“The pedlar’s girl should be proud to be among us now,” said Rebecca, her voice low and crooning. “All the years Logie has bided—and vengeance in her hand at last.”
The Master could not rid himself of dread for Causleen. Fast as he beat down one attack, another fear came shadowy at him from behind.
“Garsykes swarms with its scum, and we are few,” he growled. “Who made you a prophet?”
A step sounded up the road, and Hardcastle, turning with quick instinct to defend himself, saw Michael Draycott, his wide, cheery face less full of colour than its wont.
“You, Michael? You look peaky, man.”
“Well, it’s this way. I found my best heifer dead this morning—a fine little roan she was—and a scrawled token by her side. Hemlock grows in the Wilderness. That was the message.”
“A mucky folk,” said
