground to dust Dust blows in the wind, then the song begins again.

The time has come the Judgment soon; Above the mists, beneath the Moon.

Youth to age, and back again And all resounds in death; Death to old and young alike, And all for Heaven's Breath.

Such were the words that Mary heard, as she slipped into a dream. The voice seemed to come from the walls, and the walls from the stone heart of earth, the earth so old it had forgotten them. Too weary and wretched to fight, yet as she spiralled back and always down, the Voice became familiar, and edged all else in fear.

It was the voice of her mother, unburied and unwept.

The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked. The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a hill, surrounded by well-ordered green.

She drew nearer its stone walls, passed through and into warmth and firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving resolution of his hands.

He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock. The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her, because it was she, her mother in the bed.

The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.

And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet, for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the cup of sorrow to her lips.

Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it: the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the room, followed by her brother.

And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her, forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her heart. . . her youth was gone.

And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.

But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from the breast.....

Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round. . . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring death as sure as life, and old and young alike.

Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide.

Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly, somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained.

Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played out. Or the dream was gone.

Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.

Thunder rolled beyond the walls in a glowering storm, as spiders crawled freely through the window.

Twenty-Six

Michael woke suddenly, to the sound of the front door being thrown open, and a low scuffling noise in the passage which he could not dissect. The door was closed again and voices were heard, along with the muffled curses of a man bound. And for all the fugitive plans he had tried to form, Michael knew his one defense now was utter silence.

"The old man's lost his mind," said the first voice, breathing hard but speaking in hushed tones. "How long's he think he can keep things dark, now it's come to this? We can't keep him stowed here like a barrel in the hold forever."

"And you're a damned fool, Stubb," came the second, harsh and uncowed. "All we've got to do is keep him out of sight till Arthur turns tail and runs. And he will, or I know naught. The old man can't be took on his own ground. And but for his majesty here, and them bitches in the Tower, there ain't none as lived long enough to speak against him. Master `enry does things proper, and no mistake."

"You may be right for now, Ballard, but how long do you think he can keep it up? He's squeezed blood from these stones long enough. There's Hell to pay, I'm sure of it."

"Tell it to the parson, Stubb, he'll put it in his Sunday speech."

"You don't understand."

"You're the one who don't understand. You think I'm married to the old man, but I ain't. If he comes out on top, I'll stand by him right enough. But if he don't, he'll learn that Toby Ballard is no man's slave. Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own way..... Oh, his Lordship didn't like that. Here, loosen his gag. No one to hear him now but the walls."

"---kill you myself!" cried the bound man. "So help me, Ballard, you won't live to see the new year!"

"Ah, now, your majesty," said the other, unconcerned. "Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. For the time, though, I think you'd best concern yourself with yourself. It might trouble your father for a time if some `accident' were to befall you while in my care. But he'd get over it."

"You wouldn't dare."

There was a sinister pause, in which the only sound was that of a saber being drawn, metal against smooth metal. Then with an icy menace such as Michael had heard only once before, in the stockade, the man put it to his throat and said bluntly.

"Try me."

Again there was silence. The gag was refitted.

"He's all yours, Stubb. Don't leave him alone, even for a short time. I'll send someone to relieve you in a day or two." He turned again to face the young Captain.

"Good night, or should I say, good morrow, your majesty ." Ballard's heavy tread reached the door, opened, closed, and went beyond it, as he mounted and rode back to the Castle.

Michael tried to think what he must do. There were too many questions here for which he had no answer. Only one thing was clear to him: the man Stubb was the immediate danger.

There could be no thought of flight, in any case. A weapon, albeit a treacherous one, had been placed within his reach, in the form of Stephen Purceville. He must find a way to use it. With no clear plan, but not without hope, he determined to bide his time, and watch for some opportunity to ambush and subdue the guard.

He did not have to wait long. Apparently the officer had determined to have a look at all the rooms. For after first checking those on the main level, he was heard just below, as he put his boot to the first rung of the ladder-stair, and began to climb.

Startled into action Michael leapt from the bed, and when the man's face appeared above the level of the floor, kicked it squarely with the flat of his foot.

He had not envisioned the consequences. Perhaps in fear he had struck too hard; perhaps the man had thrown himself backward in sudden shock. Whatever the reason, his body was sent hurtling back and down, and crashed in a terrible angle against the joining of wall and floor below. The man was killed instantly, his neck broken.

Stepping back from the opening, Michael pulled on his boots with a trembling hand, trying to disbelieve what his eyes had just shown him. But when he climbed down to examine his foe, all uncertainty left him. No breath, no pulse. No life.

An anguish such as he had never known overcame him. By his own hand, a human life was ended.

With hot tears stinging him, he gently lifted the body and carried it to his mother's bed. His only thought, irrational as it may have been, was to lay the man more comfortably, and block from his mind the horrible contortion in which he had found him. This done, he staggered toward the cold hearth as if for shelter, arms crossed before him to block out the world.

But the world would not go away. Almost as soon as he entered the main room he heard a muffled gasp, and the scrape of a wooden chair being pushed back in alarm.

Michael lowered his arms in dismay, not remembering. He saw before him an English officer, bound tightly to a stiff upright chair, and gagged with a twisted length of black cloth. His senses told him he was looking at Stephen Purceville, but his mind was too dazed to take it in. In that moment he only knew that it was a man, like himself.

"I didn't mean to kill him," he choked. "I just wanted to knock him out, and take his weapon."

Having said this Michael steadied somewhat, and tried to force himself back to the present. With no clearer motive than to relieve the discomfort of the other---his enemy, he knew---he loosened and removed the gag.

Still Purceville could not gather himself to speak. All his life, he had been the one to hold another powerless before him. To be so bound, and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him to words.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?" And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the memories of a lifetime of injustice:

The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no doubt abject and afraid.

And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his shirt, he pulled it down across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded there.

"What does this tell you?" he demanded in turn.

"You were a prisoner," said Stephen. "I'm sorry. You're a free man, now..... Look, you can't kill me. There's no reason---"

"What in Hell do you mean, free?"

The Englishman could not understand the vehemence with which the word was spoken. "All prisoners of war have been pardoned. The word arrived yesterday, with the new Secretary. You have only to turn yourself in, and renounce your former cause..... Reconciliation."

"You're lying," said Michael desperately. "You're like your father. . . you're lying !"

"No. On my mother's grave, I swear it."

Then to his bewilderment, Stephen saw the man take his head in both hands, and fall to his knees with a tortured cry. At length the worn face looked up, and it was neither joy nor relief, but unutterable sorrow that was written there. Almost a whisper.

"Then why. Why, in God's name, were you so Hell-bound to capture us?"

Purceville hesitated, fearful of another outburst. But the answer was so obvious. "A last minute power play. You know. Politics."

And indeed another outburst came. Trembling with rage Michael stormed to the lifeless hearth, and smashed his boot-heel against it.

"GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!" he cried. "You, and this bloody world you've made for yourselves! My cousin is dead because of your politics . The man in the next room is dead, and I am a murderer..... Aahh! Jesus!"

Stunned by the power of the man's emotions, and fearing for the consequences, Stephen all but begged.

"It was an accident. I'll testify on your behalf. Look, it's not the end---"

"No! Not for you and me. We're the lucky ones. We're left to go on fighting." Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken.

"Can't you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of nations, there's no room for whim, or politics. Don't you see that every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are swept away?

"You! You took away our land, our dignity, and gave us nothing in return but the butt of your muskets. Do you wonder that it came to war? Then for years those of us with the courage to resist you were called `traitors', and hunted down like dogs. Now you say we are prisoners of war, and all we have to do is walk away." He paused, overwhelmed by the thought.

"Can a man walk away from his past? Can the cold stones of the grave lose their shadow, and rotted flesh grow whole again to walk with the living? God damn you! We stand atop a pile of bodies four miles deep, over which you would hold a pretty picnic. And ten times ten thousand left to grieve.

"Dear God, I cannot look at you, for the very sight is bile in my throat. When ignorance leads the blind, how black shall the blindness be?"

He walked out of the room, with all feeling gone from his soul.

Twenty-Seven The widow Scott opened her eyes in the chill hour of dawn. Indirect sunlight filtered through the high window, silhouetting the statued form of her niece, who stood in silence before it. At her side the girl held something metal that gleamed dully. Her eyes looked out unseeing.

"Mary? What's that in your hand?"

Slowly, as from a distance. "I've got to kill him."

Once more Anne Scott felt herself in the presence of a will, a force that was beyond swaying. But she knew that she too had a part in the unfolding drama, and she would not watch idly as her niece destroyed herself.

"Because of your mother? You think that you must follow her down the bitter road---"

"You speak of what you cannot imagine."

There was no answering obsession. The woman did not try. "How will you do it?" she asked simply.

"They did not think to search us." Mary held up the slender blade that the witch had sewn into a fold of her dress, then forgotten.

"Surely that, of itself, would not kill a man."

"Human excrement makes a very effective blood poison." All said evenly, without emotion or remorse, without living movement of any kind.

... "Mary. Your mother left something for you." At this she turned, like a sleepwalker disturbed by the calling of her true name. "Stephen brought me this note. Her dying words."

"A forgery," she stammered, "meant to dissuade me."

"No," said Anne Scott firmly. "After twenty-nine years, I ought to know my sister's hand."

"Don't come any closer." She raised the knife halfheartedly. "I don't want to see it." But Anne Scott continued forward, held out the folded sheet.

Mary's left hand could not stop the right. She took the page and held it open against the angled sill. She read.

A single tear escaped her, then another, till at last she dropped the blade and leaned heavily back against the stone. The tortured grip had managed but five words, the last broken and trailing, but undeniable.

Mary, I love you. Forgive

Anne Scott moved closer, and took the forlorn head to her shoulder. Mary did not resist. She only wept, unable for a time to speak.

"But, if I do not avenge her. . .then her story is truly ended. She lived, and died, for nothing. Oh, it is too terrible."

"No, Mary. Her life, and broken love, brought about your life, and a love that is real. You must never forget that." The widow paused, understanding at last.

"Listen to me, girl. You carry a part of her in yourself: in your flesh, and in your seed. The story never ends, it only changes characters. And those who have left something beautiful behind them, never die. They live on in the thoughts, the hearts, the very lives of those who loved them." And the woman found that she too was crying, the most profound tears of her life. For in this, most unlikely of moments, she had seen beyond the grave, and touched the face of God.

"When you bear a child of your own, you will understand just how very much that means. For now, my sad Mary, just cry. Cry, and love her."

"Oh, Anne, I'm so cold." And she began to shiver, her trembling flesh once more asserting its will to live. Anne Scott took their two blankets, joined them together, and sat with her closely huddled in the straw. Both wept, and held each other, knowing fully and without illusion, what it was to be a woman.

Twenty-Eight

Life would not go away. There was no room for fatalism or self-pity, and he knew it. Nothing else mattered, nothing was real, until Mary and his mother were set free.

Michael put on his coat, and climbed down from the loft. Going to his mother's room, he unbuckled the fallen officer's sword, and put it about his own waist. Then he took the man's pistol and slipped it under his belt.

Moving to the kitchen, he filled a dipper with water from the urn, and walked with it into the main room. By now the morning was full, and sunlight pushed against the heavy curtains. The two men saw each other clearly.

"I thought you might be wanting this," said the Highlander. Stephen Purceville eyed the dipper, then the man, suspiciously.

"I'm not going to poison you, Purceville." Stephen's eyes then shifted to the pistol. "I'm not going to shoot you, either. If you'll drink this, and promise not to try anything foolish, I'll untie you as well. We've got to come to an understanding."

"First tell me who you are," said the Englishman. "And what you're doing here."

"My name doesn't matter. All you need know is that I'm a friend to Mary, and the widow Scott. My one concern now is to get them out of your father's prison. Here, drink." And again he held forward the dipper.

"Why is that so important to you?"

"Because I want you to know where your sustenance is coming from. And your freedom, if you'll help me."

"But why---"

"For the love of God, man, drink! I cannot untie you while I am holding this. Time enough for talk while we dig the grave..... For your comrade , Purceville. I don't intend to kill you. Just remember I've a gun and sword both, and know how to use them."

