The lash whistled through the air behind
him. As it fell there came a piercing cry. It was a woman's voice, and
with a snarl like that of a tortured animal the old man struck down
Nathaniel's arm and clawed his way back to the edge of the line. On the
opposite side there was a surging in the crowd and as MacDougall raised
his whip a woman burst through.
"My God!" cried Nathaniel, "it's--"
He left the rest of the words unspoken. His veins leaped with fire. A
single sweep of his powerful arms and he had forced himself through the
innermost line of spectators. Within a dozen feet of him stood Strang's
wife, her beautiful hair disheveled, her face deadly white, her bosom
heaving as if she had been running. In a moment her eyes had taken in
the situation--the man at the stake, the upraised lash--and Nathaniel.
With a sobbing, breathless cry, she flung herself in front of MacDougall
and threw her arms around the kneeling man, her hair covering him in a
glistening veil. For an instant her eyes were raised to Nathaniel and he
saw in them that same agonized appeal that had called to him through the
king's window. The striking muscles of his arms tightened like steel.
One of the guards sprang forward and caught the girl roughly by the arm
and attempted to drag her away. In his excitement he pulled her head
back and her hair trailed in the dirt. The sight was maddening. From
Nathaniel's throat there came a fierce cry and in a single leap he had
cleared the distance to the guard and had driven his fist against the
officer's head with the sickening force of a sledge-hammer.
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