. . .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.