He pushes his way out into the sodden yard, his large unkempt frame heaving through the tiny doorway of a hovel, spade over shoulder, clothing worn and stained; tearing at a large crust of bread, savaging it, disgorging it.

Limping, wheezing, kicking darkly at a fowl in his way, grumbling to himself; a couple of children running aside to avoid him. Wide-eyed and beautiful, they stare, following his lurking form - and that of a friend - as the two men shamble through the pools of mud and set about their skulking in the failing light.

'And ye say he brought it up yonder, Doctor?' A morose question.

'He hid the gold by a rock in the trees, so they told Murray.'

'Ye dinnae think Murray was mistaken?'

'He knew MacFarlane better than any of us...'

'Amongst the trees, ye say?' Wheezing, coughing, spitting, he walks on.

The barefoot children watch from the darkened doorway of their home, a mother with babe-in-arms coming to stand at their side. Mist and driving rain blow across Camgarry, water overflowing in the burn, turning everything sodden underfoot, autumnal, the night drawing in with a shiver.

'Are the boats still waiting at Arisaig?' Cluny Macpherson resumes the digging.

'By the Loch of the Cave, two days' journey from here.' Cameron digging too, his face thin, angular, from months of deprivation. A stag roars on the hillside above : a sound of primeval desire calling out from the depths of the wilderness.

'Two days then, and the Prince will flee to King Louis...'

'And you'll go too, Cluny?'

He spits and curses : royal courts, the French King! 'The heather will dae for me : I'll be answerable to no man.' He heaves a great clod of soil over his shoulder. The entire earth seems drenched.

'Lochiel will go with him to France, he says.'

The big man scowls :'Cameron of Lochiel is all shot up, and his estates are ruined. This campaign has brought ruin on the land...'

'The Prince will ask you to go with him.'

'I'll wait for him to return.'

The Doctor shakes his head and remonstrates. 'How many winters can a man endure in these mountains?'

'I'll wait for him to return.' Cluny leans against his shovel and his bright eyes are alert, taking in the weather, his senses receptive and in harmony with the land, set on enduring like the contorted trees around him. Stubborn, amused, resigned, resolved. 'There are people approaching.' He points across the hillside, then resumes his digging. Cameron stares into the void but can see nothing : his dour mind perceives only emptiness and desolation.

'Ah!'

The querulous chief of Macpherson bends forward and beckons to his associate, putting his arm all around him with perverse good humour.

'See here! Gape into the very Mouth of Hell!' he whispers, smiling wryly, eyes twinkling.

'What is it?' Doctor Cameron peers into the hole, and crosses himself.

'By Jesus and Mary!'

The head and upper torso of MacFarlane look vacantly out at them, his skull staved in; in his open mouth, a single golden coin.

'The only man who knew the secret, ye say?'

Cameron nods. Cluny Macpherson tries to stifle a squeal of laughter, his lips contorting, and pockets the coin. He finishes a draught of whisky, letting the liquor dribble down his grizzled chin, from the side of his lips. They begin to cover the body in the damp earth.

A raven croaks somewhere overhead and the wind gets up, buffeting, quarrelling, slapping rain across the cheek. Hobbling down the shoulder of Culvain towards them, a figure approaches, sullen, disconsolate. His white hair tied back, he remains dignified in defeat. It is Lochiel. His form is bent over against the elements. These months in the heather have treated him harshly and he casts a weather-weary glance.

'The Prince is here. Have we a fire ready?'

Cluny nods to the bothy. The smoke swirls from the dishevelled thatches, billowing across the midden, around a rowan sapling planted for luck. Little enough of that.

'The game's up then?' Doctor Cameron talking to his clansman.

'Summer's over, and the cause is lost. We must get the Prince away to the boats.' Lochiel, grave, proud, shot through both feet at Culloden but loyal to the last. Five months they have been on the run.

Figures and a horse drift in and out of the mist, approaching from a distance down the hillside behind them.

'The future King' says Cluny, taking the soaked crust from his pocket, and looking disdainfully at it.

'Prince Charlie himself' affirms Lochiel. 'Have ye got the money?'

Cluny does not respond. His interest has been aroused by a capacity of the bread to draw in, retain, and release water. Tongue between parted lips, like a child, he is slowly squeezing the moisture in and out of the crust.

'The French gold' repeats Lochiel. 'Have ye got it ready for the Prince?'

Disturbed from his reverie, Macpherson turns and stalks moodily towards the bothy, Lochiel in pursuit. Voices raised. And the wind rises again to drown them out. Great volleys of mist roll across the hillside and cover all. The end of summer indeed. All life on the move now, restless, all life turning in, a turning of seasons, a turning of autumn to winter, a turning of seasons.

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