Send spirit forth, by dark stream's course
If Hell itself should be the source
Let Cerberus' gate, not hold his fate
But shatter walls
With killing force.
All this she read, and more besides, until her arms seemed to open of
their own accord, in the final gesture of invocation. Then with the
trembling emotions of a lifetime, she said his name.....
Nothing happened.
A slight freshening of the breeze, nothing more. The spell had failed.
All her mother's arts were but seeming and superstition. Michael
remained on the other side of Death's iron door, unreachable. She fell
forward onto the bitter earth, overcome by unquenchable despair.....
She heard a sound.
Was it again the wind's mockery of bagpipes, the faintest strain
playing upon her mind alone? She listened again. The sound grew
stronger, undeniable, moving toward her from the west. Far away it
seemed, from the depths of the ravine, which led after many miles to
the sea. It played Scotland the Brave, a poignant sound in that dismal
place, as she heard in its every note a proud defiance of death and
darkness.
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