Reluctantly Stephen drank, then followed the Highlander's every move as he untied him.

But if he had harbored any thoughts of attacking him once he was freed, the painful stiffness of his limbs dispelled them. There was nothing for it now but to play along, and keep watching for a chance..... But in spite of all he could not fully submerge a feeling of relief at being set free, and a raw animal gratitude as they moved to the kitchen, and he drank his fill of water from the urn.

With the pistol in his hand but not pointed, Michael led him next to the small, attached toolshed behind the cottage. Pointing inside it to a shovel, he instructed the Englishman to take it up, then walk ahead of him slowly to the gravesite of his clan.

"You're not going to bury him here?" said Stephen as they reached it.

"Yes, I am. He may have been an honorable man, and he may not. But he died among us, and among us he will lie."

"Us?"

"Master Purceville, you have a nasty habit of questioning the inevitable. We are in a place of burial, because a man is dead. I am a Scot with a pistol, and you are a Brit with a spade. There is the earth; now dig . I will ask the questions." Muttering, but having no choice, Stephen did as he was told.

Michael leaned back wearily against a tree. And shaking off the melancholy of both the place and the task at hand, he forced his mind to think. He must unravel the mystery of the man before him.

So speaking with the half-truths and feigned ignorance which had become habitual with him among strangers, he began.

"The first question is simply put, and simply answered. I expect nothing less than the truth....." Nothing. "I have heard it said that Mary is your half-sister. Is that true?"

Bluntly. "Yes."

"You have been less than kind to her."

Stephen felt the color rising at the back of his neck. "I didn't know, until a few days ago."

"And how do you feel towards her now?"

"That's none of your affair!" he cried, whirling angrily. He would have advanced, but Michael straightened and pointed the gun squarely at his chest.

"That's enough. Save your anger for the digging." The other relented, but did not turn away.

"Very well," continued Michael. "I will assume from the heat of your answer that you care for her, and perhaps are not altogether happy that she has been locked away."

"Why in Hell do you think I'm here?" he snapped. "You bloody savages think you're the only ones to stand up for something? I stood up for Mary, and look what became of it." He threw down the shovel in disgust. "Do you think I'm glad at what's happened? I promised to protect her! My father will pay for what he's done to me."

Michael watched the younger man's face intently, searching for any sign of deceit. He found none.

It seemed almost too good to be true. Not only might this man's emotions be turned toward freeing the women. . .but by all appearances he was as shallow and guileless as his father was deep and cunning. But he knew better than to hope too much, or to show his true feelings, at all.

"Well. Leaving `bloody savages' aside for the moment, perhaps we are not as far apart as I feared." He lowered the weapon, leaned back against the tree. "Calm yourself, and perhaps we can talk as reasonable men.

"All right," he continued. "Here, then, is what I'm offering. Your freedom, in exchange for the safe deliverance of Mary and the widow Scott. In this you may serve me as ally, or hostage. The choice is yours."

"If you want them back," said Stephen, "then let me go now. Give me Stubb's horse, and a weapon to protect myself. All I have to do is reach Earl Arthur, and tell him my story. My father will lose all power over their fate, and a good many other things as well."

"You will forgive me," replied Michael, "if I am not as confident of English justice as you are. After they are rescued, you may do what you like to hurt your father. Not before."

Stephen looked hard at him, first in anger, then in disbelief.

"You're not serious. You can't expect to win them from the Tower by stealth? It's over two hundred feet high. Inside the castle are scores of armed soldiers, with a thousand more garrisoned less than two miles away. We don't even know which cell they're in, or if they're still together."

Michael grimaced, releasing a heavy breath. Though in his heart he knew the grim realities, to hear them spoken was still disquieting.

"I do not say it will be easy, or without danger. I only know that between you and I. . .we've got to find a way." He stiffened. "Look at me, Purceville, square in the eye. As you love your sister, and on your word as an Englishman, will you help me to free her? For I tell you, in the eyes of God we can do no less."

Stephen did not answer at first, but stood returning his captor's firm gaze. "Why do you ask me to swear as an Englishman? What makes you think any promise will bind me?"

"Because I know that's important to you. And because I believe that in spite of yourself, deep down, you are an honorable man." The other turned away. "Listen to me. Sooner or later you've got to choose between good and evil, right and wrong. There's no middle ground. And the line between them's got nothing to do with country, or birthright, but the way a man acts in the role, the place he's been given. I'm asking you now, not as a Highlander to a Red-coat, a commoner to nobility, or any other distinction you care to draw. I'm asking you as a man, to another man. Won't you help me, in what we both know is right?"

"You're very naive."

"No. God damn it, Purceville, listen! No man has greater reason to hate and mistrust than I have. You've taken everything: my youth, my health, my home, and now the only ones I love in all the world. But I refuse to hate you. I refuse to stoop so low, to believe in so little, to sell my honor and my hope for that bastard emotion. There is no greater defiance than that.

"Think! Have you never loved someone you should have hated? Or held on to something you were told you must surrender? We share the same needs, the worst of us, as we share the same flesh. Stephen. You and I, we've got to trust each other. We've got to get them out."

"While you hold the gun, and I dig the grave?"

"No." Michael opened his coat, and tucked the pistol once more beneath his belt. "Come back to the house with me now---don't try anything foolish---and I'll find you something to eat. By rights I should dig this grave myself."

"And the horse?"

"I will use it to bear the body, and keep it close to me at all times. I said trust, Stephen, not stupidity. Trust isn't blind, any more than faith is, if it's real."

"Faith in what? In God? You're dreaming."

"Call it God, or Life, or anything else you like. I haven't given up on it. Because no matter how close I've come to it, Death has never had the final word. My flesh still lives, and therefore my hope. Maybe I am dreaming. But without dreams a man's got nothing, nothing at all."

Stephen looked down, undecided.

"So what's to keep me from walking out, except the threat of a shot in the back?"

"I won't shoot you. If you want to walk out into hostile country, a wanted man, that's up to you. But I wouldn't give a ha'penny for your life, if you run afoul of that man Ballard. At least you know, or you should, that I'm an honorable man."

"You speak of honor," said Stephen, "and trust. And yet you won't even tell me your name. Don't I deserve that much?"

"I will tell you that when we have set them free, along with anything else you like. I don't ask you to understand that, just accept it. Anonymity is my one defense. That's the way it is."

... "I need time to think," said Stephen finally.

"And you shall have it. After I finish here I've got a long ride ahead of me, to make preparations. You shall have most of the day. But whatever you decide, we must be gone from here tonight. If I know human nature, your Ballard won't send anyone to relieve his comrade, or come himself, till tomorrow at least. Be we can't take that chance."

"And what if he comes back today? You're not going to bind me, and leave me here without a weapon?"

"I'm not going to bind you at all. As for a weapon, you've got surprise. And you've got something far more lethal. The human mind, and will to survive, are not to be underestimated." He shaded his eyes and looked up, saw the sun already approaching the noon. "Enough of this. You've got to eat, and then think. I've got to work."

Without further speech, they set out for the cottage. But as Stephen passed the grave of Michael Scott, he could not help but wonder at the identity of his worn but indomitable deliverer. And looking back to the place where Stubb would lie, who but a day before had walked and breathed, been proud, and stubborn, and afraid like himself, he felt a cold shudder run through him.

For he, too, had been given a taste of Death.

Twenty-Nine

Michael rode in full daylight toward the sea. It was a little used road, linking the fishing village of Kroe to the uplands; and if what Purceville said was true, he was, for the moment, no longer a wanted man. But he had little choice in any case. Riding against the sea-winds at night would be the death of him, and plans must be laid for the twilight after next.

Even so, he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slowed his horse to a canter, and turned down the single brick street of the town, overlooking the bay, then the sea beyond. As he passed through its center---small shops, a public house, plain, two story homes joined at the shoulder---he found himself looking down and straight ahead, subconsciously drawing his shoulders together as if to fade into every shadow, afraid of every eye. James Talbert's phrase, "skulking thieves," came back to him. At the same moment he passed a sturdy lad of fifteen or thereabouts, who looked up at him with a fearless eye, almost mocking.

And all at once his fugitive life became intolerable. For in the boy he had seen himself, half a lifetime before.

With sudden resolution he checked his horse, and sat up straight and proud in the saddle. Shading his eyes he looked out to the sea, and beyond. Somewhere, across the unfathomable waters, there had to be a better life: a new land, where he could start again.

He would never submit to Imperial rule; this he knew with absolute certainty. And he would not live like this. What had begun in his mind as a means of short-term escape---fleeing the Castle by sea---now branched out into thoughts of a new home, a new world, where the skies were freer and a man could still dream.

He turned back again to the hills of his beloved Scotland, the land of his birth. A great sorrow filled him, and an ache that was almost physical gripped his chest, for a dream that had died, and a home that was lost.

But the past was gone, and there was no returning. He must look to the future. He must live free or die.

The lad looked back at him, startled by the change. "Master," he said plainly. "Who are you?" The Highlander breathed deep the sea air, then replied.

"I am Michael James Scott, a proud veteran of the war against tyranny, and a man who will hide no more." With that he gave rein to his fretting animal, and rode openly to the fisherman's cottage.

The old man had seen him coming, but remained smoking placidly as before. There was much here that he did not understand, and he had many questions. But he knew enough not to worry himself, or to act in haste. Life, in the form of young `Jamie', was coming straight toward him, and would no doubt make itself clear.

Drawing up to the low stone shelter, Michael dismounted and tethered his horse, then strode quickly up the steps. The eyes of the two men met, and though everything had changed, nothing had changed between them. Michael was still in need, and the fisherman was still willing to help.

"Can we go inside and talk?" he said. The old man nodded.

Again they sat before the fire, grateful for its warmth, and for the strong walls around them. Michael had laid out the facts as he understood them, told his friend all that he knew. And now he waited on his judgment, seeking aid and counsel alike.

"Well," said the other, after mulling over all that he had heard. "I'd say it's more than clear we've got to get them out. . .and I'd have to say you're right, not trusting their fate to the English. There's good men among `em, it's true. But when there's a struggle for power between adamant men, innocents are going to be hurt, and conscience swept aside.

"On one thing you can rest assured," he went on. "I'll be at the cove with a skiff, if and when you need me, with my boat anchored not far off. I'll move in at nightfall tomorrow, prepared to stay till dawn, then do the same the next night if need be. I know the place well enough, as I know most every coast from Skye to Inverness. It'll be a tricky sail coming out---with the wind against us. But I'll warrant the wind's been against us some years now, eh?"

"Thank you," said Michael. "It means a lot."

"Aye, but that's the easy part. First we've got to get them out." Again he puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.

"Well then. I've seen that tower from a distance, and know the castle by reputation alone. It was built centuries ago as a defense against the Vikings, and word has it it's never been taken. It was built to withstand far greater force than any you or I could hope to bring against it." The mariner paused, considering.

"Stealth, you say. And rope..... Aye. A grappling hook might be the answer, if the window weren't as high as it's bound to be, and you had all night to make the throw. But I suspect you don't, and the weight of the attached line would make it all but impossible in any case."

"I'd thought of that," said Michael. "But I didn't know what else to try..... Tell me the truth, John. Is it hopeless? I think another prison cell would be the death of me. But if there's no other way. . .I'll turn myself in along with Purceville, and try to reach the new Secretary---"

The fisherman shook his head. "No. Your kin have turned themselves in once already, and you see the result. And I did not say it was hopeless. You were on the right scent. You're just not the crafty old hound that I am." He gave the younger man a wink. "Where a rope won't go, perhaps a bit of string will, to lead the way." Michael set his horse at an easy gallop, as the road leveled and he began the second, less arduous leg toward home. He felt heartened as his leg brushed against the saddlebag, and he thought of the bundles contained within. For the first time since the women had been taken from him, he felt a tentative hope. There was a chance.

The last daylight faded behind him; but now the feared night wind was less, and only urged his mount to greater speed. After a time he looked up at the waning, but still formidable moon, wondering if its light would be a blessing or a curse in the coming escape. For the hard clear skies of mid autumn had begun, with ten thousand stars looking down unobstructed. There seemed little likelihood of change by the following night. Perhaps the fog would be a factor, though the high promontory on which the Castle was set.....

