"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?" And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the memories of a lifetime of injustice: The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no doubt abject and afraid. And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his shirt, he pulled it down across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded there. "What does this tell you?" he demanded in turn. "You were a prisoner," said Stephen. "I'm sorry. You're a free man, now..... Look, you can't kill me. There's no reason---" "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. "It was an accident. I'll testify on your behalf. Look, it's not the end---" "No! Not for you and me. We're the lucky ones. We're left to go on fighting." Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken. "Can't you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of nations, there's no room for whim, or politics. Don't you see that every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are swept away?