The young girl gasped in terror, and shouted for them to fight back,
or run away. The general waved his arms more violently than before.
But still the Prince gave no order, and only looked about him as if
puzzled, unable to fathom what was happening to his men.
And at length the English charged, mowing down the decimated Scottish
lines like so much rye after a hailstorm. While the Prince slipped
away with his escort.
But all of this, gruesome and sinister as it was. . .this was not what
froze her heart. In a smaller scene that somehow stood out sharp and
clear, two red-coated foot soldiers were dragging by the arms a tall
Scot with a bloodied shock of golden hair. He was dazed and plainly
wounded, but still they pulled at him fiercely, as if to throw him to
the ground and run him through. They carried him out of sight, into a
copse of death-black trees.
"Michael!" she cried frantically, trying to follow. But her legs would
not move, and she sank slowly into quicksand, her skirts
billowing.....
Then the dream shifted and she was back at the grave, lying in the
rough grass.
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