went into the woods. My boy followed. She ran to the lake, got into a skiff, and rowed straight out to sea. She is following your instructions!"
In his excitement he betrayed himself. He had read the note.
There came a sound up the corridor, the opening of a door, the echo of voices, and Jeekum leaped back. Nathaniel's foot held the cell door from closing.
"Where is Marion?" he cried softly, his heart standing still with dread. "Great God—what about Marion?"
For an instant the sheriff's ghastly face was pressed against the opening.
"Marion has not been seen since morning. The king's officers are searching for her."
The door slammed, the chains clanked loudly, and above the sound of Jeekum's departure Neil's voice rose in a muffled cry of joy.
"They are gone! They are leaving the island!"
Nathaniel stood like one turned into stone. His heart grew cold within him. When he spoke his words were passionless echoes of what had been.
"You are sure that Marion would kill herself as soon as she became the wife of Strang?" he asked.
"Yes—before his vile hands touched more than the dress she wore!" shouted Neil.
"Then Marion is dead," replied Nathaniel, as coldly as though he were talking to the walls about him. "For last night Marion was forced into the harem of the king."
As he revealed the secret whose torture he meant to keep imprisoned in his own breast he dropped upon the pallet of straw and buried his face between his arms, cursing himself that he had weakened in these last hours of their comradeship.
He dared not look to see the effect of his words on Neil. His companion uttered no sound. Instead there was a silence that was terrifying.
At the end of it Neil spoke in a voice so strangely calm that Nathaniel sat up and stared at him through the gloom.
"I believe they are coming after us, Nat. Listen!"
The tread of many feet came to them faintly from beyond the corridor wall.
Nathaniel had risen. They drew close together, and their hands clasped.
"Whatever it may be," whispered Neil, "may God have mercy on our souls!"
"Amen!" breathed Captain Plum.
CHAPTER XI
THE STRAIGHT DEATH
Hands were fumbling with the chain at the dungeon door.
It opened and Jeekum's ashen face shone in the candle-light. For a moment his frightened eyes rested on the two men still standing in their last embrace of friendship. A word of betrayal from them and he knew that his own doom was sealed.
He came in, followed by four men. One of them was MacDougall, the king's whipper. In the corridor were other faces, like ghostly shadows in the darkness. Only MacDougall's face was uncovered. The others were hidden behind white masks. The men uttered no sound but ranged themselves like specters in front of the door, their cocked rifles swung into the crooks of their arms. There was a triumphant leer on MacDougall's lips as he and the jailer approached. As the whipper bound Neil's hands behind his back he hissed in his ear.
"This will be a better job than the whipping, damn you!"
Neil laughed.
"Hear that, Nat?" he asked, loud enough for all in the cell to hear. "MacDougall says this will be a better job than the whipping. He remembers how I thrashed him once when he said something to Marion one day."
Neil was as cool as though acting his part in a play. His face was flushed, his eyes gleamed fearlessly defiant. And Nathaniel, looking upon the courage of this man, from under whose feet had been swept all hope of life, felt a twinge of shame at his own nervousness. MacDougall grew black with passion at the taunting reminder of his humiliation and tightened the thongs about Neil's wrists until they cut into the flesh.
"That's enough, you coward!" exclaimed
Nathaniel, as he saw the blood start. "Here—take this!"
Like lightning he struck out and his fist fell with crushing force against the side of the man's head. MacDougall toppled back with a hollow groan, blood spurting from his mouth and nose. Nathaniel turned coolly to the four rifles leveled at his breast.
"A pretty puppet to do the king's commands!" he cried. "If there's a man among you let him finish the work!"
Jeekum had fallen upon his knees beside the whipper.
"Great God!" he shrieked. "You've killed, him! You've stove in the side of his head!"
There was a sudden commotion in the corridor. A terrible voice boomed forth in a roar.
"Let me in!"
Strang stood in the door. He gave a single glance at the man gasping and bleeding in the mud. Then he looked at Nathaniel. The eyes of the two men met unflinching. There was no hatred now in the prophet's face.
"Captain Plum, I would give a tenth of my kingdom for a brother like you!" he said calmly. "Here—I will finish the work." He went boldly to the task, and as he tied Nathaniel's arms behind him he added, "The vicissitudes of war, Captain Plum. You are a man—and can appreciate what they sometimes mean!"
A few minutes later, gagged and bound, the prisoners fell behind two of the armed guards and at a command from the king, given in a low tone to Jeekum, marched through the corridor and up the short flight of steps that led out of the jail. To Nathaniel's astonishment there was no light to guide them. Candles and lights had been extinguished. What words he heard were spoken in whispers. In the deep shadow of the prison wall a third guard joined the two ahead and like automatons they strode through the gloom with slow, measured step, their rifles held with soldierly precision. Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder and saw three other white masked faces a dozen feet away. The king had remained behind.
He shuddered and looked at Neil. His companion's appearance was almost startling. He seemed half a head taller than himself, yet he knew that he was shorter by an inch or two; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin held high, he kept step with the guards ahead. He was marching to his death as coolly as though on parade.
Nathaniel's heart beat excitedly as they came to where the scrub of the forest met the plain. They were taking the path that led to Marion's! Again he looked at Neil. There was no change in the fearless attitude of Marion's brother, no lowering of his head, no faltering in his step. They passed the graves and entered the opening in the forest where lay Marion's home, and as once more the sweet odor of lilac came to him, awakening within his soul all those things that he had tried to stifle that he might meet death like a man, he felt himself weakening, until only the cloth about his mouth restrained the moaning cry that forced itself to his lips. If he had possessed a life to give he would have sacrificed it gladly then for a word with the Mormon king, a last prayer that death might be meted to him here, where eternity would come to him with his glazing eyes fixed to the end upon the home of his beloved, and where the sweetness of the flower that had become
