All this she read, and more besides, until her arms seemed to open of their own accord, in the final gesture of invocation. Then with the trembling emotions of a lifetime, she said his name.....
Nothing happened.
A slight freshening of the breeze, nothing more. The spell had failed. All her mother’s arts were but seeming and superstition. Michael remained on the other side of Death’s iron door, unreachable. She fell forward onto the bitter earth, overcome by unquenchable despair.....
She heard a sound.
Was it again the wind’s mockery of bagpipes, the faintest strain playing upon her mind alone? She listened again. The sound grew stronger, undeniable, moving toward her from the west. Far away it seemed, from the depths of the ravine, which led after many miles to the sea. It played Scotland the Brave, a poignant sound in that dismal place, as she heard in its every note a proud defiance of death and darkness. She got to her feet, and moving to the very edge of the shelf, peered intently into the wavering vale below.
The sound continued to come on, nearer and nearer, then suddenly ceased, now surely no more than two hundred yards away. She strained her every sense for sight or sound of him, in vain. She began to despair once more, until it occurred to her that perhaps the torchlight held his troubled spirit at bay. Quickly she returned to the Stone, and forcing out the beacon, rolled its lighted knob against the hissing turf until it sputtered and went out. Then moving back to the ledge she rejoined her vigil, prepared to wait all night.
But she did not have to. Almost at once she perceived the figure of a man, moving slowly through the fog. It came on steadily, down the center of the vale. Now hidden by the mist, now clearly outlined: a kilted Scottish soldier, pale and weary, wandering it seemed to her, without direction or hope. Her heart leapt inside her, reaching out to him with all that she was.
The curly head was raised at last, still vague with distance. The figure stopped, as if sensing some presence. . .then turned and looked up at her. A face once handsome and strong. His name was instantly upon her lips, as in fear and ecstasy she made to cry out to him---
Suddenly from behind her came a whoosh and swell of blazing light, and a harsh voice crying harsh words. She whirled to see her mother outlined in fire and smoke against the blood-red backdrop of the Stone. Then pushing past her, the witch hurled a flaming brand into the abyss.
“In se nama Dagda!” she cried in anger. “Baek wealcan sawol, to Helan!” A great billowing fog engulfed the place where the figure had stood. And when it cleared again, he was gone.