There was at least one man in that audience who understood a little English. Margo lifted her head. "Margo Smith."

"And you are English?"

"I am."

Malcolm spoke briefly to Kit in Portuguese. Kit scribbled something onto his parchment. Then he began to speak. Malcolm translated a list of charges, which began with "You are accused of consorting with the devil to make yourself and others fly through the air by means of foul magic" and ended nearly half an hour later with "and lastly, you are accused of summoning storms by the combing of your hair, which did cause the wreckage of a Portuguese ship and the loss of all hands but two." They even threw in summoning demons to make the sheep bleat at the wrong hour of the night.

"How do you plead to these serious charges of witchcraft?"

Margo turned her head just far enough to stare directly into the military governor's eyes. She curled her lip.. "Even if I were a witch, I would not waste such powerful magic on these men. They are not worthy of it. I am innocent and they are liars, murderers, and rapists."

Malcolm translated her reply. The governor came to his feet with a roar and threatened Margo with the back of his hand. Malcolm snapped something that caused him to resume his seat.

The "trial" was the most amazing thing Margo had ever witnessed. She was required to repeat phrases in Latin. Every syllable she stumbled over was duly noted on Kit's parchment and commented on by the sullen audience. She was stripped naked and searched. Birthmarks and a tiny mole were pointed out and recorded. She glared at Kit, who returned her gaze coldly.

Malcolm said, "Put on your clothes, English. You offend God."

"Not as much as you do!" she snapped.

Kit glanced up reproachfully.

Then they escorted her down to the bay. Two soldiers picked her up bodily and heaved her into the water. Margo squealed in shock and landed with a heavy splash. The water was deep. She swam for the surface, gasped, and glared at the soldiers. The men were muttering worriedly. When Malcolm fished her out, she snapped, "What are you trying to do? Drown me?"

"Witches," Malcolm said coldly, "float. The innocent sink."

"Huh!" Great way to get rid of a problem. Drown 'em or burn 'em.

By the time they dragged her back to the fort, it was nearing noon. Kit asked her questions which made absolutely no sense at all. Most of them she couldn't begin to answer. Kit shook his head mournfully and wrote its his parchment. It was nearly dark when they finally escorted her back to her cell and gave her bread soup, and wine.

If Kit hadn't made clear yesterday that he intended to find her "guilty" she would have been terrified. Margo shivered as it was. What if something went wrong? What if they began the execution and Kit simply vanished, having shadowed himself? Not only would Kit die, so would she, and most likely Kynan and Malcolm, too. The idea of burning to death left her sweating into her coarse, filthy shirt. She clenched her hands and tried to pray, then paced the little cell. Surely they would pull it off. Kit knew what he was doing.

But as Kit had admonished her time and again, even trained scouts ran into fatal trouble sometimes.

The next morning, they took Kynan away. He was gone all day, put through the same ordeals she'd been through. When the lock finally grated open and Kynan was thrust bodily inside, he was pale. In his bad English, he said, "Is not good. Portuguese scared. Mad Not good."

"No. It isn't good. I'm..." She hesitated, then said it anyway. "I'm scared."

He took her hand, holding it gently. "Yes. Margo is brave. Brave have fear. Is true."

She swallowed hard. "Yes. Very true."

He managed a rueful smile. "In Orleans, Kynan fear. Fear French. Fear Margo. True."

She started to laugh and ended up crying on his shoulder. If he thought less of her for it, he didn't let it show.

During the night, more screams and gunshots rang out. Margo started awake, then muttered, "Good!" and heard an answering grunt from Kynan. No one shouted for Kit or Malcolm, though, so no one must have died this time. The next day-the day the gate was supposed to reopen-the Portuguese brought them both out to hear the "testimony" of their accusers. Not that it did Margo or Kynan any good. The testimony was all in Portuguese. But the angry, fearful looks sent their way and the sleepless hollows under most eyes told Margo that Kit and- Malcolm's plans were bearing fruit.

Given the shouting match and fist fight that ensued during the afternoon, the Portuguese had begun to accuse one another of witchcraft charges. Kit ordered Margo and Kynan locked up while the soldiers broke up the vicious little fight with blows from the butts of their arquebuses. Margo wondered when Kit would make his move. They were running short on time. The gate would be opening in just a few hours if it opened at all.

The longer they waited, the more terror stretched her nerves taut. Something had gone wrong. They'd slipped up, somehow, their ruse had been discovered, or Kit had vanished, leaving Malcolm to face the whole superstitious, murderous bunch ....

The sun was sinking into the heart of the distant Drakensbergs when the door opened a last time. Margo's heart pounded unsteadily beneath her rib cage as she came slowly to her feet. Kynan, too, scrambled up to face the Portuguese sergeant who'd unlocked their cell. The sergeant wouldn't meet their gaze. He crossed himself and moved hastily aside. Malcolm stood behind him. He gazed coldly into the cell without speaking, then said roughly, "You have been found guilty of witchcraft, Margo Smith. You will be taken far from Lourengo Marques where you will be put to death by burning. May God pity your soul."

Margo stared at him, hardly recognizing the gentle man who had loved her in Rome. Then, recalling the part she had to play, Margo gave out a shriek and sank toward the ground. Her theatrical faint was so convincing, Kynan caught her with a cry. He held her protectively. Kit appeared behind Malcolm and said something in Welsh. Kynan didn't speak a word. He just snarled like a trapped wolf.

Oh, God, Margo thought while her heart trip-hammered, let this work!

Soldiers herded them out of the cell. They were taken across the open courtyard while the rest of the men crossed themselves and avoided their gaze. Kynan marched stolidly between the soldiers, placing one hand protectively on Margo's waist. The gesture brought tears to her eyes.

Kit and Malcolm followed, intoning something in Latin. Both of them had slung their ATLS bags over their shoulders. It was the only hopeful sign she saw. They passed a wagon and a thin horse in harness. The remains of Margo's PVC raft and Filmar balloon and everything which had survived the wreck had been piled into it. An ominously large stack of wood and two long, thick stakes also weighed it down. Several of the Portuguese stood near it, holding pikes and lit torches. Margo let her steps falter. Then she sank to her knees, weeping. Given the fear jolting through her that something would yet go wrong, tears were remarkably easy to conjure. Kynan lifted her back to her feet and glared at their executioners.

Farther along, waiting for them to pass, were that pig of a military governor and the rest of his disgusting, unwashed swine. All of them carried weapons: black powder firearms, cocked crossbows, swords, or murderous long pikes and daggers. Margo tried to keep her spirits from sinking, but she couldn't see how Kit planned to escape with an armed contingent that size acting as guard.

They marched completely out of the walled village and moved down the beach, heading south around the wide curve of the bay. Margo remembered the layout of the land. Kit was herding them closer to the gate. The whole parade marched down the wave-scoured beach, moving grimly, silently. Only the creak of the wagon and the crackle of the torches rose above the sound of sea and wind. Kit moved into the lead as though searching for something. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn't finding it. Margo knew the gate would open somewhere close to here, but she couldn't remember precisely where, either.