Opening the back door soundlessly, he slipped inside with the pistol
cocked and ready. Nothing. Heart pounding, he advanced slowly down the passage, toward the indirect glow of the hearth. He turned the corner.....
Purceville sat motionless facing him, a drained goblet in his hand. He evinced no surprise. Apparently his senses were sharper than the Highlander guessed.
“I will do it,” he said evenly. “On the condition that I am never again left weaponless in an indefensible corner.”
Michael came closer, unbuckled the dead officer’s sword. He handed it to Purceville in the English fashion, then straightened and looked him square in the eye.
“I ask for no greater promise,” he said, “than that you do what you know is right. Now, if you will take it, here is my hand.”
The Englishman took it in his own, with the same measured gaze that he had worn since the Highlander’s return. There was no time to wonder at the thoughts that lay behind it.
“Come on,” said Michael. “We've got a long ride ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find a more defensible corner.”