But Jethro Fawe had come to claim his own.
Now Gabriel Druse's eyes followed his own menacing finger with sharp insistence.

In the past such a look had been in his eyes when he had sentenced men to death.

They had not died by the gallows or the sword or the bullet, but they had died as commanded, and none had questioned his decree.

None asked where or how the thing was done when a fire sprang up in a field, or a quarry, or on a lonely heath or hill-top, and on the pyre were all the belongings of the condemned, being resolved into dust as their owner had been made earth again.
"Son of Lemuel Fawe," the old man said, his voice rough with authority, "but that you are of the Blood, you should die now for this disobedience.

When the time is fulfilled, I will return.