Michael rode in full daylight toward the sea. It was a little used road, linking the fishing village of Kroe to the uplands; and if what Purceville said was true, he was, for the moment, no longer a wanted man. But he had little choice in any case. Riding against the sea-winds at night would be the death of him, and plans must be laid for the twilight after next. Even so, he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slowed his horse to a canter, and turned down the single brick street of the town, overlooking the bay, then the sea beyond. As he passed through its center---small shops, a public house, plain, two story homes joined at the shoulder---he found himself looking down and straight ahead, subconsciously drawing his shoulders together as if to fade into every shadow, afraid of every eye. James Talbert's phrase, "skulking thieves," came back to him. At the same moment he passed a sturdy lad of fifteen or thereabouts, who looked up at him with a fearless eye, almost mocking. And all at once his fugitive life became intolerable. For in the boy he had seen himself, half a lifetime before. With sudden resolution he checked his horse, and sat up straight and proud in the saddle. Shading his eyes he looked out to the sea, and beyond. Somewhere, across the unfathomable waters, there had to be a better life: a new land, where he could start again. He would never submit to Imperial rule; this he knew with absolute certainty. And he would not live like this. What had begun in his mind as a means of short-term escape---fleeing the Castle by sea---now branched out into thoughts of a new home, a new world, where the skies were freer and a man could still dream. He turned back again to the hills of his beloved Scotland, the land of his birth. A great sorrow filled him, and an ache that was almost physical gripped his chest, for a dream that had died, and a home that was lost. But the past was gone, and there was no returning. He must look to the future. He must live free or die. The lad looked back at him, startled by the change. "Master," he said plainly. "Who are you?" The Highlander breathed deep the sea air, then replied. "I am Michael James Scott, a proud veteran of the war against tyranny, and a man who will hide no more." With that he gave rein to his fretting animal, and rode openly to the fisherman's cottage. The old man had seen him coming, but remained smoking placidly as before. There was much here that he did not understand, and he had many questions. But he knew enough not to worry himself, or to act in haste. Life, in the form of young `Jamie', was coming straight toward him, and would no doubt make itself clear. Drawing up to the low stone shelter, Michael dismounted and tethered his horse, then strode quickly up the steps. The eyes of the two men met, and though everything had changed, nothing had changed between them. Michael was still in need, and the fisherman was still willing to help.