Carrying the weapon away, Kenric stood for many moments upon the extreme
point of the jutting headland overlooking the open sea. Taking the Sword
in his two hands he swung it in a sweeping circle about his head, and
stepping forward flung it far out into the frosty air.
Away it sped like a well-aimed arrow. The moonbeams flashed upon the
bright blade as it turned in its descent, hilt downward, and plunged for
ever deep, deep into the sea.
Then Kenric stood awhile with clasped hands, looking far across to the
Arran fells, whose snowy mantles glanced like silver under the silent
moon. From the distance behind him he heard the faint tinkling of the
chapel bell, telling him that the old year, with its turmoil and
trouble, was at its end; and he dropped down upon his knees and covered
his face with his hands.
It was scarcely half an hour after midnight when Kenric walked towards
the arched doorway of St. Blane's chapel. As he drew near he saw the dim
light within, shining through the narrow windows of coloured glass, and
he heard the solemn murmur of prayer. He was about to enter when a hand
was suddenly laid upon his shoulder.
"'Tis you, my lord?" said the voice of Elspeth Blackfell. "Then it must
surely be that you have fought and vanquished. God be thanked! I feared
that it had gone ill with you, for I found your cloak lying upon the
heath.
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