The Lord Purceville found himself alone, on the bed that he had made, his eyes as dry as the desert of his life, the hateful emptiness of the present. It was pointless: to look for meaning in a world where none existed, to search for reason among the airless stones of a ruined temple. He had never known such bitterness.
There was nothing left. Nothing but to destroy his enemies, and live out his life in defiance, unvanquished and unawed. The soft light that had tried to suffuse his soul, was snuffed out like an insolent candle in ancient and unchangeable darkness.
He had made his choice. The night had wounded him, but not enough. He had chosen the sword long ago, and by the sword he would die. He cast aside worthless sentiment, and studied the end-game before him.
Because stone is hard---it does not change---and a stream will run to its conclusion.
Thirty-One
Michael woke with a sense of foreboding that was almost physical. He often felt uneasy after too short a sleep, as if hearing the distant thunder of inevitable death. But this was more immediate, more intense.
The knowledge of what he must do that day had never left him, but had woven itself in and out of his dreams. It was not that.
Something was wrong. Where was Margaret MacCain, and why had she left the hut deserted? Looking across at Purceville’s empty bed, he felt his throat tighten and his heart beat heavily. Pulling on his boots and long coat, he walked as calmly as he could to the door of the ancient dwelling, afraid what he might find on the other side. He opened it.
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.