"You heard me tell my Lieutenant to brand the number 406 on our dead comrade's body---though I warn you, I may still use it to incriminate your niece. Why that particular number? I will tell you. It is the number of one of the men decidedly traced to this area: the companion, protector, and...could it be...the cousin of our heroic James Talbert? Are we coming nearer the mark, Mrs. Scott? You look quiet pale; would you like to sit down?" "I will stand," she said desperately, trying to prepare herself against the coming blow. For now he had found the weak place in her armor, the secret refuge of her soul. One thought only kept hammering at her brain. Admit nothing. At all costs she must not let this shark catch scent of her son's blood. And in fact the identity of the second prisoner was not known to him, though his insight and shrewd guesses had brought him dangerously close to the truth. Beside the number 406, the reported friend and fellow fugitive of James Talbert, were written these words: No name given, possible memory loss from head wound, called by fellow prisoners `Jamie' . This was the small victory that Michael had won during the first brutal year of his captivity: he would not give up his true name. His identity, and therefore his life, remained hidden. But through the uncanny memory for persons and places which every tyrant must possess, the Lord Purceville recalled a sturdy youth, several years older than his son, who had once accompanied the Scotts on a visit to Margaret MacCain, during the time of her employment at his estate---the fierce disdain he had shown as he stepped from the carriage, and spied its hated Master. Where was this fiery-eyed youth now, who must surely have been of fighting age and temperament at the time of the revolt? Had he been taken prisoner, and escaped along with James Talbert, or merely been killed in the war? In any event the mention of his name was bound to cause an emotional reaction in the mother, which might lead him in turn to the girl. Like a skilled fortune-teller he would draw her out, read the story in her face, and follow where it led. Between pauses: "What was this prisoner's name, you ask? Why, his last name appears to be Scott. Could that be your son? Has he been here of late, to visit you? Is it he you are trying to protect? Is he in hiding along with Mary? Yes, of course. That's it. They grew up together, did they not? Were they very close, your strong, golden-haired son and fair, emerald-eyed niece? They say that cousin is a dangerous relationship; surely there was an attraction. Could they have been more than friends. . .even, lovers?" At this Stephen's head jerked towards her, as if he had been scalded. The woman could bear it no longer; she felt herself ready to explode. But just as fear and rage rose irrepressibly inside her, she instinctively channeled the outburst to lead him away from her son.