Once a sound stopped him--the distant beating of galloping hoofs.
He heard the shout of a man, a reply farther away, the quick, excited
yelping of a dog. His blood danced as he thought of the gathering of the
Mormon fighters, the men and boys racing down the black trails from the
inland forests, the excitement in St. James. As he ran on again he
thought of Arbor Croche mustering the panting, vengeful defenders; of
Strang, his great voice booming encouragement and promise, above the
brazen thunder of the bell; he saw in fancy the frightened huddling
groups of women and children and beyond and above all the coming of the
"vengeance of God"--a hundred beats, a thousand men--and there went out
from his soul if not from his lips a great cry of joy. At the edge of
the forest he stopped for a moment. Over beyond the clearing a light
burned dimly through the lilacs. The sweet odor of the flowers came to
him gently, persuasively, and nerved him into the open. He passed across
the open space swiftly and plunged into a tangle of bushes close to the
lighted window.
He heard a man's voice within, and then a woman's. Was it Marion?
Cautiously Nathaniel crept close to the log wall of the cabin. He
reached out, and hesitated. Should he look--as he had done at the king's
window? The man's voice came to him again, harsh and angry, and this
time it was not a woman's words that he heard but a woman's sobbing cry.
He parted the bushes and a glare of light fell on his face.
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