It was no use worrying, he told himself, with less conviction than he wished he felt. Again he fought off the familiar sense of dread which had never fully left him since the morning of the Battle, but only varied in theme and intensity. Familiar too was the dull, oppressive ache of his affliction. How much longer he could deceive his body with the promise of future rest, he did not know. He was worn, both physically and emotionally, to the last thread of resilience. And yet he could not rest. Still one more journey must be undertaken, before he slept that night.

Perhaps an hour later he came at last into sight of the lonely homestead. When he circled at a distance, to interpose the chimney between himself and the moon, a faint trail of smoke could be seen rising from it, and this encouraged him. Someone remained within. Any trap set by the English, he felt sure, would be presaged by absolute silence and stillness. But this did not rule out the possibility of an ambush by Purceville, who had not yet made his intentions clear.

With this in mind, he dismounted several hundred yards from the house, and wrapping the horse's reins about the branch of a sheltering tree, advanced on foot.

Opening the back door soundlessly, he slipped inside with the pistol

cocked and ready. Nothing. Heart pounding, he advanced slowly down the passage, toward the indirect glow of the hearth. He turned the corner.....

Purceville sat motionless facing him, a drained goblet in his hand. He evinced no surprise. Apparently his senses were sharper than the Highlander guessed.

"I will do it," he said evenly. "On the condition that I am never again left weaponless in an indefensible corner."

Michael came closer, unbuckled the dead officer's sword. He handed it to Purceville in the English fashion, then straightened and looked him square in the eye.

"I ask for no greater promise," he said, "than that you do what you know is right. Now, if you will take it, here is my hand."

The Englishman took it in his own, with the same measured gaze that he had worn since the Highlander's return. There was no time to wonder at the thoughts that lay behind it.

"Come on," said Michael. "We've got a long ride ahead of us."

"Where are we going?"

"To find a more defensible corner."

Thirty

The Lord Henry Purceville lay alone in the heavy framed bed, with sleep the distant memory of a child. And though he knew there were a thousand contingencies which he must anticipate, and prepare against, still a single question drove all others from his mind.

How had it come to this?

His own son, whose hatred now seemed assured, had turned against him, and had to be bound and dragged away like a criminal. His beautiful, melancholy daughter, who had dared to stand up to him, lay pale and shivering in the Tower at his own command. And he himself, once a proud and fearless soldier of the line, lying and hiding to protect his pitiful gains from a withered aristocrat whose skull he could so easily crush.

Feeling suffocated, frothing with rage at his helplessness, he threw aside the covers and rose to pace about the room as if a cage.

Because the question that truly galled him was not Why , but Why now? If such a reversal had come when he was younger, with his future still ahead of him, he might have seen some justice to it. He would have known there was a difference between good and evil, and all that this knowledge implied. He would have believed in something. He could not lie, and say the knowledge would have changed him much. But at least he would have known, as his daughter's plight had shown him, that real people were the victims of his blind aggression, people whose only crimes were not weakness and naiveté, but kindness and compassion.

But he had not know, or so he told himself. His life had run on, untaught and unobstructed, a raging beast crushing everything in its path. And now, just as surely, that killing momentum would hurl him from the brink of its dark height---down, down into the yawning abyss. Of what lay at the bottom, he dared not even think.

And not only was it too late for him, but for his victims as well. How many men had he killed in battle, or destroyed in the political arena, to attain what he had once called power? How many women had he sucked dry and then discarded? And for what? Only to learn when the damage was already done that the actions of men, for good or evil, made a difference. They mattered! The bile rose in his throat, nearly choking him. For now the mindless cruelty of life. . .was slowly turning back upon him. That same unyielding blade, the heartless razor that he had served and become, was proving to be double-edged.

But fear and a momentary helplessness were not to be confused with impotent despair. The Lord Purceville was far from defeated. He let the feelings run, because for the first time in many years he could not stop them, and he knew it was unwise to try. Time enough to master his emotions when the flood had died down. For now he must know where personal weakness was likely to occur.

For as Anne Scott had already glimpsed, the truly frightening thing about this man, was that he defied all the self-destructive traits of the storybook villain. And though he had given himself over to evil, he was still capable of a kind of wisdom. Though he lived on one side of the boundary, he never ceased learning from the other. He understood killing and healing alike.

Forcing all else from his mind, he looked back across the pages of his life, trying to find some common thread, some shred of lost meaning that would make him understand.

His childhood memories remained the most vivid of his life, and though long suppressed, it took little effort to bring them back in sharp detail. He shuddered as he sat again on the edge of the bed, anticipating the grim scenes which had hardened him and made him cold, but never lessened in their stark brutality.

He had grown, a wild weed, among the wharves of London. His mother was a sometime prostitute, his father a man he had never seen. The only thing she would ever say of him was that he had been a sailor, and had left her destitute when she was but a girl. He wanted to hate the man for it,

but he knew his mother too well to trust her version of the past, or to feel much pity on her account. She fed him, sometimes, and gave him a corner of the floor in which to sleep. In return for this he was expected to steal, to warn her of the police, and to keep silent when she brought home from the public houses the dirty, hardened wretches who filled her cup and purse alike.

One evening she had returned with a particularly evil looking Portuguese, a cut-throat pirate by the look of him, living like others of his kind under the King's protection, so long as they terrorized Spanish treasure ships and not his own. The man's dark eyes through their narrow slits spoke of a malevolence that even his mother must have felt. But she said nothing, gave him the wine he demanded though he already stank of it, and led him up to her room, oblivious.

Through the poor ceiling he could hear the clothes tearing, the blows and sharp curses of the man. But these meant little to him. The rougher sort were like that, and if his mother minded, it never kept her from bringing the same lot back again. So long as they paid in gold and silver, it was all the same to her.

But then he heard an unfamiliar sound, and it brought him up short. His mother had screamed in earnest. He could hear her pleading, while the man before her had become deathly silent.

Trembling with sudden fear and concern, he reached under the floor-boards to the place where he kept the stolen pistol. Then ran with it up the doubling stairway. Again the woman screamed, the sound cut short by a dull gasp of pain. He lifted the latch and burst into the room. . .too late.

His mother lay bleeding on the bed, her eyes wide with uncomprehending horror. The long knife had started in her womb, and jerked upward with a vicious pull. The man, fully clothed, stood watching her die. He turned toward the frozen child, the bloodied knife poised, ready to strike again.

But the young man was not his mother. With the instinctive ferocity re-taught him by the streets and quays of London, he stiffened his arm and fired. The murderer fell at his feet. At the age of ten, he had killed his first man.

He did not wait for the Law to decide his fate: he had seen too much of its handiwork. And he had no intention of slowly starving like the other orphans of the gutter. Instead he crept down to the docks, and stowed away on the most imposing ship he could find, dreaming, in his way, of a life of adventure at sea.

And when the vessel was well out in the Channel, he left his hiding place and snuck into the captain's cabin, late at night as he paced the deck. Once inside he worked his fingers to the bone, scrubbing, polishing, and straightening the room.

The strategy worked. When the captain entered and saw what he was doing, he beat him half to death, then ordered him chained in the hold. But after three days he released him and set him to work, performing tasks of the lowliest kind, with no other pay than a meager share of salt pork and hard biscuit, and the constant threat of being thrown over the side.

But to a boy who had never known or expected kindness, it was enough. He never thought to complain or answer back, except to the cruder sailors, who thought to use him as a girl. These soon learned that the knife he carried was no idle threat, and that the boy could not be cowed. They left him be.

Even the iron-willed captain had come to respect him. After a time he made him his cabin boy, going so far as to teach him the rudiments of sailing and navigation. He never showed affection, most probably did not feel it. But he became nonetheless the closest thing to a father that he would ever know.

The vessel was a slave ship, and it gave him his first confirmation of life's inherent cruelty. For the strange dark men they transported were no less strong, subtle, or determined than themselves. And yet for no greater crime than being primitive, and unable to defend themselves against the weapons and treacheries of Europe, they were sold into a bondage from which there was no escape, ending only in death.

He never thought to question whether this was right or wrong. And if this captain and this ship did not carry their human cargo to the colonies, some other would have, and perhaps not as safely or as well. So at the beginning of each westward passage, he learned but a single word of the tribe's native tongue. And when he went down into the hold to bring them their gruel, when one of them would catch his eye and make pleading gestures, bewildered at his lot, he used it:

"Accept." There was no other way to survive.

And so for five years he had lived, making the long triangular passage: from London to the coast of Africa, carrying medicine and supplies, from Africa to America, with the slave labor which helped build it, then back again to England with raw materials, and the profits that came from being aggressive, and willing to do what was necessary. It was a lesson he never forgot: injustice there would always be, and a man must look to his own advancement.

But then Captain Horne had died, strangled to death by a slave's chain in a ship revolt. The huge, fierce black man had been oblivious to the thrusts of his own knife from behind, his one desire to kill the man in front of him before his own life was ended. This, too, was a lesson he would long remember. The captain had grown less severe with age, and had loosed his grip, just enough, for those he kept under his thumb to rise up and take his life. The moral? Victory must be consolidated by ruthless vigilance.

He had shed no tears when order was restored, and his Captain's body returned to the deep. He was simply gone, along with the life that he had come to know so well.

And though he might easily have found work on another ship, being then a strong and tireless lad of fifteen, he decided that the rise to power was too slow, and too limited at sea. Real opportunity, in his eyes, lay in the military and political arenas.

So when the ship returned to Plymouth, he joined the army as an infantryman, and later forged and sponsored his own commission as officer. At every step he gained the reputation of a fearless soldier, and of a fierce, unyielding leader of men. Such indomitable young lions were much needed in those days of expanding Empire, and could rise quickly to positions of prominence, especially along the frontiers.

Nor was he to rise in rank alone, but also in station. After a determined search, he at last found a noble family in ruin, ready to collapse. And through a combination of bribes, extortion, and the threat of violence, he forced the aging and childless Lord to recognize him as his legitimate son, and rightful heir to his name and property alike. The old man died but a few months later, his spirit broken, his body racked by poison.

And so he found himself at twenty-nine, his implacable charge taking him to the heights of his profession, swift and sure as an arrow's flight. He had no illusions; he had no dreams; and he could not conceive of anything that would alter his life's course in the least. He believed he knew and understood all that the world held for a man, and did not hold. He knew what he wanted, and he was willing to pay the price.

Yet it was at the very heart of this emotional wasteland that the one kindness, the one exception of his life had somehow found him. He had just returned from southern Africa, where forces under his command had crushed a native uprising before it could gather impetus and support. In honor of this he had been decorated, and invited to a special reception held for him at the summer estates of the Earl of Sussex.

Arriving in little-used dress uniform, making no attempt to hide his disdain for this aristocratic gathering and all that it implied, he had seemed, as he often did in society, a poorly disguised wolf among dogs. His one desire was to make the acquaintance of those persons who could advance his career, ignore those who could not, and get out before his deep-seated hatred of the rich caused him to do or say something he would later regret.

But during the meal he found himself seated across from a beautiful and fragile young woman who for some reason looked down, blushing, each time his eyes fell upon her. There was something in her face. . .he had never been able to describe it. . .that made him curious about her. He felt drawn to her somehow. He did not know why, nor did he think to ask. Thinking and asking, outside the pale of his ambition, were a thing almost forgotten.

So when the company moved to the ballroom he stayed on, and after watching her for several minutes from a distance, approached her and asked her to dance. She flushed more deeply than before, looked up at him with pleading eyes. She started to say yes, then fell into a swoon.

Oblivious to all else in the room, indeed, in all the world, he caught her up and carried her to the freer air of the balcony. Those who tried to follow were met with such a murderous glare.....

Sitting beside her in the gentle moonlight, he had felt such concern. And when she came back to herself, when she opened her eyes and saw him she said simply, to his astonishment:

"You know that I love you."

Knowing nothing else he embraced her gently, with such a surge of tender emotion that for a time he did not know himself. The past fell away. The future as he had planned it turned cold and barren in his sight. Without so much as knowing her name, or even believing in the possibility, he knew that he had found the love of his life.

There were many obstacles, not the least of which was Earl Arthur himself, her uncle and guardian, who violently opposed their union. But the newly empowered Lord Purceville was obsessed, and let nothing stand in his way, until they were man and wife.

