A fearful, long-drawn wail split the night, whether from the
spirit or from herself she could not have said, only that the face was
that of her beloved, that he was in great pain, and had been struck
blind. He turned wildly from side to side, trying to penetrate the
blackness of his eyes. And the same words that she had sent to him now
became his own, endlessly, hopelessly repeated.
"Where are you? Where are you? Where are
you!"
She tried to answer but could not, as if between them they possessed
but a single voice. And as he finally stopped thrashing, and she felt
her tongue loosed, she became aware of the thing which had stilled
him, so utterly that she knew he had lost all hope, confronted by the
sinister, solitary figure which parted the mist and stood before him:
her hated half-brother, who had stolen and crushed his heart.
All was deathly still as they faced one another in silence. Purceville
drew a long pistol, and held it at arm's length. Michael was a statue,
head down, hands at his sides in resignation. There was the crack of a
shot, and again a frozen wail split the night, this time undeniably
her own.
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