Seeing the girl still
descending far below, he swept out his own knife and began cutting
into the strands one by one.
Michael was too intent upon the progress of his nearing lover to take
in the dark bulge that appeared at the window. Mary never thought to
look up, but only continued to descend.
Perhaps twenty feet from the ground she suddenly felt the rope begin
to give. Releasing her hands once each, she instinctively pushed away
from the wall--- The last strands gave way as she fell back, stifling
a scream.
Michael caught her, shielding her body with his own; but the force of
impact sent them both to the ground. Together they rose, embracing and
in tears. . .until slowly they perceived the danger that awaited them.
And it came not from above, where Lord Purceville knew that any shot
was as likely to strike his son as the two lovers. . .but from
directly behind them. More sinister than raw violence, because it came
from an unguarded quarter, the dark spectre of betrayal rose before
them.
Stephen Purceville stood with the pistol at arm's length, his eyes
fastened with twisted vehemence upon the turning form of the
Highlander, his passion all the greater for the torment of his soul.
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