He remembered their wedding night, Angelica beside him in the moonlit bed. Her virgin's blood ran softly, like a benediction, as he wept the only real tears of his life. The world lay gentle and loving in his arms, knowing him as even he did not. He could see no end to their happiness.....

The pain of it became too much to bear. He tried to force himself back to the present. But there remained one more memory, one more brutal image that would not lie still---a savagery that went beyond simple violence. For it was the cold, unfeeling hand of Death: death to the young, who so desired life.

The vaginal blood ran again, as if in mockery of their love. His second son, stillborn, lay beside her in the bed, as she clutched his hand in uncomprehending pain and fear. The physician bowed his head in resignation, and walked away.

No gentle and loving farewell was left to her, only life seeping out, and death creeping in. She knew that it was over, and in the final moments only begged him to go on, to love their living son, and try not to hate. But as she died his hope died with her. The one love, the one exception, had gone from his life.

And in time he grew harder and more ruthless than before, a meanness added to the fire of his charge, as innocence enraged him, and naivety invoked his wrath.....

How could she be gone, the one he held so close? There was no justice..... God? If such a being had stood before him in that moment, telling him the reason, he would have cursed him and tried to kill him.

The Lord Purceville found himself alone, on the bed that he had made, his eyes as dry as the desert of his life, the hateful emptiness of the present. It was pointless: to look for meaning in a world where none existed, to search for reason among the airless stones of a ruined temple. He had never known such bitterness.

There was nothing left. Nothing but to destroy his enemies, and live out his life in defiance, unvanquished and unawed. The soft light that had tried to suffuse his soul, was snuffed out like an insolent candle in ancient and unchangeable darkness.

He had made his choice. The night had wounded him, but not enough. He had chosen the sword long ago, and by the sword he would die. He cast aside worthless sentiment, and studied the end-game before him.

Because stone is hard---it does not change---and a stream will run to its conclusion.

Thirty-One

Michael woke with a sense of foreboding that was almost physical. He often felt uneasy after too short a sleep, as if hearing the distant thunder of inevitable death. But this was more immediate, more intense.

The knowledge of what he must do that day had never left him, but had woven itself in and out of his dreams. It was not that.

Something was wrong. Where was Margaret MacCain, and why had she left the hut deserted? Looking across at Purceville's empty bed, he felt his throat tighten and his heart beat heavily. Pulling on his boots and long coat, he walked as calmly as he could to the door of the ancient dwelling, afraid what he might find on the other side. He opened it.

The horse was still there, grazing unconcerned in the place where he had left it. So the Englishman had not deserted him. This, and his bent form not far off, calmed him. But not for long. First his eyes made out the shovel in his hands, then the newly dug grave at his feet. The red, clay-like soil piled around it called to mind images of an unhealing wound. What did it mean? His mind flashed back to their conversation the night before, as they reached the high narrow pass, and approached the witch's hut. It was not so much what Purceville had said that troubled him, but what he had not said.....

"You'd best stay back and out of sight until I've spoken to her," had been his own words. "The widow MacCain has no love for the English, and your father..... Well. Let's just say I may have spoken too soon, when I said that no one has greater reason to hate you." Nothing.

"I'm not even sure how she feels about me," he continued. "But when she learns that Mary is in trouble, and that we are trying to help her, I think she will see things as they are." Still no reply. "You don't seem overly concerned, Purceville. She's a hard old woman, and as determined an enemy as you're ever likely to face. I'm not one to fear her for a witch, but there are other weapons she might employ."

"She won't resist us," said the other strangely. ".....she's not as hard as you think."

"What makes you so sure?"

Again no answer. He had been too weary to press the point; he only thought it curious. And when they reached the dark shelter and found the woman gone, the night's small rest assured, he had been far too relieved to wonder at it. For in the clinging darkness he had not seen the charred tree above, or the withered bones that shrank away from it.

Walking stiffly now in the early morning cold, he approached the Englishman. Stephen heard him, but did not turn. One last ashen limb projected above the rising level of earth in the hole. He began to hurry himself to cover it, then stopped.

"Stephen? What are you doing?"

Purceville straightened. He said, without turning. "I am burying the mother of my sister, and the woman who cared for me as a child."

At that moment a flock of ravens spoke behind, an evil sound that seemed to mesh the rising web of horror about him. Turning toward the summons Michael saw the tree, as a gust of wind shook its blackened limbs in a dull rattle of death. Then whirling back in shock, he saw the bones.

"What happened here?" he cried. "What have you bastards done! "

In a flash it came to him: the party of horsemen riding hard from the west, the soot-marks of their boots upon the threshold. Anger and hatred overwhelmed him, as before he knew what had happened the pistol was in his hand, and pointed at the back of his enemy.

But then Stephen turned to face him, and he lowered it again. Because there were standing tears, and real shame in the Englishman's eyes.

"It's not what you think," he said weakly, head down. "What we did, was bad enough. But she was dead when we arrived." He put one sleeve to his eyes. "She left a note, which I gave to Mary, asking her to forgive..... My father. . .burned her body as a warning, and to frighten his own men into action. I hate what we've become. I hate it."

... "I believe you," said Michael slowly. "And I'm sorry."

"Please don't say any more."

The Highlander started to walk away. "No, wait," said Stephen. "I want you..... I want someone to hear this."

"I'm listening."

Purceville shifted uncomfortably, resisting to the end. Then spoke what he truly felt: the only eulogy the woman would ever have.

"She was my governess, and treated me kindly. But I never told her. . .that I loved her, too." He started to lower his head in despair, then raised it again in sudden resolution. "We've got to get Mary out, and away from all of this. She deserves so much more, than this."

"We will, Stephen. Tonight." A pause. "Would you like me to help you?"

"No. It is my responsibility. Mine....." The realization stunned him. He fought back a sob. "Dear God, I am weary of graves."

"Then let us vow to do the work before us well," said Michael, "that there may be no more."

"You don't understand," said Stephen. "If we rescue my sister and her guardian, and you take them away from here, your fight is ended. But mine is just begun."

Michael wrestled with his own emotions, then came up and put a hand on the troubled man's shoulder.

"You've made a good beginning, my friend. You've looked the Devil in the eye."

Purceville met his penetrating gaze, puzzled that these simple words should mean so much. And in that moment this stranger was so like Mary---the way he spoke, the way he knew him so well.....

"Stephen. Every man chooses his own time to stop running. And it's only when you turn, that you find out what you have inside you. I cannot lie, and say it will be easy, or that you will triumph simply because your cause is just. The truth is that it's much harder to be a good man than a bad one, to do what's right, than to be selfish and afraid. I've fought the Devil, in my way, for thirty years, and come to no reward. On the contrary, my life has been a constant struggle.

"And tonight," he went on, "I face the battle of my life. Nothing else matters, in all the world. And so help me, Stephen, I'm terrified. I speak of faith, and yet I do not feel it. Getting Mary safely away is everything. Everything . If I fail, or injure her in the attempt, my own life is less than meaningless. My life must end....."

Then it was he who stiffened in defiance. "But God or no God, I will have her out. With all my soul I swear it. She will be freed."

Stephen studied him, both stirred and bewildered. "Who are you?"

Michael, too, hesitated at the truth. It could forge a bond between them, or destroy everything.

... "I am Michael Scott. Another man lies in my grave."

Stunned silence.

"Then it's true! You are in love with her."

"Yes, and I have been for most of my life. But it's not something sordid, Stephen, whatever you've been told, or your fears may imagine. I've watched her grow from a child. I've dried her fatherless tears. I've loved her in silence, as a brother and a friend. And never, until a few days ago, did I tell her all that was in my heart.

"She loves me too, Stephen. If ever two people were meant to be together, it is she and I..... I have asked her to marry me, and she's consented."

Stephen walked away to control himself, as bitter jealousy burned through him. The thought of her with anyone was more than he could bear. He whirled, his face flushed and distorted.

But anger was soon drowned in despair. Because the truth had finally come to him: he was in love with his sister, whom he could never have. He clenched his fists to his eyes as if to banish all sight, all memory. Then slowly he mastered himself, became perfectly still.

"Well," he said darkly. "There it is."

"What do you mean, Stephen?" The Englishman looked full into his face, then turned away.

"My trial. My test. In order to free the one person I truly love, I must lose her forever. To do what is right for others, I must do injury to myself. It is a bitter choice."

"Yes," said Michael. "But it is not the choice you think. What you do tonight, or do not do, will be for yourself, not for Mary or for me. Because if you don't help, and something happens to her, you will carry it for the rest of your life." He released a weary breath, and shook his head. "I cannot help you choose."

"No," said the other, looking down. "It seems I must help myself."

There was nothing more to say. Michael started back toward the hut, wondering if he hadn't made a terrible mistake---if he hadn't tried the character of this man too hard already. He slowed, stopped outright, then said without turning.

"I would like to have you with me, Stephen. You know the place, and the situation, far better than I. But if you feel you cannot. . .you are free to do as you like after I have gone, with no further obligation to me."

Purceville was silent. Michael first saw to the horse, thought for a moment to keep it with him at all times..... No. If this man was going to risk life and limb to help them, he must be shown this much trust, at least. He reentered the hut, and began to work on the long length of rope he had brought with him from the cottage.

Purceville watched him go, then slowly refilled the hole that he had dug, thinking his own dark thoughts.

Thirty-Two

Earl Arthur stood in the cold cellar-chamber with a cloth held to his mouth, examining two corpses. While both were branded, and both wore native clothing, that was where the similarity ended.

The authenticity of number 383, James Talbert, could not be questioned. His curling, brown-blondish hair and classic Scot features, his square but emaciated form, all fit the known facts: the prisoner who would not be disciplined, who had escaped mentally ill, and on the verge of death. Even now he wore a look of defiance.

But the other, number 406, was all wrong. While no physical descriptions were listed on the tally sheet he held, this surely could not be a man who had fled across half the country, hunted and desperate, remaining with and protecting his doubly afflicted companion.

Beside the physical anomalies---the body before him was lean, but not from hunger, and bore no other signs of a destitute existence---he could find no indication in the pale, languid countenance of the necessary courage and character to survive such an ordeal. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine a face that exhibited less character, or spoke of a nature so obviously low and unseemly.

And what of the way he had been killed---by a single, clean blade-thrust to the heart? Why wouldn't mounted patrols simply shoot him, if it came to it, rather than dismount, and engage in hand-to-hand fighting? Such a confrontation, with such a result, seemed unlikely at best. And to think of it, why had Talbert been shot in the back? A dying man, and one of his fiery and unstable temperament, was not likely to turn and run from his final meeting with the hated English pursuers.

But the most damning evidence required no such speculation. As an underling reluctantly turned the red-haired man onto his stomach, the discrepancy was plain. The brand just below the left shoulder was not a scar, but an unhealed burn, perhaps not even inscribed while the man still lived.

Earl Arthur had the weapon he needed.

But there was more to come. Upon returning to his chambers to mull over the discovery, and think how to use it to greatest advantage, he had found an old woman still at work on the rooms. He started to leave for the solitude of an adjacent library, when she accosted him with her knowing voice.

"Begging your lordship's pardon," she said, eyeing him steadily. "If you will forgive me, speaking so bold, I have words about my master you may find worthy of your attention."

The Secretary did not think to remind her of her place, as he normally would have done. This was the very type of disclosure he had sought, and been unable to secure, from all the local persons his men had questioned. Fear seemed to padlock their jaws, and even the promise of reward (and protection from Lord Purceville's wrath) could not induce them to speak.

So seating himself graciously on one side of a small table, he bid her sit down on the other, and the interview began.

The woman spoke mysteriously of an illegitimate daughter and her guardian, locked away to keep them from telling what they knew, and of the sudden disappearance of Purceville's son when he learned of it, and sought out his father in a rage. Arthur himself had witnessed their tense meeting in the banquet hall, and marked the subsequent absence of young Stephen, which had been explained to him in a most unusual and unsatisfactory manner.

Wasting no more time he thanked the servant, gave her a silver coin, then called for his orderly and dictated a strong letter, informing Parliament and the King of his intention to call an immediate Inquest. By this time it was late afternoon. The Earl's breathing was tight, as ever, and his heart beat hard and unevenly from the excitement.

