“What is it?” he asked sharply.
Causleen rose and faced him. Proud, even in bitter grief. “We are not welcome here,” she said.
“I gave you shelter.”
“Yes, grudgingly. We do not care for that—but now we have no choice.”
Hardcastle crossed to the long-settle and stood looking down on Donald; and Causleen’s eyes softened a little as she met his glance.
“The end of the journey?” he asked, with rough sympathy.
“I fear it. His heart beats, but it is fluttering out. Just after you went his strength left him, and he stumbled to the settle.”
Two owls were hunting mice in Logie Wood. Their cries sounded loud and ghostly through the silence. A restless breeze was plucking at the windows.
“Oh, let the tears come,” said Hardcastle impatiently, “You’ve need of ease.”