For weeks he had tracked the Killer; for weeks he had followed him as he crossed Kenmuir, bound on his bloody errands; yet always had lost him on the Marches. Now, at last, he had run him to ground. Yet his heart went out to his enemy in his distress.
“I thowt t'had been yo', lad,” the Master whispered, his hand on the dark head at his knee—“I thowt t'had bin yo'!”
Rooted to the ground, the three watched the scene between M'Adam and his Wull.
In the end the Master was whimpering; Andrew crying; and David turned his back.
At length, silent, they moved away.
“Had I—should I go to him” asked David hoarsely, nodding toward his father.
“Nay, nay, lad,” the Master replied. “Yon's not a matter for a mon's friends.”
So they marched out of the Devil's Bowl, and left those two alone together.