Ten

The prisoner had slept for nearly twenty hours, woken off and on by

the cold as his fire grew dim. At such times he would rise only long

enough to fuel it once more to a warm and yet (so far as this was

possible) a slow burning blaze. He knew the white smoke of the

driftwood would be difficult to see, dispersed as it was through the

cracks high above, and carried away by the steady breeze from the sea.

But still he took no chances, using only pieces that were cracked with

age, retaining not the slightest trace of moisture. Then trying to

forget his parched throat and empty stomach, he would lie yet again in

the sand, sleep remaining the single greatest need.

But as night fell again on the interceding day---even as Mary watched

the Englishman ride off---he woke for the last time, feeling troubled

and restless. So dry had his throat become that each involuntary

swallow brought with it a sharp and brittle pain. His mouth felt lined

with parchment, and he was dizzy and weak from hunger. He knew that

whatever the risks, he could no longer remain where he was, but must

find food and drink. And this meant people, of whom life had made him

so mistrustful.

His clothes were dry, nearly scorched. These he had stolen as he fled

across the countryside with his companion, who along with himself had

broken early from the rest. But the fit of them was bad, and their

look on him plainly suspicious.

As he dressed, then climbed carefully up to the narrow opening, he

felt a deep trepidation he could not suppress. Because somewhere

inside him a voice had said, "Enough. Enough running and hiding and

stealing. I must take myself openly to the first villager I see, and

ask for help." And while this ran counter to all the hard lessons he

had learned in the stockade---that a man must look out for himself,

trusting and needing no one else---yet a line had been crossed inside

him, from which there was no returning. He did not wish to die, but

neither could he live as some hunted and detestable beast. He climbed

down from the rock.

The twilit beach was empty and the waves had grown less. Here and

again came the sound of gulls, along with the high screech of a

sea-hawk somewhere above. He plodded on through the indifferent sand,

toward the small fishing village some two miles distant.

Upon leaving the hiding place he had formed no clear plan, and in his

bitterness told himself he did not want one. But as the cliffs that

walked with him began to diminish and pull back from the shore,

leaving the more level expanse and tiny harbor of the village, his

mind of necessity began to work again, trying to think of anyone he

might know there, who would have no love for the English, and be

willing to take him in.

In the midst of his reveries he looked up to see an old man sitting on

the porch of a low ancient cottage, separated from the rest of the

village, holding aloof as it were on this, the nearer and less

accessible side of the harbor. A steep stretch of sand led down from

it to the very edge of the horseshoe bay, broken here and there by

large projections of stone.

The old man looked back at him placidly, smoking a short pipe and

humming quietly but distinctly to himself. The prisoner felt fear, and

a deep hesitation, until almost in spite of himself he began to follow

the rise and fall of the simple tune. Then with a rush of warmth and

melancholy he recognized it: "The Walls of Inverness." It was a song

that had been sung at the camp fires of Highland soldiers for time out

of mind. The old man was a veteran, in this blessed, unmistakable way

telling him that he knew of his plight, and would help.

With relief but at the same time caution, the younger man approached

the cottage, and mounted the steps to the weather-beaten porch. The

two men regarded each other a moment in silence.

"You know, then?"

"Aye, lad," rejoined the fisherman in his clear baritone. "Three

red-coated cavalry were here yesterday, searching about and makin' a

fuss. Saw fit to post a threatening bill on the door of the church.

`Escaped traitors (traitors, mind) from Edinburgh. . .believed headed.

. .fifty pounds reward

. . .death to anyone aiding or abetting.' The usual stuff."

"The villagers will be on the watch for me, then?"

"Nay, lad. That bill was torn down before their horses were out of

sight. And you plainly don't know sea-folk if you have to ask." He

took a puff on his pipe, and continued without haste.

"We live with death every day of our lives, and would not last one

season if we grew afraid every time the word was spoken. That lady out

there." He moved his arm to indicate the sea. "She gives and takes

life as she pleases, with hardly a warning. God's mistress she is,

with moods and temper to match. If we'll not bow to her, then what

have we to fear from three young hoodlums, flashing their sabers as if

to wake the dead?"

"Meaning no offense," said the other, "and I'm sure you're right. But

aren't there some as might be tempted by the money? And might the

English not have spies?"

"Perhaps," said the fisherman thoughtfully. "The arm of the Devil is

long, and no denying. But you'll have naught to fear of that tonight.

I live quite alone, as you see, and in the morning there'll be a fog

to blot out the sun." He said this with confidence, as one who had

seen it a thousand times before.

Then extinguishing his pipe against the wooden arm of the chair, he

rose as if to go inside, with an open hand indicating the door. "Right

now I imagine you're hungry, and might do with a mug of stout?"

"Yes. Thank you." No other words would form, as he felt his throat

tighten with emotion. They walked through the painted doorway, and

into the shelter of stone.

In troubled dream Mary lay upon the bed, restlessly turning. Words and

pictures of the day would appear to her, soft and lovely---riding

through the magnificent countryside, feeling him close beside

her---till with a start she felt again the claw-like hand upon her

breast, and beheld the iron gaze which knew no entreaty. And shaking

her head in torment, she would drive the images away.

After some time of this she half woke, though her eyes remained closed

against the bitter truth of the waking world. She clutched the pillow

to her like a lover, and in a moaning, despairing voice said his name.

"Oh, Michael. Where are you?"

Where are you? Where are you?

The words resounded in her mind, growing fainter, spiralling through a

dark tunnel which became a deep well, leading to the heart of the

abyss. And like tiny pebbles they struck the water far below with the

faintest echo of sound.

Something stirred, as if woken from a fearful and everlasting sleep.

She saw clearly, now level with her eyes, a dark and shallow pool

among a copse of death-black trees, the whole of the scene shrouded by

mist and lit by seeping moonlight. And in its midst, lying face

downward with only his arched back protruding above the surface of

those terrible waters, the figure of a Scottish soldier.

As if sensing her presence the figure lifted its head, bewildered, and

stood up. A fearful, long-drawn wail split the night, whether from the

spirit or from herself she could not have said, only that the face was

that of her beloved, that he was in great pain, and had been struck

blind. He turned wildly from side to side, trying to penetrate the

blackness of his eyes. And the same words that she had sent to him now

became his own, endlessly, hopelessly repeated.

"Where are you? Where are you? Where are

you!"

She tried to answer but could not, as if between them they possessed

but a single voice. And as he finally stopped thrashing, and she felt

her tongue loosed, she became aware of the thing which had stilled

him, so utterly that she knew he had lost all hope, confronted by the

sinister, solitary figure which parted the mist and stood before him:

her hated half-brother, who had stolen and crushed his heart.

All was deathly still as they faced one another in silence. Purceville

drew a long pistol, and held it at arm's length. Michael was a statue,

head down, hands at his sides in resignation. There was the crack of a

shot, and again a frozen wail split the night, this time undeniably

her own.

Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. She was trembling, and her inner

garments clung to her in a cold sweat. Fully awake now, and with the

sudden insight brought by waking, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt

what she must do. Still fully clothed, she stepped down from the bed

and lifted up the mattress.

The manuscript book was there, had been there all the while she slept.

The feel of its widow-black cover was cold and forbidding, but there

was no longer time for fear or hesitation. She lit a thick tallow

candle, and moved with it to the hard, bare table and chair.

Her mother was still nowhere to be seen. She bolted the door from

within, then opened the book before her.