“Is it done—is—sh!—done?”
They answer her that it is done; they are in no way moved; they have been sent on fiercer deeds even than this in the Highlands; one is twisting a rag round his hand.
She takes up the sword from the floor; it feels strange and heavy in her hands.
“Put that beside him—drawn—as if he died fighting—highwaymen are common here.”
She gives it to them; then picks up her gray fur and puts it about her shoulders.
“Empty his pockets,” she calls after them, and even as she speaks she looks into the corner of the coach as if she saw him there, staring at her.
The rain ceases, and the chill, creeping wind blows stronger, ruffles her hair and the manes of the white horses.
They come back, her silent Highlanders; they lay on the floor of the coach the contents of his pockets; some money, not much; a handkerchief, a watch with the face shivered; a little book with a worn blue velvet cover, some papers tied with a ribbon.
The Highlanders, having done their duty, mount the box.
She stares at these things on the floor, picks up the packet of papers and opens it; a long lock of pale hair falls out and some dust that might have been a pressed flower.