But he was determined to act swiftly. After a quarter century, he finally had the means to slap down this crude upstart, who had seduced his niece away from him, and forced her into an unnatural marriage, ending in death.

From that time on they had been enemies. And he had sworn that if it took a lifetime, the rogue would be brought to term for his insolence. That Purceville had risen still further, despite his every intervention, had only fanned the embers of his jealous hatred, driving him on and on. Most galling (to a man who held as sacred trust his own noble birth) were the manipulations, never proved, which had led to his recognition as a Lord, descended from other Lords. Let others believe what they liked! This man was lower born than the commonest sailor, and one day he would hold forth his true nature for all to see.

And now, now that day had come! Throwing caution to the winds, he strode briskly down the long corridors, seeking a direct confrontation with his foe. At length he came upon him in his study, sitting unconcerned with a beautifully printed, leather-bound book in his hands: The Gentleman's Creed, by Sir William Blythe.

"Purceville," said the smaller man hotly. "I should like a word."

"Certainly, Earl," returned the other, with his hand indicating an adjacent armchair. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" His calm and courteous manner were infuriating. But seeing the book, Earl Arthur contained himself.

"I am here to inform you, Lord Purceville, of my decision to hold a formal Inquest into your conduct as Governor of this province. I have made this intention known to the King, and only await the arrival of his official observer to begin proceedings against you."

"Well," replied Purceville calmly. "You are within your rights as Secretary, I am sure. But might I inquire, as an innocent man, what it is I am being charged with?"

Arthur went on to tell him, with some heat, of the suspicious nature of the second corpse, of the bastard daughter imprisoned somewhere within the castle walls, and of the subsequent disappearance of his son, who could perhaps have explained both these things.

But not only was Purceville unruffled, when the girl was mentioned, it was all he could do to suppress a sinister smile.

"Yes," he said, when the other had finished. "I can see how these things might upset you. And to tell the truth, I am as anxious for the answers as you are. I myself suspected mischief, when my men brought to me the alleged prisoner, number 406. I have since been conducting my own investigation into the matter.

"In fact, it was to this very end that I despatched my son---to the place where the capture is said to have occurred---to secure further details. I'm sorry I could not have been more forthcoming with you on this. Perhaps you will understand if an old soldier, far from his native soil, feels a certain loyalty to the men who help him defend an often hostile frontier? I did not wish to hold one or more of them before you as criminal, until there was conclusive evidence against him."

He touched his fingertips lightly together, continued.

"As to the second charge---that of an illegitimate daughter---I must confess that I myself am bewildered. There is in fact a young woman here who claims that title---or rather, her guardian claims it for her. And though the evidence is quite clearly against them, still the woman persists. She has asked for a rather large sum as recompense, which I can only interpret as outright blackmail. But I assure you, they are not under lock and key. If it will ease your mind, I will take you to them after supper. In fact, I insist."

So convincing had the performance been, the casual air and supreme confidence, that Earl Arthur experienced a moment of doubt. What if Purceville had spoken the truth, and the charges against him proved groundless? But his stubborn anger rallied, and he remembered with whom he was dealing.

"Yes, we will pay a call on them, immediately ---and I mean just

that!---after the evening meal." Which was, of course, exactly what Purceville wanted.

The old man started to leave, then paused in the doorway. "And when shall I have the pleasure of speaking to your son?"

The master never batted an eye. "Will tomorrow noon be acceptable? That is when he is scheduled to return to me with his report." Arthur grunted, presumably in assent, and left the room.

The stage was set. Alone in her chambers, the old woman smiled.

Thirty-Three

As the shadows of afternoon grew long, deepening toward sunset, Michael began the final preparations. Trying to suppress his own anxiety, he saddled the horse slowly and with care. He stroked its flanks, checked its limbs and hooves, all the while speaking softly and steadily. For this animal must not only carry them a considerable distance, but be silent and disciplined when they arrived.

It was a good mount, he reassured himself, sturdy and well trained. Whatever its master's faults, he had clearly loved and cared for his horse.

With a sudden pang of sorrow and exhaustion, he remembered who that man had been, and to what end he had come. The unfairness of life, the endless cruelty.....

No. He could not give in. Whatever happened this night, to himself and the ones he loved, rested squarely on his shoulders. He must act. He must find a way.

As he finished, and led the mare toward the hut, Stephen stepped out of it. "You're coming?" Michael asked him, as calmly as he could.

"Nothing has changed," replied Purceville stiffly. "We've got to get her out. All else comes after."

"Good," said Michael thickly. "Good..... Will you hold her while I fetch the rope?" The other nodded.

Once inside, Michael slung the long, heavy coil across his neck and shoulder, then reemerged into the still, expectant air. The time had come.

He bowed his head in silence, but no words of prayer would come to him. Instead he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes to the task that lay ahead. He nodded tersely to his companion. Then began to descend, with Stephen leading the animal behind.

Upon reaching the branching of ways, it was agreed that neither would ride until they came down from the rough mountain paths, onto smoother, more tractable ground. They walked, as distance and Night closed around them.

* * *

"What is it, Anne? What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Mary. A premonition. . .something." She stood up and shook herself against the cold, but the feeling remained.

At first she thought to keep it to herself, out of habit, and to protect the girl. But they had grown so close these long, empty days in the cell, with little to eat and only the shelter of each other's bodies to keep them from despair. All barriers had fallen away, leaving them what in fact they were: two frail and frightened human beings, surviving both physically and emotionally by sharing the same warmth, the same breath, the same meager sustenance. She could not hide anything from her now.

"I feel," she went on, "as if something terrible is going to happen."

"To Michael?" Both understood so many things without words.

"No, Mary, I don't think so. Perhaps to us..... Someone is going to be murdered, and it will happen in this room."

* * *

The banquet hall was again nearly full, though the air was far from festive. Both camps seemed to realize that something major had occurred in the battle between their respective leaders, and to sense that something further would happen that night. Only Purceville himself, and the large, rough-looking officer to his right, appeared unconcerned.

The meal proceeded, largely in silence. Then, as the cloth was drawn, the Governor rose and began to propose a series of toasts.

There was nothing unusual in this. Rather, it seemed the act of a genial host, trying to smooth over the obvious tension of his guests.

"Gentlemen, I give you the health of the King.

"Gentlemen, to a strong and united Britain." And so forth.

But after these stock phrases, suitable for such an occasion, his words began to take on a more personal tone, which bordered at times on outright sarcasm.

During the first several toasts, Arthur had worn the air of a righteous man who would not be pacified. But as their nature and content became more inflammatory, and their number far exceeded decorum, he became first agitated, then flushed and quite angry. The latter speeches of Purceville ran something like this:

"Gentleman, to the health of vibrant leaders." To Arthur, an obvious slur against his age and recurring angina.

"Gentlemen, to the gallant soldiers who conquer and protect, so that others may live comfortably from their labors." The Secretary had never been more than a token officer, nor served in a single campaign.

"Gentlemen, to those with the strength and courage to make their own way in the world." And so on.

Finally the aged aristocrat stood defiantly, and raised his own cup high. "I see no gentleman before me," he retorted. "But I will answer his challenge." And he glared about the room. "To the truth about low-born men. And to those who will not leave their treachery in darkness, but hold it forth in the hard light of day."

The gathering, already hushed and apprehensive, now fell silent as a stone. For unlike his rival, Arthur had made no attempt to hide his animosity, or to engage in verbal cat-and-mouse.

But Purceville only smiled blithely. "Splendid!" he cried, as if the remark could not possibly have been directed at him. He drained his goblet with a flourish, then crashed it gaily back down onto the table. Anyone who did not know him well (and there were many present who did not), might have thought him too deep in his cups.

"Well, my friends," he said, a bit unsteadily. "It has been a lovely evening. But sadly, all things must come to an end.....

"For now there is work to be done. In the name of that same truth which the Earl so eloquently serves, he and I must be off on an errand of our own. We are going to interview a lady ." And he raised his eyebrows suggestively, the very portrait of a man who had lost all restraint. "Lieutenant Ballard will accompany me, as my faithful right hand in all things. But perhaps Earl Arthur would feel more secure with a somewhat larger retinue?" Again (to Arthur) the underlying insult, the slur against his courage and character.

"My orderly officer will be more than sufficient escort for me," returned the Secretary. "To record the events of our interview. For I am sure that I will have nothing to fear, once the truth is known."

"Bravo," said the larger man heartily. "Your strength and vitality are an inspiration to us all. Now gentlemen, if you will excuse us."

Purceville himself led the way, as the four-man procession filed out of the room, leaving behind the light and heat of the banquet hall. And on toward the back reaches of the Castle.

"I'm afraid it's rather a long way," he said, as they turned the first corner. "Perhaps the Earl might care to take a short rest?"

"Your audience is gone, Purceville. This is between you and me. I may not be as young as you; but by God I'd walk to the ends of the earth tonight!"

"Of course." And after a time. "One last corridor."

When they reached the massive Tower door, Ballard drew out his ring of keys. Inserting the largest, he turned it roughly in the lock, then pushed in on the heavy oak barrier with a groan of iron hinges. A dark opening awaited them.

The company stepped inside, and were enfolded in echoes. To their right, illumined by a single, recessed lamp, stood the beginnings of an ancient stairway, cold stone that spiralled out of sight. Ballard relocked the door behind them, then took up a torch, and lighted it at the lamp.

"Perhaps you should reconsider, Earl? I'm afraid the ladies in question reside on the uppermost story."

Arthur ground his teeth in impotent wrath. He had eaten and drunk obstinately at the meal, as if to prove himself. He had taken the bait, and dug the hook deep into his flesh. And though now a part of him smelled the trap, his pride would not let him back down. For the strong wine had gone to his head, and he believed himself more than he was.

"I shall go wherever you lead," he said hotly, unable to control himself. "To bury you, I would descend into Hell itself."

"Very well, Secretary. My second will lead the way with the torch. Watch your step, and be sure to tell us if you begin to flag along the way."

Ballard suppressed a grin of pleasure, and began to climb. The others followed.

The aristocrat's hard resolve could not last. Soon he moved as if in

chains, every step a punishment. This man who had begun life so high, gliding easily and arrogantly down the gentle incline, now found himself struggling bitterly just to reach the level ground of final judgment.

Halfway up it was clear that he should go no further. His breath came in tight gasps, as almost unconsciously he clutched at the growing pain in his left arm and shoulder.

Becoming alarmed, his orderly called a halt, and approached his failing master. "Your Lordship must rest," he whispered emphatically. But the others looked down in sneering silence. As soon as he regained his breath the old man pushed him off, and said harshly.

"We go on."

"But surely," said Purceville, in his best native tongue. "'Tis no trouble to stop."

"We move !" The procession continued, always upward.

Ten steps from the top, Arthur collapsed. Rushing toward him with a look of sudden concern, the Lord Purceville lifted his shriveled form, and carried it like an injured child up to the broad final landing.

"Oh, this is bad," he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine him. "I fear I've made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings," (this was the orderly), "Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary's heart. I'll do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move him." The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the steps.

As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest.

"Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He'll be nine parts down before he remembers he can't get out without my key. And he's half winded as it is."

"You must not take that for granted!" growled Purceville, himself not immune to the rigors of the climb. "Did you bring the flask as I told you?"

"Of course." And a look of reproach.

"Then give it to me. Now !"

Ballard glared at him, but the other was not even looking. He lifted the tin from his pocket, and placed it in Purceville's outstretched hand.

Burning with rage, Henry Purceville took the fine embroidered handkerchief from the breast pocket of the crumpled man. Then soaked it with water, and brought it slowly toward his face.

"What are you going to do?" ejaculated Arthur helplessly. But his voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper, and his imagined safety deserted him.

"This is for the soldiers, your Highness . And for me." And the son of a sailor stuffed the cloth full into his mouth. Then with one great hand holding the jaw shut, he pinched off the nose with the other, and stopped all flow of air.

The old man could not endure it long. Suffocating, struggling to breathe and break free, his heart gave one last, violent pump, then seized and ceased forever. The life slowly left his body, and his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. Earl Emerson Arthur, was dead.

