“What in Hell do you mean, free?”
The Englishman could not understand the vehemence with which the word was spoken. “All prisoners of war have been pardoned. The word arrived yesterday, with the new Secretary. You have only to turn yourself in, and renounce your former cause..... Reconciliation.”
“You’re lying,” said Michael desperately. “You’re like your father. . . you’re lying!”
“No. On my mother’s grave, I swear it.”
Then to his bewilderment, Stephen saw the man take his head in both hands, and fall to his knees with a tortured cry. At length the worn face looked up, and it was neither joy nor relief, but unutterable sorrow that was written there. Almost a whisper.
“Then why. Why, in God’s name, were you so Hell-bound to capture us?”
Purceville hesitated, fearful of another outburst. But the answer was so obvious. “A last minute power play. You know. Politics.”
And indeed another outburst came. Trembling with rage Michael stormed to the lifeless hearth, and smashed his boot-heel against it.
“GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!” he cried. “You, and this bloody world you’ve made for yourselves! My cousin is dead because of your politics. The man in the next room is dead, and I am a murderer..... Aahh! Jesus!”
Stunned by the power of the man’s emotions, and fearing for the consequences, Stephen all but begged.