Thirty-One
Michael woke with a sense of foreboding that was almost physical. He
often felt uneasy after too short a sleep, as if hearing the distant
thunder of inevitable death. But this was more immediate, more
intense.
The knowledge of what he must do that day had never left him, but had
woven itself in and out of his dreams. It was not that.
Something was wrong. Where was Margaret MacCain, and why had she left
the hut deserted? Looking across at Purceville's empty bed, he felt
his throat tighten and his heart beat heavily. Pulling on his boots
and long coat, he walked as calmly as he could to the door of the
ancient dwelling, afraid what he might find on the other side. He
opened it.
The horse was still there, grazing unconcerned in the place where he
had left it. So the Englishman had not deserted him. This, and his
bent form not far off, calmed him. But not for long. First his eyes
made out the shovel in his hands, then the newly dug grave at his
feet. The red, clay-like soil piled around it called to mind images of
an unhealing wound.
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