But a moment later a sound became audible below: the soft rasp of leather on stone. The orderly was returning.

Purceville reached hurriedly into the dead man's mouth and began to pull out the soiled cloth, but too late. The orderly turned the final arc, his head rising above the floor of the landing. . .and he saw. The scene before him, the events of the entire evening, required no further explanation.

"You--- You've killed him!"

And though weary to his very bones, the man whirled and flew down the steps once more. For now his own life was in danger, and the fear of death worked like lightning on his limbs, still young enough to respond. It could not occur to him that he was still trapped inside the tower (as he had realized halfway down), or that all its doors remained locked to him. He only knew that these men would try to kill him, and that he still wanted to live.

"What are you waiting for?" bellowed Purceville at his Lieutenant. "Go after him!" But Ballard stood very still, his eyes narrowing.

"And what about them bitches?" he said, motioning with his head toward the door of Mary's cell, pierced by the barred window. "They heard the whole of it, too."

"Fool!" cried Purceville, with deliberate menace. "They'll not live out the night. Now go! "

Ballard lowered his head, then walked sullenly past his two superiors: the one living, the other dead. He began to descend in pursuit, but his pace was far from running.

After a time he slowed to a walk. . .then finally stopped altogether. He knew the man could not escape him. The thick and impenetrable door sealed him in, and two of his own men guarded the long, unapproachable corridor. No outsider would hear his cries, or come to his aid.

But this was not what made him pause. Things were becoming too complicated, as the old man took more and more chances to protect himself. And what if he failed? Who had been his `loyal right hand' these many years, doing the dirty work, and taking all the risks?

"Toby Ballard," he muttered. "That's who. And likely to have my neck stretched for the trouble." That very day he had killed a King's messenger---the man Arthur had despatched---for which he might well taste the gallows.

And there was yet one more bitter savor added to the stew: he had developed a weakness for the girl. What he felt for his `little prisoner' could hardly be called love, and he knew that in time she would have to be done away with. But to be killed by him , tonight, before his desire had been met and served..... He sat down on a middle landing, neither high nor low, trying to work it all through in his mind.

For the Lord Purceville had misjudged him. What this man felt for him was not loyalty, but merely a primal respect for his strength, such as any pack animal might feel. And now that strength had begun to fail. Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own way . But who was the meanest dog now, and which side would prevail? Arthur was dead, but the power of the Crown.....

These were the things he tried to weigh, knowing that very soon he must decide. And then he must act.

Thirty-Four

The two men lay peering over the edge of a low, crumbling wall, looking down a sharp slope at the garrison below. Row after row of long, low buildings met their eyes. Behind the barracks, to the watchers' left, were the stables for the horses; in front of them, the night watch stood talking or drinking coffee before a blazing fire. Two sentinels paced back and forth between cornering guardhouses, with the pickets of the mounted patrols just beyond.

It was now full night. The rising moon was exactly halved, with long bars of smoky cloud passing at intervals across it. The resulting twilight was neither pale nor pitch, but a sporadic intermingling of both. Whether moonlight or deepest shadow fell across the creatures of earth, seemed entirely a matter of chance.

Neither help nor hindrance, Michael thought. But he expected no more.

Thus far their journey had gone without incident, though the real difficulty and danger lay ahead. Yet the largest part of what he fought in that moment was not fear, but a fatigue that bordered on despair. It was a sore trial to have ridden so far, and lived in darkness so long, only to arrive weary and unsure at the time of greatest need, when courage and decisive action were most critical.

As he looked down at the garrison, and on to the Castle in the distance, he felt again his own frailty and insignificance. Rustic proverbs about weakness overcoming strength, and water (in time) eroding the hardest stone, brought little comfort. For Mary and his mother were imprisoned by the hands of men. Proverbs and faith would not free them, only active human resistance. His heart beat heavily against the cold ground. He knew what he must do.

"How do we slip past them?" he asked Purceville.

It was a formidable question. For behind the stables the stone rose sheer, a bony ridge forming one margin of the high peninsula on which the Castle was set: a long and difficult climb at best, to an uncertain end. It also forced them to leave the horse behind, and to abandon all thoughts of mounted escape.

To the fore of the compound as well, there seemed little hope of stealth. The only road in passed directly in front of it, full in the glare of the watchfire. Beyond it, to the right, lay only a narrow stretch of rough greenbelt, then again the ground rose, rocky and untenable. Perhaps they might creep along in the far shadows, where the uneven turf met stone. But one false step, one noisy balk on the part of the animal, already restive, and they were as good as caught.

Stephen stared directly at him. "We don't."

Michael felt his blood run cold. "Stephen! You're not thinking of betraying---"

"Of course not. If I wanted to turn you in, and try to reach Earl Arthur, I'd have only to raise my voice and we'd be surrounded at once. I will admit that I'd thought of it. But your way has certain. . . advantages."

In a brief moment of unobscured moonlight, Michael saw that the Englishman's face had resumed something of its domineering cruelty, and realized that the tables had been turned once more. But there was something else at work there as well, some deep inner conflict, not yet resolved. And he knew, for all the anger and fear that now welled up in him..... He still needed this man's help. He forced his hand to loose its grip on the pistol, and his voice to remain calm.

"What is your plan?" he said, as evenly as he could.

"To walk right past them---myself on horseback, you tied to a length of rope behind. I'll say I've caught another prisoner, and am taking him to my father for interrogation."

Again Michael forced back his emotions. "And what if one of those men knows of the rift between you, or Ballard is there himself?"

"Those `men'," said Stephen with disdain, "are the King's soldiers. They know nothing of the inner machinations. The ones who do my father's dirty work---those either cruel enough to like it, or weak enough to be bullied into submission---are stationed with him in the Castle. And if Ballard should be there, I will have him arrested and put in chains. You forget that in the King's army I am still a Captain." Stephen paused. "And if you have a better plan, Highlander, I should very much like to hear it."

Again Michael felt the sense of helpless inevitability that had assailed him as the women were taken from him. He railed against it, cursed it, hated himself for beginning to yield. Fate's endless trap opened yet again before him. . .to what end ?

But no matter how he searched and fought, he could see no other way. This time, at least, he would force one concession. He drew out the pistol, and rested its cold muzzle against the Englishman's chest.

"Purceville. Will you swear to me now, on your life, that no matter what happens to me, you will get Mary out and away from here? I mean just and only that. In the eyes of God, and on peril of your life, do you so swear?"

This time there was no hesitation. "That I do most solemnly swear."

"All right, then." Slowly he lowered the pistol, and handed it to Purceville. "Let's see if you've got any of your father's gift for deception." Their eyes met, though coldly, and both understood.

Together they crept back from the wall, then rose and moved to the deeper shadows of a weather-worn tree, where they had left the horse. Michael himself cut a length from the coiled rope, untied the knots he had put in it for Mary's rescue, and fastened one end to the saddle.

"All right," he said. "Bind my wrists, before I change my mind. And see that the knots are tight. If anyone examines them, I want it to look real."

Purceville did as he asked, exactly, then remounted. All done in silence, and without once looking into his face.

In silence also did he spur his mount, and lead the bound man, none too gently, down the hill and onto the road that had swallowed the women. And on to the garrison of men.

Thirty-Five

The Lord Purceville leaned back heavily against the cold stone wall, eyes wide with a fear that was altogether new to him. His own breathing as they reached the upper stories had become tight and irregular; and now, though nearly twenty minutes had elapsed, his chest had still not relented its angry rebellion at such use.

For he was no longer young, and his body's weight had begun to overmatch the inherent strength of his limbs and heart. And this same heart, which had served him so long and so well as to be all but forgotten, now labored heavily to compensate. And while he was probably in no danger of a seizure, what he had seen in Arthur, and the long suppressed fear that his physical hardihood would one day desert him, combined to race dark imaginings through his mind.

And where the hell was Ballard? That they must kill the orderly was clear, but it must be done in such a way..... Damn him! His sudden appearance had undone a scheme so perfect it would have solved everything. "Everything!"

But his wrath was wasted here, and he knew it. He let his great body slide down to the hard, unyielding floor. And for all the anguish it cost him, he knew he must remain there until the furor of his body had lessened, and his thoughts become more tenable. Then he would act with swift resolution. Or so he imagined.

For Ballard, in his ponderous and short-sighted way, had reached a very different conclusion. Though unable to weigh the full consequences of such a choice, he had decided that the days of his master's dominance were numbered, and that it was time to abandon him.

"I'm me own master now," he said aloud. "Now I decide who lives, and who don't."

So rising slowly, with plans of his own passing through him in the dark, he descended the remaining steps, and approached at last the final landing---the broad level space before the massive door.

He heard a sudden start in the gloom, and strained his eyes to see. The single lamp was now smoking so badly, and cast such a wavering glow..... He saw the orderly, crouched like a frightened child at the foot of the impenetrable door. The Lieutenant took a breath, then chose his course.

"Peace, Master Cummings," he said to him. "I haven't come to kill you. Stand against the far wall if it will make your mind easier. I'm going to let you out."

"But you. . .you murdered him." Almost a sob.

"Not I, my friend. It was that bastard, Purceville, who done it before I could stop him. And that'll be an end to my faithful service, I promise you. After all these years' blind obedience, I see him now in his true colors. I tell you, I've had enough."

He came forward with the ring of keys in his hand, as the other moved distrustfully away. He inserted the iron shaft, turned it in the lock, and pulled open the door with a seditious crack like the unsealing of a coffin. Then stood away.

The orderly eyed the opening, torn between desire and fear. Then began to inch toward it with his back against the stone, arms spread plaintively behind him.

"Be cautioned," said Ballard as he drew closer. "You must walk past the guards at the end of the corridor as if nothing has happened, then lie low till I've had time to deal with the Master. His men are ruthless, and the Lord only knows what they'll do if they suspect....."

The young man looked back at him, confused, then suddenly burst through the opening and out into the corridor beyond.

Ballard sealed and locked the barrier once more. And thinking of the girl, so utterly helpless in the cold dark cell, he smiled.

Thirty-Six

Perhaps a mile from the garrison, the bony ridge to the left of the road began to decline and pull back, leaving in its place a high, grassy plateau. This continued largely unbroken to the Castle, due north, ending to westward in a stark precipice that fell for a thousand feet into the churling seas below. At this same point the road began a long, slow loop to the right, at length bending back to meet the fortified drawbridge at the Castle's eastern gate.

Here Stephen turned off the weathered track, moving up into the lateral plain. Michael plodded on behind him, still bound, his wrists raw and aching. So convincing had Purceville's performance been before the garrison---so rough and disdainful his treatment of the prisoner---that Michael himself was not certain how things now stood between them. But a short distance from the precipice the Englishman checked his horse and dismounted, approaching him.

"I underestimated you," said the Highlander. To this the other did not reply, but sternly set to work loosing the bonds.

"This much I did for you," said Stephen, as the last knot fell away. "What I do from here on is for myself, and for the girl."

"I ask no more." Nothing was said about the pistol, which the Englishman did not return. For Michael knew that the time for weapons and fighting was passed. Now there was only the Tower, and the sea.

The two mounted, and rode the remaining distance carefully, the horse weary and unsure beneath them. And soon the hard dark walls of the fortress were sharply outlined against the tattered sky beyond.

Drawing closer still, Stephen guided the reluctant animal to the very edge of the cliffs upon their left. Far below the seas crashed sullenly against the unyielding stone, or hissed dark warnings upon the sands of a shallow inlet. Michael strained his eyes for any sign of the waiting skiff, but distance and darkness defied him.

And soon the great, cornering Tower frowned black and menacing before them. They dismounted, feeling small, perhaps a hundred yards away, in the hollow beneath a wind-riven oak.

Together they advanced on foot, through the cold stubble-grass, until they were halted by the rounded bulge of the Tower itself. Immediately to the right of it a dry, deep-cloven moat had been cut into the stone foundation, encircling the Castle on its three exposed sides. The fourth, to westward, was protected by the fall of cliffs behind.

But the Tower itself needed no such fortification. Two hundred feet high, its thick and unscalable walls showed no opening for at least half that distance, and then only a staggered spiralling of high narrow windows for archers. The only other feature it showed beneath the crowning battlements, were the lizard- and gargoyle-headed drainspouts, which in centuries past had been used to pour boiling oil down upon the heads of would-be attackers, along with a volley of arrows and a shower of stones.

