Duncan looks out over the maddened, delirious crowd for one last moment, and kicks the coachman hard. Hamish turns with a glare. "Away from this," the warrior demands. Hamish lashes at the horses, and they move off. Willy is left behind, oblivious while he playfully runs after some taunting children. As the carriage wheels out of the courtyard, Dr. Gray stares demonically through the fire at them.

The sun is just setting as the coach arrives at the tower house of the magistrate, Lord Lovat. It pulls to a stop and wary soldiers move to a ready position in a maneuver that seems well rehearsed. Duncan turns to his wife as the carriage comes to rest. "We'll take care of these formalities as quickly as can be. Then off to our rooms at the inn," he says calmly.

"I don't see why we should do this thing at all. After what we have just seen. It's monstrous. And these are responsible," she says, still shaken.

"Aye, you're right my love. But it is for our own safety. Now more than ever, eh? And it was Lord Sutherland's suggestion as well, and he knows what is best in dealing with this man," he adds, trying to put her at ease. Though that would seem to be an insurmountable task now.

Duncan steps from the carriage and takes a good look about the estate. It is an ancient fortress, clearly reinforced at a much more recent date, resting on the far edge of a tidal island in a small river. But what is unusual is the meticulous garden, large and presupposing. It seems clearly like someone trying to bend nature to his will. To control what may be uncontrollable by man. To command the bestial nature that surrounds us. That lives free and unrestrained. Without judgment. Or punishment. But at the edges of the estate is black, creeping nature, moving forward. Like some sentient thing, lying in wait. It will take more than shears to keep it at bay. And here in this place, it is the garden that is the intrusion.

Duncan strolls towards a high hedge and turns towards another meticulously kept patch. What is unusual is the sight of the elderly Lord Lovat, calmly tending his "Eden" with particularly focused devotion. But he has eyes apparently in the back of his head.

"Ah, a moment there, sir. I will attend to you just -- in a moment. First though, the things that will not wait," Lovat comments dryly, consumed with what is before him. Duncan, clearly in no mood for this, watches impatiently as Lovat tears at some heavy creeping vines. He is quite determined. As if it were his fiercest enemy.

"You see, things in their time. Like the harvest, and the planting -- a natural and ordained order to things. Lest the foul overcome the rest and true, and strangle away the fruit. Eh?" Lovat says as he finally turns, though he still is focused on the twisted black roots in his hands, dripping red from torn skin.

Duncan takes the first motion, anxious to get on with his business. "Lord Lovat, I am Capt. Duncan Hamilton, just late..."

Lovat finally looks up, the strangling weeds still tight in his dirty hands. He interrupts without a thought to good manners, or propriety. "...just late of Sutherland's Scots Battalion in service to the Swedish king. The bold warriors who swept away the Russian dragoons in the battle of Pskov, and Stolbova, and so recently returned to Scotland's highlands and low."

"Why...yes," Duncan says, surprised that Lovat knows such details. So quickly. Had Sutherland told him this as well?

"With nary a trumpet or fanfare or laurel wreath to mark your country's gratitude," Lovat says with a slippery tone.

Duncan will have no fallacious or misplaced flattery. "We fought for the Swedes, not James, so we need none of that," he says with no false modesty.

But Lovat is sharp, though calm. "None but the gratitude of Lord Sutherland then I am sure, eh?"

"Yes," Duncan says assuredly, "And why not. What cause is greater than the one we do for friendship and kin?"

Suddenly, a disturbing and reptilian voice from behind. "The one we do for ourselves."

Duncan turns quickly, sizing up the cold man who has stepped onto the scene as quiet as a panther. Dr. Gray. His almond eyes glisten. "And that is a mean little thing then," Duncan says in his most demeaning manner.

"But often the one that lasts," Dr. Gray tartly responds, completely unaffected by the insult. In fact, it may not even have been perceived.

"Not for those who remember," Duncan says with finality. Still. No visible effect on the executioner.