12. Québec, 1759For several hours, Niall Fearmòr had been walking through the edge of a dense forest clinging to the mountainside. This walk, strangely enough, reminded him of the one that had taken him from Culloden to Gleann Dubh thirteen years ago, with the exception that the hills and valleys he was roaming today were covered in strapping trees. No bushes, no heather. And this time he was crossing the countryside as a victor; it was he who was chasing the last resistance fighters, rather than fleeing at their side.
And yet, in his heart, the capture of Québec inspired in him an even greater sadness than he had felt after the defeat at Culloden.
He laid his rifle on the ground and sat leaning against a tree. All these battles, all this spilled blood, for nothing. Faced with the imposs