Craning his neck to look up at it, Michael saw neither light nor sentinel, either in the Tower itself, or upon the high, adjacent wall. For none were needed. Sheer physical impassability guarded this bulwark turned prison, where there could be no thought of rescue or escape. The Berserkers themselves had not been able to storm its fastness, and they were five centuries gone and forgotten.

Here at the last, Michael realized the full desperation of his scheme. It would take a near perfect throw to reach the upper windows with one of the projectiles in which he placed such hope. And as Stephen had said, they didn't even know which cell the women were in. He could not look at Purceville now, who surely must be sneering at his `faith' and naiveté.

So there it was. To have come so far, and overcome such obstacles, only to be defeated in the end by cold, indifferent stone. His whole soul longed to cry out her name in passionate summons. . .but he dared not. For though the walls were blind, surely there were ears within to hear his desperation, and descend upon them like angry birds of prey. Feeling utterly lost, he lifted the great coil from his shoulders, and let it fall in a useless heap to the ground. And hung his head, unable for a time to continue.

But when he raised it again, unvanquished, his eyes caught a gleam of something bright and solid in the grass, as for a moment the moon shone down clear and unobstructed. He moved closer, before the pale light could hide itself once more. Was it possible.....

The ring! He lifted it gently, as if it were a thing of smoke which might dissolve upon his touch. But the slender band remained.

"What is it?" asked Stephen.

"A sign," replied the Highlander.

And with these words all the hope and urgency of his task returned to him. "It is my mother's. . .it is Mary's ring, cast down as a marker from one of the cells above." He turned again to face the Tower, careful to stand in the exact spot where he had found it. "The way the windows are staggered, it could only have come from the uppermost story. Would that make sense, based on your knowledge of the Tower?"

"Yes," said Stephen, understanding. "And it would suit my father's temperament as well. He'll have done everything possible to intimidate....."

But Michael was no longer listening. Instead he ran with sudden resolution, back to the startled horse, and removed the saddlebags. Returning again, but this time not so close, he tried to gauge the height and distance exactly, then poured out his bundles on the ground.

* * *

The two women sat huddled together in fear, at the farthest point from the wretched, inadequate door. For as Ballard suspected, they had heard every word of the murderous doings beyond it, including Lord Purceville's promise that they would not live out the night.

Of all the moments Mary had yet endured, this was undeniably the darkest. To hear one's death sentence pronounced is a trial few can face. To hear the words spoken by her own father, the man who had brought her into the world, who should have loved and cared for her above all others. . .was a horror so black it nearly clove her heart in two. She hunched together, pale and shivering with fright---unable to act, or even to think.

And yet it was only in that, most desperate of corners, that the true strength of her spirit revealed itself. Her slow-awakened courage, pushed to its final need, became galvanized at the last, not a momentary surge, to be swept away as soon as anger left her, but a permanent foundation, underlying all. The will to live, and to resist the evil that would snuff out that life, rose so strong in her that it was all she could do not to cry out in rage.

Clenching her jaws to keep the lower from trembling, she broke away from the helpless embrace and began to move across the floor on all fours, searching for the blade that she had earlier discarded.

With this, Anne Scott too seemed to gather herself, and perceiving her niece's intention, began to search for the knife as well. All done in the poor and inconstant light from without, and with the urgency that only threat of death can bring.

It was no easy task. For the uneven paving stones held many cracks, with scattered straw overlying all. But at last Mary's hand touched steel, and her fingers closed around it.

A moment later two sounds were heard, one almost in answer to the other. First came Ballard's heavy tread upon the threshold of the landing. Then somewhere in the distance, a startled horse gave voice to its weary confusion.

As if with one mind the women sought each other out. Then locking arms, they turned all senses outward, poised for instantaneous action. Together they heard the rough speech of the men outside the door, at the same time wondering with secret hope what rider had approached the outer walls, where none had come before.

"Where have you been?" growled Purceville angrily. "What did you do with him?"

"Mister Cummings met with an accident. He was in such haste to bring help to his dying master, that he missed his footing and fell headlong down the stairs. Broke his neck. An ugly accident, but natural enough."

"Good," said Purceville more calmly. "Good work." But Ballard would have none of it.

"So the death of these two we can explain," he said flatly. "But how are you going to explain throttling them bitches?"

"I'm not, Lieutenant , and I suggest you watch your tongue." He paused, perceiving for the first time the danger of the man before him. Not even his son knew more..... "We throw the bodies out the window, then have them collected by Simon's men and hurled into the sea. Arthur's escort will be too unnerved by his death to remember why he came here tonight, if they ever knew. Then tomorrow we put two other women in their place---my former mistress and her mother---who'll say only what we tell them to say. All done as neat as neat."

"Well it don't sound such a sure thing to me," rumbled Ballard, whose one thought amidst the closing web of treacheries was to have his way with the girl, possibly even steal her away.

"So who bloody asked you!" cried Purceville, drawing a great pistol from the inner lining of his coat. But the sudden outburst brought an answering pain from his chest, and he fell back against the wall for support. Yet he still had fire enough to point the weapon squarely at his subordinate, who had taken a menacing step towards him.

"I catch my breath. . .then we go in, and do it!" Ballard could only glare at him, his hopes for lust slipping away.

The two women, holding whispered counsel of their own, had begun to form plans for an ambush, when a second unexplained sound met their ears. Soft, but infinitely nearer it came: some round and yielding object had struck the floor gently, then bounded a short distance further with a rustle of hay.

Again Mary dropped down on all fours, groping, but this time toward a more definite source. Again her hand met something solid, which she could not at first identify. It seemed to be. . .a ball of twine, wrapped about some heavier object.

"Anne," she whispered anxiously, rejoining her companion. "It must have been cast through the window. What can it be?"

Holding it up in what poor light could be found, the older woman made out a tiny sheet of parchment wrapped beneath the first few strands, on which some kind of message had been scrawled. She hurriedly worked it out with her fingers, beginning to understand. Recognizing the word `rope', as well as the hand which must have written it, she needed no further explanation.

"It is your way out," she replied firmly. "Yours. Remember that, both of you. And as you love me, do as I say. You must leave me behind ." With that she moved swiftly to the window, and wrapping the end of the twine securely about her left hand, with her right cast the remaining bundle as hard and as far as she could.

Michael, still at his distance, unsure of success, did not see her. But Stephen could; and sensing the same urgency that had driven the Highlander to sudden action, he called to him in a harsh whisper.

"Michael!"

The slender cord had unraveled perhaps half the necessary length to reach the ground when, catching slightly, it pulled the remaining ball back against the Tower wall. But the force of impact loosed the snag, and the weight of the stone within carried it bouncing and unwinding to the turf below.

Michael, coming forward, still had not seen his mother. But he saw the shrunken ball of twine, reduced to almost nothing, and wasted not an instant.

Seizing the end of the rope, which lay but a short distance off, he tied the thinner cord firmly below the first of the spaced knots, then tugged gently in signal. Only then did he look up to see the female form leaning out, and with frozen breath, watched the life-line beginning to ascend.

Anne Scott held the tensing line away from the wall for as long as she could, till the growing weight of the rope forced her to bring it closer to her body, praying that the twine would not catch and tear against the stone. Mary stood guard behind her, the knife clenched, trying to understand what was happening. Anne Scott stepped back. The rope was in her hand.

".....I tell you I don't like it," snapped Ballard just beyond. "And what if I told you I hadn't got the key?"

"I'd blow your God damned head off."

Searching the floor, the widow found the iron hoop through which ancient shackles had once been passed. She put the end of the rope through and tied it fast, tested it with a severe pull, then guided Mary quickly to the window.

"Over the side with you, Mary," she whispered. "No time for fear. Michael is below with your brother. Yes! Give me the weapon. . .now up into the sill. That's it. Keep firm hold of the rope, and use the knots to guide you down. Climb swiftly but carefully, then be gone, both of you! I'll deal with this lot."

Hardly knowing what had happened, Mary found herself outside the window, clutching a dark rope with all the desperate strength of youth. She tried at first to gain some foothold, then in a moment of panic, to reach up and climb back into the sill. But the groping hand slid away, and the downward momentum twisted her body outward..... She hung by one hand above the void, as a sudden wind ripped across her, and the surf beat hungrily against the rocks far below. Fear choked her nearly to paralysis. But there was something else, there on the solid ground. Two figures stood, one of them.....

Twisting her body and using her legs for leverage, she turned again to face the stone, and with her right hand, once more took firm hold of the lifeline.

Not looking down, breath coming in gasps and limbs trembling, she began to descend, her feet wrapped tightly, tensely sliding from one catch-knot to the next.

When she dared to look again she was halfway down, and Michael was standing beneath her, arms wide as if to embrace the sky.

Anne Scott heard the key being turned in the lock. But for all her determination, the great hulking figure who threw open the door was too fast for her. As she moved swiftly toward him, the knife raised, her motion was checked by a savage blow that felled her at once, and left her all but senseless. The Lord Purceville, with the light behind him had seen her coming, and with his great fist crashed her to the floor.

Moving past her as his eyes strained to adjust to the gloom, he swept the cold shadows of the chamber like a ravening wolf that had lost sight of its prey. For a moment he despaired, as it became clear that the girl was gone.

But then he saw the rope, rising tautly from the floor and over the lip of the sill. Himself not wasting an instant he ran to the window, shifted his bulk, leaned over and out of it. Seeing the girl still descending far below, he swept out his own knife and began cutting into the strands one by one.

Michael was too intent upon the progress of his nearing lover to take in the dark bulge that appeared at the window. Mary never thought to look up, but only continued to descend.

Perhaps twenty feet from the ground she suddenly felt the rope begin to give. Releasing her hands once each, she instinctively pushed away from the wall--- The last strands gave way as she fell back, stifling a scream.

Michael caught her, shielding her body with his own; but the force of impact sent them both to the ground. Together they rose, embracing and in tears. . .until slowly they perceived the danger that awaited them.

And it came not from above, where Lord Purceville knew that any shot was as likely to strike his son as the two lovers. . .but from directly behind them. More sinister than raw violence, because it came from an unguarded quarter, the dark spectre of betrayal rose before them.

Stephen Purceville stood with the pistol at arm's length, his eyes fastened with twisted vehemence upon the turning form of the Highlander, his passion all the greater for the torment of his soul.

"Stephen!" cried the girl in sudden terror. For in her mind's eye she recalled the dream: Michael standing blind and helpless, returned from the dark pool of Death, only to find its second emissary standing ruthless and final before him. As in the dream, the messenger of hate knew no entreaty. His eyes and voice were cold as steel.

"I vowed that I would help you win her freedom. That I have done. But I will not surrender her to you . The girl will come away with me, or be buried here beside you."

"No," said Michael flatly. "No."

"I'll kill you!" cried the betrayer. And the scarlet arm began to stiffen in the firing motion.

But at the very instant he would have shot, Mary stepped before her only love, willing to die to save him.

A moment later the Englishmen was confronted by something more unnerving still. For it was not the love loyalty of another, but his own, unrealized devotion. A cry was heard from above: not a scream, for it contained rage as well as fear. Like a stone from a precipice it fell, and like a stone struck the earth beside him, changing to the horror of his eyes from a formless clot. . .into the writhing figure of a man. His father lay, broken and dying, on the ground.

And from the Tower above came another sound, as if in answer to his pain: a howl of laughter so complete, so devoid of all remorse..... Ballard had come up behind his leaning master and, all other base pleasures denied him, with his own strong and gnarled hands, hurled the aging tyrant to his death.

Casting away the pistol as if itself the instrument of murder, Stephen fell to his knees before his father.

"What can I do!" he cried. And while the man's tortured movements grew less, the son knew in his heart that this was not the easing of pain, but the end of all struggle, brought by death.

The Lord Purceville had just strength enough to turn his head once, and view the flesh that would outlive his own. But that was all. The life flowed out..... Angelica. I'm sorry .

Too late. He had tried to kill his own daughter. His eyes rolled back, and he was dead.

