He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock. The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her, because it was she, her mother in the bed. The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as all life was drained by him, the widow-spider. And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet, for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the cup of sorrow to her lips. Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it: the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the room, followed by her brother. And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her, forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her heart. . . her youth was gone. And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death. But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from the breast..... Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round. . . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring death as sure as life, and old and young alike. Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide. Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly, somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained. Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played out. Or the dream was gone. Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.