“An invention of mine,” he said with pride, speaking over his shoulder.
Michael looked away for a second, past the grim executioner, to the farther end of the cave. And then he saw a sight that brought the blood to his cheeks. At first he thought he was dreaming, and that the strain of his ordeal was responsible for some grotesque vision.
Adele!
She stood clear in the white light, so grimed with earth and dust that she seemed to be wearing a grey robe.
“If you move I will kill you!”
It was she! He twisted over on to his knees and staggered upright. Longvale heard the voice and turned slowly.
“My little lady,” he said pleasantly. “How providential! I’ve always thought that the culminating point of my career would be, as was the sainted Charles Henry’s, that moment when a queen came under his hand. How very singular!”
He walked slowly toward her, oblivious to the pointed pistol, to the danger in which he stood, a radiant smile on his face, his small, white hands extended as to an honoured guest.
“Shoot!” cried Michael hoarsely. “For God’s sake, shoot!”
She hesitated for a second and pressed the trigger. There was no sound—clogged with earth, the delicate mechanism did not act.