It was Jeekum. He came up out of the darkness from behind the rear
guard, his face still unmasked, and for a few moments was in whispered
consultation with the guards ahead. Had Strang, in the virulence of that
hatred which he concealed so well, conceived of this spot to give added
torment to death? It was the poetry of vengeance! For the first time
Neil turned toward his companion. Each read what the other had guessed.
Neil, who was nearest to the whispering four, turned suddenly toward
them and listened. When he looked at Nathaniel again it was with a slow
negative shake of his head.
Jeekum returned quickly and placed himself between them, seizing each by
an arm, and the forward guards, pivoting to the left, set off at their
steady pace across the clearing. As they entered the denser gloom of the
forest on the farther side Nathaniel felt the jailer's fingers tighten
about his arm, then relax--and tighten again. A gentle pressure held him
back and the guards in front gained half a dozen feet. In a low voice
Jeekum called for those behind to fall a few paces to the rear.
Then came again the mysterious working of the man's fingers on
Nathaniel's arm.
Was Jeekum signaling to him?
He could see Neil's white face still turned stoically to the front.
Evidently nothing had occurred to arouse his suspicions. If the
maneuvering of Jeekum's fingers meant anything it was intended for him
alone. Action had been the manna of his life. The possibility of new
adventure, even in the face of death, thrilled him.
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