She got to her feet, and moving to the very edge of the
shelf, peered intently into the wavering vale below.
The sound continued to come on, nearer and nearer, then suddenly
ceased, now surely no more than two hundred yards away. She strained
her every sense for sight or sound of him, in vain. She began to
despair once more, until it occurred to her that perhaps the
torchlight held his troubled spirit at bay. Quickly she returned to
the Stone, and forcing out the beacon, rolled its lighted knob against
the hissing turf until it sputtered and went out. Then moving back to
the ledge she rejoined her vigil, prepared to wait all night.
But she did not have to. Almost at once she perceived the figure of a
man, moving slowly through the fog. It came on steadily, down the
center of the vale. Now hidden by the mist, now clearly outlined: a
kilted Scottish soldier, pale and weary, wandering it seemed to her,
without direction or hope. Her heart leapt inside her, reaching out to
him with all that she was.
The curly head was raised at last, still vague with distance.
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