And yet his mind knew, for all the throbbings of the heart, that he could not yield. He had learned the hard way, in the stockade, that there were times when self-denial and an iron discipline were the only way. And for all the pain it cost him, he knew that he must wrap himself warmly and try to sleep. In the morning there might be some meaningful action he could take. And there was nothing, save pneumonia, that he could accomplish how, alone and in the dead of night. So he prepared to pass the dark hours as he had passed those previous. Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he took the stones that had been heating before it, wrapped them in a sling, and carried them up the ladder-stair to Mary's bed, where he would sleep. In the loft he would at least have some warning in the event of a sudden search, as well as the advantage of height in a struggle. There was, perhaps, no reason for the English to return to the cottage..... Still, he could take nothing for granted. The evening fire was a necessary evil, now smoldering to ash. All else must be patience and concealment, until the morning light brought clearer counsel, or dealt him some new card unforeseen. Until then, patience and hiding. Patience and hiding..... He fell asleep. Twenty-Five Clear your mind, begin again All that came before is gone; There is no truth, there is no past The day is gone, the light is lost. The long fought hours slip away To whited stones; The stones are ground to dust Dust blows in the wind, then the song begins again. The time has come the Judgment soon; Above the mists, beneath the Moon. Youth to age, and back again And all resounds in death; Death to old and young alike, And all for Heaven's Breath. Such were the words that Mary heard, as she slipped into a dream. The voice seemed to come from the walls, and the walls from the stone heart of earth, the earth so old it had forgotten them. Too weary and wretched to fight, yet as she spiralled back and always down, the Voice became familiar, and edged all else in fear. It was the voice of her mother, unburied and unwept. The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked. The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a hill, surrounded by well-ordered green. She drew nearer its stone walls, passed through and into warmth and firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving resolution of his hands.