She had barely time to clutch her cloths to her exposed breasts before a man came round the corner of the necessary, stopping dead when he saw her.

“Wehhh!” he said, goggling at her. He was a white man, though very much tanned by the sun, like Ian. He had no tattoos, but wore clothes that were a combination of Indian and European dress, like Joseph Brant, though his garments were of a much lesser quality. He limped badly, she saw, and walked with a stick.

“If thee doesn’t mind, Friend, I would be grateful for a moment’s privacy,” she said, with what dignity was possible.

“What?” He jerked his eyes from her breasts and looked her in the face. “Oh. Oh, certainly. My pardon. Er … madam.” He backed slowly away, though he seemed unable to remove his eyes from her chest.

He turned hastily at the corner of the necessary and almost immediately collided with someone coming rapidly the other way. Rachel heard the impact, a feminine outcry, another Mohawk execration from the man, and then …

“Gabriel!” Silvia Hardman’s voice said in astonishment.

“Silvia!”

Rachel stood frozen, warm milk dribbling over her fingers.

Both voices together said, in tones of accusation, “What is thee doing here?”

“Lord, have mercy,” Rachel said, under her breath, and took two steps to the corner of the necessary, peering cautiously round it.

“I—I—” GABRIEL’S FACE was pale with shock, but Rachel could see that he bore the signs of work, long months of exposure to the sun, and the marks of starvation, not that long in the past. “I— Silvia? It is thee? Really thee?”

Silvia’s shoulders were shaking under her gray cloak. She lifted a trembling hand to her face, as though wondering whether it really was her.

“It … is,” she said, sounding doubtful, but the hand dropped, and she took a few steps toward her husband and stopped, staring at him. Her head tilted as she looked down, and Rachel saw that in addition to the stick he had dropped, he had a crutch tucked under one arm, and the leg and foot on that side were oddly twisted.

“What happened to thee?” Silvia whispered, and her hand went out toward him. He made a small, convulsive movement as though to take her hand, but then drew back.

“I—was taken. By Shawnee. They brought me north; one night I escaped. That made them angry, and they—chopped my foot in half.” He swallowed. “With an ax.”

“Oh, Christ Jesus, have mercy!”

“He did,” Gabriel said, mustering a very small smile from somewhere. “They didn’t kill me. I still had value as a slave. What—”

“Thee is a slave here?” Silvia was beginning to get a grip on her emotions; her voice held indignation as well as shock.

Gabriel shook his head, though.