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.
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Quote and Excerpt by Diana Gabaldon from “The Fiery Cross”
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