"So there were perhaps more men? And when these died, their companions took their shoes-and anything else of value"-Fergus added practically, gesturing from the burned cabin to the stripped bodies-"and fled."

"Aye, maybe." Jamie pursed his lips, his gaze traveling slowly over the earth of the yard-but the ground was churned with footsteps, clumps of grass uprooted and the whole of the yard dusted with ash and bits of charred wood. It looked as though the place had been ravaged by rampaging hippopotami.

"I could wish that Young Ian was here. He's the best of the trackers; he could maybe tell what happened there, at least." He nodded into the wood where the men had been found. "How many there were, maybe, and which way they've gone."

Jamie himself was no mean tracker. But the light was going fast now; even in the clearing where the burned cabin stood, the dark was rising, pooling under the trees, creeping like oil across the shattered earth.

His eyes went to the horizon, where streamers of cloud were beginning to blaze with gold and pink as the sun set behind them, and he shook his head.

"Bury them. Then we'll go."

One more grim discovery remained. Alone among the dead, the burned man had not died of fire or poison. When they lifted the charred corpse from the ashes to bear him to his grave, something fell free of the body, landing with a small, heavy thunk on the ground. Brianna picked it up, and rubbed at it with the corner of her apron.

"I guess they overlooked this," she said a little bleakly, holding it out. It was a knife, or the blade of one. The wooden hilt had burned entirely away, and the blade itself was warped with heat.

Steeling myself against the thick, acrid stench of burned fat and flesh, I bent over the corpse, poking gingerly at the midsection. Fire destroys a great deal, but preserves the strangest things. The triangular wound was quite clear, seared in the hollow beneath his ribs.

"They stabbed him," I said, and wiped my sweating hands on my own apron.

"They killed him," Bree said, watching my face. "And then his wife-" She glanced at the young woman on the ground, the concealing apron over her head. "She made a stew with the mushrooms, and they all ate it. The children, too."

The clearing was silent, save for the distant calls of birds on the mountain. I could hear my own heart, beating painfully in my chest. Vengeance? Or simple despair?

"Aye, maybe," Jamie said quietly. He stooped to pick up an end of the sheet of canvas they had placed the dead man on. "We'll call it accident."

The Dutchman and his family were laid in one grave, the two strangers in another.

A cold wind had sprung up as the sun went down; the apron fluttered away from the woman's face as they lifted her. Sinclair gave a strangled cry of shock, and nearly dropped her.

She had neither face nor hair anymore; the slender waist narrowed abruptly into charred ruin. The flesh of her head had burned away completely, leaving an oddly tiny, blackened skull, from which her teeth grinned in disconcerting levity.

They lowered her hastily into the shallow grave, her children and mother beside her, and left Brianna and me to build a small cairn over them, in the ancient Scottish way, to mark the place and provide protection from wild beasts, while a more rudimentary resting place was dug for the two barefoot men.

The work finally done, everyone gathered, white-faced and silent, around the new-made mounds. I saw Roger stand close beside Brianna, his arm protectively about her waist. A small shudder went through her, which I thought had nothing to do with the cold. Their child, Jemmy, was a year or so younger than the smallest girl.

"Will ye speak a word, Mac Dubh?" Mac Dubh?" Kenny Lindsay glanced inquiringly at Jamie, pulling his knitted bonnet down over his ears against the growing chill. Kenny Lindsay glanced inquiringly at Jamie, pulling his knitted bonnet down over his ears against the growing chill.

It was nearly nightfall, and no one wanted to linger. We would have to make camp, somewhere well away from the stink of burning, and that would be hard enough, in the dark. But Kenny was right; we couldn't leave without at least some token of ceremony, some farewell for the strangers.

Jamie shook his head.

"Nay, let Roger Mac speak. If these were Dutchmen, belike they were Protestant."

