He would have held on until there was no doubt of the end, had
not the king's wife--the woman whose misery he had shared that
night--suddenly flung herself with a piercing cry, between him and the
blackened face, clutching at his hands with all her fragile strength.
[Illustration: His fingers twined about the purplish throat.]
"My God, you are killing him--killing him!" she moaned.
Her eyes blazed as she tore at his fingers.
"You are killing him--killing him!" she shrieked. "He has not destroyed
Marion! You said you would take her and leave him--for me--" She struck
her head against his breast, tearing the flesh of his wrists with her
nails.
Nathaniel loosened his grip and staggered to his feet.
"For you!" he panted. "If you had only come--a little sooner--" He
stumbled to his pistol and picked it up. "I am afraid he is--dead!"
He did not look back.
Arbor Croche barred the door. He had not moved since he had fallen. His
head was twisted so that his face was turned to the glow of the lamp
and Nathaniel shuddered as he saw where his shot had struck. He had
apparently died with that last cry on his lips.
There was no longer a fear of the Mormons in Nathaniel. He believed the
king and Arbor Croche dead, and that in the gloom and excitement of the
night he could go among the people of St. James undiscovered. A great
load was lifted from his soul, for if he had not been in time to save
Marion he had at least delivered her after a short bondage.
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