Unformatted text preview: at's certain!" said the Laird darkly. "If it wasn't out of the little ones, by the sin of a witch and a child of our clan it had to be." My father was both frightened and ashamed. I looked at the priest. I wanted to tell of my mother, of the extra finger on her left hand, and how she had held it up to me and that she had said it was a witch's finger, but I didn't dare to do this. I knew the old Laird wanted to destroy me. I felt his hatred, and it was worse than the most dreadful bitter cold. "The mark of God was on the birth, I tell you," said the great Laird. "My damned son has done what not all the little people in the hills have been able to do for hundreds of years." "Did you see the acorn fall from the oak?" asked the priest. "How do you know but that this is a changeling and not our spawn? How!" "She had the sixth finger," my father said in a whisper. "And you lay with her!" demanded the Laird. And my father nodded, yes, that he ha...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10