“I’ll kill you!” cried the betrayer. And the scarlet arm began to stiffen in the firing motion.
But at the very instant he would have shot, Mary stepped before her only love, willing to die to save him.
A moment later the Englishmen was confronted by something more unnerving still. For it was not the love loyalty of another, but his own, unrealized devotion. A cry was heard from above: not a scream, for it contained rage as well as fear. Like a stone from a precipice it fell, and like a stone struck the earth beside him, changing to the horror of his eyes from a formless clot. . .into the writhing figure of a man. His father lay, broken and dying, on the ground.
And from the Tower above came another sound, as if in answer to his pain: a howl of laughter so complete, so devoid of all remorse..... Ballard had come up behind his leaning master and, all other base pleasures denied him, with his own strong and gnarled hands, hurled the aging tyrant to his death.
Casting away the pistol as if itself the instrument of murder, Stephen fell to his knees before his father.
“What can I do!” he cried. And while the man’s tortured movements grew less, the son knew in his heart that this was not the easing of pain, but the end of all struggle, brought by death.
The Lord Purceville had just strength enough to turn his head once, and view the flesh that would outlive his own. But that was all. The life flowed out..... Angelica. I’m sorry.
Too late. He had tried to kill his own daughter. His eyes rolled back, and he was dead.
Stephen’s head shot back in agony, as he released a sound more bestial than human. All was dead for him. He was alone.
But no tears would form, nor did he wish them to. The one emotion that still burned, and seemed capable of sustaining him, was revenge. He rushed blindly back and remounted the horse. And brandishing the sword, rode away toward the gate in a fury, as if the lovers did not exist.