gns.theplutopact

　　　　Dusk was beginning to creep down from the mountains when the Witchfinder rode into Craiglowrie. His hunched position in the saddle of the black mare disguised his true height, yet all the same he was tall and terrible, the features beneath the dark broad-brimmed hat seemed like those of a sun-bleached skull from a distance. The grimace that revealed black and broken teeth; the eyes that glowed with the fire of a personal hatred, and seemed to search out each and every one of the peasants who trembled and watched behind the windows of their tumbledown bothies.　　　　They remembered the last time he had e to this remote Scottish valley, a pany of soldiers in his wake. Six villagers had been

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