The laird of Glenfernie crossed long grass to where, for a hundred years, had been laid the dead from White Farm.

There was a mound bare to the sunlight thrown from the moon.

He saw the flowers that Gilian had brought.
The flowers were colorless in the moonlight--and yet they could be, and were, clothed with a hue of anger from himself.

They lay before him purple-crimson.

They were withered, but suddenly they had sap, life, fullness--but a distasteful, reminding life, a life in opposition! He took them and threw them away.
Now the mound rested bare.