Stephen's head shot back in agony, as he released a sound more bestial than human. All was dead for him. He was alone.

But no tears would form, nor did he wish them to. The one emotion that still burned, and seemed capable of sustaining him, was revenge. He rushed blindly back and remounted the horse. And brandishing the sword, rode away toward the gate in a fury, as if the lovers did not exist.

Anne Scott remained prone on the floor, her mind dazed but her senses still aware. She had seen Lord Purceville go to the window, as she had watched his treacherous Lieutenant move behind him. . .and heard the long fall to ruin.

Now she lay very still, as the man remained with his back to her, perhaps in contemplation of what to do next. Moving one arm only, she again found the knife, which had not slipped far from her grasp. And she in turn felt a strong temptation to creep up behind him..... But all around her was the taste of murder and death. And for the love she still bore her children, she could not.

Then Ballard, for reasons known only to himself, turned away and walked past her, out of the cell, and locked the door behind him.

Mary was the first to regain her senses. For a warning bell had tolled somewhere within the Castle, and now an answering shot was heard from the garrison below.

"We've got to get out of here, Michael."

"But my mother....."

"Go!" came a woman's voice, descending from on high with the strength and finality of angels. The two looked up to see the widow's stern form pointing out and away, not in gesture, but command: they were to live, and go on giving.

Michael looked to the ground, to the wasted rope, then into the eyes of the young life entrusted to his care. And for all the pain it cost him, he was left no choice.

"I'll come back for you!" he cried. "I love you!"

And taking Mary by the hand, he led her to a crease in the cliffs, where a knife-slash path led to the sheltered cove far below. There, in that place removed, he could only hope that the fisherman was waiting with a boat.

Thirty-Seven

The long, snaking descent seemed to take forever, yet still no pursuit showed itself on the heights above. Perhaps the death of their leader had thrown the soldiers into confusion.....

As they drew nearer the shallow inlet, Michael could see something dark against the encircling stretch of sand; but it gave him little hope. At first the shape of it was wrong. Then, as the distance grew less and his eyes began to assimilate detail, he saw that it was in fact a skiff, but swamped and overturned as from a wreck: the oars scattered, and no sign whatever of the pilot. Real despair gripped him, as he could only assume the worst---

A shot was fired from the heights above, and then another, as soldiers with torches and long muskets appeared suddenly upon the promontory. Shielding her body with his own, Michael guided his beloved through a last knifing trough, and out onto the rough outer sands of the cove. Together they huddled down in the shelter of a jutting stone, as he tried desperately to form some alternative plan.

But none was needed. From beneath the overturned skiff, now scarcely forty yards distant, a shadow emerged and stood hard against the shoreline.

"Michael!" cried a familiar voice, and the Highlander's heart leapt inside him.

Without answering, almost without breathing, he took the girl by the hand and ran with her that last naked distance toward the boat. The crack of muskets was again heard from the promontory, and the torches began to descend in a long, angling file. But it would have taken a perfect shot to hit them, even if they had been stationary.

And the three were anything but that. By the time the lovers reached him, the fisherman had righted the skiff and retrieved the oars. Then all together they set the prow to seaward, and half lifted, half lunged it down the wet sand incline, to where the ends of waves splashed around them.

"Into the boat with you lass," said the fisherman, as the waters surged stronger beneath it. "Kneel in the prow, and hold steady as you can." Then together the two men urged the craft forward, into depths that would sustain it. A short way further, and they clambered over the sides, taking up their rowing positions. Then lowering oars, they bent their backs in unison, and prepared to meet the oncoming waves.

The first nearly swamped them with a crash of angry foam. The second was little better. But each time, during the lull that followed they would steady the craft, and with determined oars drive the boat further, away from the writhing shores, and out into the calming vastness. Another wave, and then another. . .and they floated upon the bosom of the sea.

Several hundred yards offshore, and perhaps a mile further up the coast, they came upon the fisherman's boat, securely anchored. Pulling alongside it, the two men helped Mary up and over the side, the old man instructing her to go below and change out of her wet clothes, then heat some broth over the small, cast-iron stove.

"I'm afraid there's no such luxury for us," he said to Michael, as the two boarded and tied the skiff behind. "The nearest English-held port is some miles from here, and I'm not sure they'd try to come after us at sea. But we can't take that for granted; and in any case, we've got to be off before the fog gets too thick. I'll not have us tacking blind, this close to an uneven shoreline.

"There's a blanket forward," he continued, catching his breath. "That's where I'll need you to stand. Help me set the sails, then to your post, and keep your eyes wide open. Things might get a bit close. We'll have to find our way out by dead reckoning."

Even as he spoke, the trailing mists that had seemed so harmless began to thicken, and the wind to grow less. Soon the fog became a patching curtain, then finally, a dense cloud.

Kneeling at the fore of the vessel, shivering with cold, Michael strained all his senses for any sign of hidden rock looming up out of the grey, or sound of crashing surf upon the shore. The cloud-wrack above had at last cleared away, but the unbridled moon only served to cast a ghostly aspect throughout the clinging shroud, so near, ever-present, and menacing.

He fully realized the danger. Even with all the mariner's skill, to sail in these waters half-blind..... He looked back to see him standing by the wheel, with compass and lantern beside him, navigating by instinct and memory alone. Framed by the mists, weathered but hale, he formed a classic portrait of savvy and determination. But was that enough? Only time, and agony, would tell.

At length Mary came back on deck with a lantern, bringing each of the men a steaming cup. Standing by her troubled companion, she offered to watch in his stead. But for all her courage she shook from the cold as badly as he, and her darkened eyes and sunken cheeks spoke plainly of the harrows of the cell.

"Thank you, my Mary," he said to her. "But I've got to fight this last battle myself. The best gift you can give me now is to know that you are safe and well. Go lay you down, wrap yourself warmly, and try to sleep. Go on with you now. John and I still have a bit of work ahead of us."

She wept to see him struggling so, unable even to keep his jaw from trembling as he spoke. But she saw that his mind was set, and that forces warred inside him with which she must not interfere. She kissed him gently, whispered, "I love you," and went below.

The hours seemed endless, the tension unbearable. A thousand times Michael thought he must crack---from the pressure, the cold, and the need to peer unerringly into the formless void. But he knew that he must stand his ground.

Then slowly, so slowly that at first he thought his eyes deceived him, the shroud began to thin, and a grey light to grow in what he knew must be the east. The fog began to patch, as the stubborn light grew stronger.

Then suddenly they broke into the open, and the red sun climbed once more above the rim of the world. He lowered his head in exhaustion, closing his eyes at the last.

And when he opened them again, there on his left hand he saw the ring, still clinging, forgotten, to the middle joint of his smallest finger.

A sob escaped him, undeniable. Because through all the numbing darkness, the anguish, futility and death, its single jewel shone hard and clear and perfect, untouched by the ravages of time, or the treacheries of men. The tears flowed freely, passionately, for he knew the Bastard had not beaten him.

His love survived. Epilogue

Michael sat before a warm fire in the small island cottage, contemplating the ring about his finger. It had remained there since the night of the escape, and he had vowed not to take it off until his mother had been freed, and he gave it once more to his betrothed, this time in marriage.

Both he and the girl had fallen ill during the long sail to Rona, a lonely island of the Hebrides, and a place as far removed from English control as one was likely to find in the whole of Britain. Their first days there, in the care of the fisherman's brother, had been spent bedridden, fighting fever and exhaustion alike. Mary, with her natural vigor and stubborn optimism, had been up and about some days now. But Michael's hurts were deeper, of longer duration. Only now, after more than a fortnight, did he feel his body beginning to respond.

The fisherman had returned to the mainland after seeing them settled in, and had promised to do all he could to secure the widow's release, including hiring a solicitor, and filing for clemency under the new articles of Reconciliation. But he cautioned that patience and prudence were still needed: that they must lie low, and make no plans without him. In any event, he had said, he would return with news as soon as it was safely possible.

But each day that passed left Michael more in doubt. For what had become of the hornet's nest they left behind---Earl Arthur dead at Lord Purceville's hand, Purceville himself murdered by a subordinate, and Stephen half mad with rage---he could not imagine. Surely after a time a new Governor would be appointed, and some kind of stability return. But where that left his mother..... It was beyond contemplation, almost beyond hope.

And this was what galled him. He had done all that a man could do, winning freedom for himself, and for the chosen of his heart. And yet he could not think of joining her life to his own, because the other half of his devotion remained imprisoned and destitute. . .for the crime of loving her children. Try as he might, he could not swallow this last bitterness, nor put it from his mind.

The cottage door opened suddenly and in burst the girl, breathless and in tears. He tried to ask her what was wrong, as dark fears of pursuit and capture raced through him. But she shook her head emphatically, unable yet to speak.

"You must come with me," she finally managed. "Put on your coat; something wonderful has happened."

He did as she asked, wrapping himself warmly, then walked with her out into the bracing, December morning. And as he took those first steps along the path, it occurred to him that he had not seen the sun, nor felt the free wind across his face, for what seemed an eternity.

The brisk Fall air was invigorating, the long sweep of rocky hillside magnificent. He thought he had never seen a sky so deep and blue. Real hope stirred in him, tormented him. He tried to stay the girl and make her speak. But she only clutched his hand more tightly, and urged him down the broadening track toward the sea.

Looking out across the blinding sparkle of blue-green waters, he saw a single sail approaching the tiny harbor. Shading his eyes he made out a smallish vessel, with a weathered pilot standing at the wheel. And beside him stood another, a woman..... He fell to his knees, unable for a time to continue.

At length he rose, and walked with his beloved the remaining distance to the landing. There, drawing nearer, the fisherman met his gaze with a smile that seemed to melt away the years, and make them both children again. The older man threw the mooring line to his friend, who tied it to the dock with a trembling but joyous hand. Anne Scott stepped off the boat, and mother and son embraced.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Michael Scott stood aboard the deck of the merchant brig `Dauntless', watching with deep emotion the nearing coastline. It was now nearly June, and they had been at sea for two months. A single word resounded in both their hearts, as the burly captain approached them, and clapped his fellow Highlander on the back.

"America," he said to them, "and God bless her. America."

When he had gone, Michael put one arm about his young wife's shoulders, and drew her near. With the other hand he touched the growing swell of her womb, as if to caress the unborn life inside it. He looked at her with glowing eyes and said simply, truthfully.

"Now the work really begins."

For he knew that his mother had been right. The story never ends, it only changes characters. They stood at the end of one road, and the beginning of another, holding firmly to the roots of their past, sending hopeful and determined branches into the future.

Anne Scott remained in her native Highlands and eventually remarried, living with her husband in a modest home near the place of her birth, until her death in 1776. She was buried in the gravesite of her clan, and on her tombstone, these words:

"Those who have left something beautiful behind them never die. They live on in the hearts, the minds, the very souls of those who loved them."

And on her grave a single, glorious rose.

The End

Acknowledgements

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the help of Dr. Daniel Szechi, Professor of History at Auburn University, who so unselfishly read, and made historical notations upon the entire work, without thought of acknowledgement or reward. While for artistic reasons I was not always able to correct the inaccuracies he pointed out, I am aware of them, and remain deeply grateful for his assistance in making the book as authentic as the needs of the storyteller would allow.

About the Author

Christopher Leadem was born in Arlington, Virginia in 1956, the second son of an Air Force Intelligence officer and a schoolteacher. Shortly after his birth, his father transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency, and the young family moved frequently, adding two daughters along the way.

Leadem's primary education was in Catholic schools, where he earned the reputation of a gifted student. Attending public high school in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of James Michener, he displayed a talent for writing, and a love of history and science. At the age of fourteen, he saw a short film by Ray Bradbury about the life of a writer, which galvanized his desire to be an author himself.

Burned out by a stifling high school environment, he did not immediately attend college, but launched headlong into his writing. This began with a spiritual novel, "In Search of the Evermore," until poor health and relative poverty left him injured and dispirited.

After a difficult recovery he attended Penn State and the University of Colorado, excelling at English Literature. He resumed his writing career and completed his first novel, "Within a Crimson Circle," at the age of 22. He has since completed five other novels, five volumes of poetry and nine screenplays. Three other novels are in progress.

He currently lives in Colorado with his three children.

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