Light his Cross

He dressed quick­ly, but care­ful­ly. Despite my appre­hen­sions, I had to admire the del­i­ca­cy of his instincts. Not his dress kilt, the one in crim­son and black, but the hunt­ing kilt. No effort to impress the moun­tain men with rich­ness; but an odd­i­ty of dress, enough to make the point to the oth­er High­landers that he was one of them, to draw the eye and inter­est of the Ger­mans. Plaid pinned up with the run­ning-stag brooch, his belt and scab­bard, clean wool stock­ings. He was qui­et, absorbed in what he was doing, dress­ing with a calm pre­ci­sion that was unnerv­ing­ly rem­i­nis­cent of the rob­ing of a priest.
It would be tonight, then. Roger and the rest had clear­ly gone to sum­mon the men who lived with­in a day’s ride; tonight he would light his cross and call the first of his men—and seal the bar­gain with whisky.
“So Bree was right,” I said, to break the silence in the clear­ing. “She said per­haps you were start­ing your own reli­gion. When she saw the cross, I mean.”
He glanced at me, star­tled. He looked in the direc­tion where the house lay, then his mouth curled wry­ly.
“I sup­pose I am,” he said. “God help me.”
He took the knife gen­tly away from Jem­my, wiped it on a fold of his plaid, and slid it away into its scabbard. 

He was finished.

All rights for the Pic­ture from Out­lander go to the right­ful own­er Starz/­Sony- Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Far FarAwaysite.com
Quote and Excerpt by Diana Gabal­don from “The Fiery Cross”
I own noth­ing but the editing