Drums of Autumn (Outlander, #4)

by Diana Gabaldon

Rollo appeared not to care for either verse or refrain; his ears lay flat against his skull, and his yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Ian scratched his head in reassurance, and he lay down again, muttering wolf curses under his breath.

“My father always said that was the difference between an American and an Englishman. An Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way; an American thinks a hundred years is a long time.”

‘Whither thou goest,’ ” I said, “ ‘I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.’ ” Be it Scottish hill or southern forest. “You do what you have to; I’ll be there.”

Beyond all this was the one great difference, though—I had chosen to be there.

“Ye can almost see the light go as ye watch—and yet there’s no time ye can look and say ‘Now! Now it’s night.’

“He said there was always an hour in the day when time seems to stop—but that it was different for everyone. He thought it might be the hour when one was born.”

‘Man is like the grass that withers and is thrown into the fire; he is like the sparks that fly upward … and his place will know him no more,’

‘Man is like the grass of the field,’ ” he quoted softly, brushing the slender stem over my knuckles, where they rested against his chest. “ ‘Today it blooms; tomorrow it withers and is cast into the oven.’ ”

“Nothing is lost, Sassenach; only changed.” “That’s the first law of thermodynamics,” I said, wiping my nose. “No,” he said. “That’s faith.”

For if there is no soul, no death to contemplate, then neither god nor devil rules—their battle is of no consequence, to one who lives in the flesh alone. We rule for a moment, and yet for all time. A fragile web woven to snare both earth and space. Only one life is given to us—and

It doesn’t matter what happens; no matter where a child goes—how far or how long. Even if it’s forever. You never lose them. You can’t.”

“Aye, I’ve heard about the germs. Dangerous wee beasties, are they not?”

To ease pain and death in another was to soothe the fear of it in oneself—and to soothe his own fear, he would do almost anything.

wishing her perfect and finding her only as human as himself.

She was entirely calm, no more than a conduit for the ancient savagery that men call motherhood, who mistake its tenderness for weakness.