The horse was still there, grazing unconcerned in the place where he had left it. So the Englishman had not deserted him. This, and his bent form not far off, calmed him. But not for long. First his eyes made out the shovel in his hands, then the newly dug grave at his feet. The red, clay-like soil piled around it called to mind images of an unhealing wound. What did it mean? His mind flashed back to their conversation the night before, as they reached the high narrow pass, and approached the witch's hut. It was not so much what Purceville had said that troubled him, but what he had not said..... "You'd best stay back and out of sight until I've spoken to her," had been his own words. "The widow MacCain has no love for the English, and your father..... Well. Let's just say I may have spoken too soon, when I said that no one has greater reason to hate you." Nothing. "I'm not even sure how she feels about me," he continued. "But when she learns that Mary is in trouble, and that we are trying to help her, I think she will see things as they are." Still no reply. "You don't seem overly concerned, Purceville. She's a hard old woman, and as determined an enemy as you're ever likely to face. I'm not one to fear her for a witch, but there are other weapons she might employ." "She won't resist us," said the other strangely. ".....she's not as hard as you think." "What makes you so sure?" Again no answer. He had been too weary to press the point; he only thought it curious. And when they reached the dark shelter and found the woman gone, the night's small rest assured, he had been far too relieved to wonder at it. For in the clinging darkness he had not seen the charred tree above, or the withered bones that shrank away from it. Walking stiffly now in the early morning cold, he approached the Englishman. Stephen heard him, but did not turn. One last ashen limb projected above the rising level of earth in the hole. He began to hurry himself to cover it, then stopped. "Stephen? What are you doing?" Purceville straightened. He said, without turning. "I am burying the mother of my sister, and the woman who cared for me as a child." At that moment a flock of ravens spoke behind, an evil sound that seemed to mesh the rising web of horror about him. Turning toward the summons Michael saw the tree, as a gust of wind shook its blackened limbs in a dull rattle of death. Then whirling back in shock, he saw the bones. "What happened here?" he cried. "What have you bastards done! " In a flash it came to him: the party of horsemen riding hard from the west, the soot-marks of their boots upon the threshold. Anger and hatred overwhelmed him, as before he knew what had happened the pistol was in his hand, and pointed at the back of his enemy. But then Stephen turned to face him, and he lowered it again. Because there were standing tears, and real shame in the Englishman's eyes.