He had been too weary to press the point; he only
thought it curious. And when they reached the dark shelter and found
the woman gone, the night's small rest assured, he had been far too
relieved to wonder at it. For in the clinging darkness he had not seen
the charred tree above, or the withered bones that shrank away from
it.
Walking stiffly now in the early morning cold, he approached the
Englishman. Stephen heard him, but did not turn. One last ashen limb
projected above the rising level of earth in the hole. He began to
hurry himself to cover it, then stopped.
"Stephen? What are you doing?"
Purceville straightened. He said, without turning. "I am burying the
mother of my sister, and the woman who cared for me as a child."
At that moment a flock of ravens spoke behind, an evil sound that
seemed to mesh the rising web of horror about him. Turning toward the
summons Michael saw the tree, as a gust of wind shook its blackened
limbs in a dull rattle of death. Then whirling back in shock, he saw
the bones.
"What happened here?" he cried.
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