There could be no thought of flight, in any case. A weapon, albeit a treacherous one, had been placed within his reach, in the form of Stephen Purceville. He must find a way to use it. With no clear plan, but not without hope, he determined to bide his time, and watch for some opportunity to ambush and subdue the guard. He did not have to wait long. Apparently the officer had determined to have a look at all the rooms. For after first checking those on the main level, he was heard just below, as he put his boot to the first rung of the ladder-stair, and began to climb. Startled into action Michael leapt from the bed, and when the man's face appeared above the level of the floor, kicked it squarely with the flat of his foot. He had not envisioned the consequences. Perhaps in fear he had struck too hard; perhaps the man had thrown himself backward in sudden shock. Whatever the reason, his body was sent hurtling back and down, and crashed in a terrible angle against the joining of wall and floor below. The man was killed instantly, his neck broken. Stepping back from the opening, Michael pulled on his boots with a trembling hand, trying to disbelieve what his eyes had just shown him. But when he climbed down to examine his foe, all uncertainty left him. No breath, no pulse. No life. An anguish such as he had never known overcame him. By his own hand, a human life was ended. With hot tears stinging him, he gently lifted the body and carried it to his mother's bed. His only thought, irrational as it may have been, was to lay the man more comfortably, and block from his mind the horrible contortion in which he had found him. This done, he staggered toward the cold hearth as if for shelter, arms crossed before him to block out the world. But the world would not go away. Almost as soon as he entered the main room he heard a muffled gasp, and the scrape of a wooden chair being pushed back in alarm. Michael lowered his arms in dismay, not remembering. He saw before him an English officer, bound tightly to a stiff upright chair, and gagged with a twisted length of black cloth. His senses told him he was looking at Stephen Purceville, but his mind was too dazed to take it in. In that moment he only knew that it was a man, like himself. "I didn't mean to kill him," he choked. "I just wanted to knock him out, and take his weapon." Having said this Michael steadied somewhat, and tried to force himself back to the present. With no clearer motive than to relieve the discomfort of the other---his enemy, he knew---he loosened and removed the gag. Still Purceville could not gather himself to speak. All his life, he had been the one to hold another powerless before him. To be so bound, and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him to words.