“Accomplish nothing, eh, young McTavish? We shall see. Ha! You'll wish you'd never been born—you and your father and mother, and all!”
“More talk!” he gibed. “I want proofs. If you can show me proofs of what you claim, I'll do all I can to help your son to his rightful place.”
“My son!” she taunted, in turn. “Your brother? Your brother, young McTavish! Call him brother, next time you see him.” Her shrieking mirth mingled fittingly with the anguish of the wind among the trees. But suddenly, she stopped short, and looked at him with questioning eyes.
“You'll help him, you say, if I can give the proof that I was McTavish's wife?”
“Yes.”
Donald lied heartily: the occasion demanded it. Long since, he had decided for himself that truth was not a garment to be worn on all occasions. To those he loved, he would tell the truth if it killed him, but others must depend upon the circumstances of the case. Now, he knew that, if he could get documentary proof within arm's reach, he would destroy it, though it earned him a knife between the ribs. He watched her like a hawk, although apparently totally indifferent to the conversation.
“You promise you'll help him—my son?
“Yes.”
Donald's vision suddenly became riveted upon the clawlike right hand of the hag. An involuntary muscle, following the half-ordained bidding of the brain, had moved perhaps three inches toward her breast. There, it stopped, and slipped down again.
“Look in my eyes,” the witch commanded, bending down and putting her face close.