“A good sort of death,” said Hardcastle, and Causleen saw grey fear creep round him while he spoke.
The russet gloaming, the quietness of wood and pastures, the silent front of Logie, grey with travail of the years—all made for the realities that live beneath the turmoil of each day’s duties. Rebecca seldom showed any of her heart. She bared it now.
“You chose to loosen your pack, pedlar,” she said, in harsh, even tones, “and you loosed the bygone years as well. Every night and all I go to the gate, and keep tryst with my man that never came. I’d have kissed him free and full—would have worn my hands to the knuckle for him through our wedded days—but he couldn’t come.”
The woman in Causleen answered the break in Rebecca’s voice. “How long ago was this?” she asked, with soft, Highland pity.
“I’ve forgotten. Forty years, maybe, but I’ve lost count.”
Rebecca still wore the mob-cap and the apron, and the moonlight softened the harsh lines of face and body. It was only when she spoke again, after long silence, that she seemed old indeed.
“The Lost Folk killed him, and every night I get to the gate and say my prayers. For every kiss he might have had, I pray a blight on them. For every child that might have run about my knees I ask that two of their heathen brats may die in trouble. They robbed me; and before I die, God send word to the Wilderness Men that curses stick and sting.”
“From what I’ve seen of the Wilderness Folk,” said Donald, “they’ll be dour enemies, stubborn and crafty.”
“That’s no news,” snapped Hardcastle.
“Stubborn and dour they’ll be—and I wish I’d a younger pair of arms to help you.”