CHAPTER TWELVE
T
hen,
when they all knew that warmth and comfort would never be theirs again, that they must go to their deaths with the intolerable scream of wind in their ears and the cold hands of rain searching every inch of their exhausted bodies, a dark shape detached itself from the surrounding blackness and came slowly, stumbling and groping, in their direction. For a time they looked at each other, and Morag’s hand sought his brother’s. And no one spoke. Then Caradoc whispered, “It might be Gwyndoc. Whistle like a blackbird, Morag. It is his call.” Morag put both his hands about his lips and whistled, at first softly, and then more boldly as his courage returned. They saw the figure stop, cautiously, and listen; then, to their relief, between gusts of wind, they heard the answe
