Then he thought again of Obadiah and his last
choking utterance of Marion's name. He had tried to speak of her, even
with that death-like rattling of the breath in his throat; and the
memory of the old councilor's frantic struggle for words brought
Nathaniel quickly back to the cabin. He bent over Obadiah's shriveled
form and spoke the girl's name again and again in his ears. There came
no response, no quiver of life to show that the old man was conscious
of his presence. As he worked over him, bathing his face and chest in
cool water, the feeling became strong in him that he was fighting death
in this gloomy room for Marion's sake. It was like the whispering of an
invisible spirit in his ears--something more than presentiment,
something that made his own heart grow faint when death seemed winning
in the struggle. His watchfulness was acute, intense, desperate. When,
after a time, he straightened himself again, rewarded by Obadiah's more
regular breathing, the sweat stood in beads upon his face. He knew that
he had triumphed. Obadiah would live, and Marion--
He placed his mouth close to the councilor's ear.
"Tell me about Marion," he said again. "Marion--Marion--Marion--"
He waited, stilling his own breath to catch the sound of a whisper. None
came. As he bent over him he saw through the open door that the red
glare of fire had faded to a burnt out glow in the sky. In the deep
silence the sullen beating of the bell seemed nearer, and he could hear
the excited barking of dogs in St.
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