And he saw her, his gentle sister,
ravaged and distraught by the work of his own hands. He did not feel
remorse, which was beyond him. But sorrow he could feel, and even, in
that moment, a halting compassion.
"I'm sorry. Mary. I didn't know..... There's really nothing more I can
say." He rose, shifted uncomfortably, trying to reconcile himself to
his actions. It was impossible.
"Is there anything I can do now," he said stiffly. "To make it
better."
"No. Just go away."
He turned, and started to leave.
"Wait," she said, half against her will. She could not look at him.
"Help me to bury him. Both
of them."
He put on his jacket, pawed the ground with his boot. ".....I'll need
a shovel."
"Ride back to the hut. My mother will give you one." She finally
looked up at him, and the tears would not stop. "Please leave now. I'm
not that strong."
He remounted slowly, and with one last look at her, rode off. Mary was
left to prepare her cousin's body, and to seeping thoughts of death
and earth.
When Stephen returned, they buried James Talbert.
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