To be so bound,
and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was
not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him
to words.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?"
And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation
laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the
memories of a lifetime of injustice:
The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished
conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had
taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he
remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and
dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no
doubt abject and afraid.
And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the
soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride
he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his shirt, he pulled it down
across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded
there.
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