Dim as the light was, I saw the sharp glance Brianna shot at her father. It was true that Roger was a Presbyterian; so was Tom Christie, a much older man whose dour face reflected his opinion of the proceedings. The question of religion was no more than a pretext, though, and everyone knew it, including Roger.

Roger cleared his throat with a noise like tearing calico. It was always a painful sound; there was anger in it now as well. He didn't protest, though, and he met Jamie's eyes straight on, as he took his place at the head of the grave.

I had thought he would simply say the Lord's Prayer, or perhaps one of the gentler psalms. Other words came to him, though.

"Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment. He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, and He hath set darkness in my paths."

His voice had once been powerful, and beautiful. It was choked now, no more than a rasping shadow of its former beauty-but there was sufficient power in the passion with which he spoke to make all those who heard him bow their heads, faces lost in shadow.

"He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and my hope hath He removed like a tree." His face was set, but his eyes rested for a bleak moment on the charred stump that had served the Dutch family for a chopping block. His face was set, but his eyes rested for a bleak moment on the charred stump that had served the Dutch family for a chopping block.

"He hath put my brethren far from me, and mine acquaintance are verily estranged from me. My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me." I saw the three Lindsay brothers exchange glances, and everyone drew a little closer together, against the rising wind. I saw the three Lindsay brothers exchange glances, and everyone drew a little closer together, against the rising wind.

"Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends," he said, and his voice softened, so that it was difficult to hear him, above the sighing of the trees. he said, and his voice softened, so that it was difficult to hear him, above the sighing of the trees. "For the hand of God has touched me." "For the hand of God has touched me."

Brianna made a slight movement beside him, and he cleared his throat once more, explosively, stretching his neck so that I caught a glimpse of the rope scar that marred it.

"Oh, that my words were now written! Oh, that they were printed in a book! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock forever!"

He looked slowly round from face to face, his own expressionless, then took a deep breath to continue, voice cracking on the words.

"For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body"-Brianna shuddered convulsively, and looked away from the raw mound of dirt- "yet in my flesh shall I see God. Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold." "yet in my flesh shall I see God. Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold."

He stopped, and there was a brief collective sigh, as everyone let out the breath they had been holding. He wasn't quite finished, though. He had reached out, half-unconsciously, for Bree's hand, and held it tightly. He spoke the last words almost to himself, I thought, with little thought for his listeners.

"Be ye afraid of the sword: for wrath bringeth the punishments of the sword, that ye may know there is a judgment."

I shivered, and Jamie's hand curled round my own, cold but strong. He looked down at me, and I met his eyes. I knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking, as I was, not of the present, but the future. Of a small item that would appear three years hence, in the pages of the Wilmington Gazette Wilmington Gazette, dated February 13, 1776.

It is with grief that the news is received of the deaths by fire of James MacKenzie Fraser and his wife, Claire Fraser, in a conflagration that destroyed their house in the settlement of Fraser's Ridge, on the night of January 21 last. Mr. Fraser, a nephew of the late Hector Cameron of River Run Plantation, was born at Broch Tuarach in Scotland. He was widely known in the Colony and deeply respected; he leaves no surviving children.

It had been easy, so far, not to think too much of it. So far in the future, and surely not an unchangeable future-after all, forewarned was forearmed ... wasn't it?

I glanced at the shallow cairn, and a deeper chill passed through me. I stepped closer to Jamie, and put my other hand on his arm. He covered my hand with his, and squeezed tight in reassurance. No, he said to me silently. No, I will not let it happen.

As we left the desolate clearing, though, I could not free my mind of one vivid image. Not the burned cabin, the pitiful bodies, the pathetic dead garden. The image that haunted me was one I had seen some years before-a gravestone in the ruins of Beauly Priory, high in the Scottish Highlands.

It was the tomb of a noble lady, her name surmounted by the carving of a grinning skull-very like the one beneath the Dutchwoman's apron. Beneath the skull was her motto: Hodie mihi cras tibi-sic transit gloria mundi.

My turn today-yours tomorrow. Thus passes the glory of the world.