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.