Pure, blind hatred rose up inside him, devouring all else. He seized her by the shoulders, and with the heat of the primal hunger, turned her towards him. If love would not be gratified, then he would at least have lust. For the second time that day, Mary looked into the unseeing eyes of rape. Terror was no longer possible. All she could feel was despair, and pity. This would be the final, unbearable shame for them both. "Stephen, I beg you. In the name of what you once felt for me, and I for you. Don't do this. Forgive my hard words. I do not hate you. But this..... This can never be." "Why not? Why can't it?" He pressed her hard against him. "You know you want me." His mouth engulfed hers, then moved greedily to the skin of her throat. "Stephen, don't . It's not right!" She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She felt his left hand drag her downward, as his right hand worked to free the remaining buttons. "Stephen. . .no!" She was on the ground, and he had flung aside his coat, looming on one knee beside her. Then with a swift movement of both hands he tore open her slip, the widening V of her dress. Still further, till the treasures of her body lay exposed. His mouth was upon her breast, as his hand swept low to engulf her. "Stephen! For God's sake. . .I'm your sister!" He froze instantly, then lifted his head with a jerk. "You're lying." "No," she said bitterly. "My mother is the widow MacCain. Your father raped her, then sent her away when he found she was with child. Your father. . .is my father, too." She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. And the pain in her eyes was more than he could face. Because he knew that it was true. Then for the first time he seemed to see the bodies, and to realize that they had once been men. And he saw her, his gentle sister, ravaged and distraught by the work of his own hands. He did not feel remorse, which was beyond him. But sorrow he could feel, and even, in that moment, a halting compassion. "I'm sorry. Mary. I didn't know..... There's really nothing more I can say." He rose, shifted uncomfortably, trying to reconcile himself to his actions. It was impossible. "Is there anything I can do now," he said stiffly. "To make it better." "No. Just go away." He turned, and started to leave. "Wait," she said, half against her will. She could not look at him. "Help me to bury him. Both of them." He put on his jacket, pawed the ground with his boot. ".....I'll need a shovel." "Ride back to the hut. My mother will give you one." She finally looked up at him, and the tears would not stop. "Please leave now. I'm not that strong." He remounted slowly, and with one last look at her, rode off. Mary was left to prepare her cousin's body, and to seeping thoughts of death and earth.