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?"