He waited,
breathless--and the strange pressure came again, so hard that it hurt
his flesh.
There was no longer a doubt in his mind. The king's sheriff wanted to
speak to him.
And he was afraid of the eyes and ears behind.
The fingers were cautioning him to be ready--when the opportunity came.
The path widened and through the thin tree-tops above their heads the
starlight filtered down upon them. The leading guards were twenty feet
away. How far behind were the others?
A moment more and they plunged into deep night again. The figures ahead
were mere shadows. Again the fingers dug into Nathaniel's arm, and
pressing close to the sheriff he bent down his head.
A low, quick whisper fell in his ear.
"Don't give up hope! Marion--Winnsome--"
The sheriff jerked himself erect without finishing. Hurried footsteps
had come close to their heels. The rear guards were so near that they
could have touched them with their guns. Had some spot of lesser gloom
ahead betrayed the prisoner's bowed head and Jeekum's white face turned
to it? There was a steady pressure on Nathaniel's arm now, a warning,
frightened pressure, and the hand that made it trembled. Jeekum feared
the worst--but his fear was not greater than the chill of disappointment
that came to smother the excited beating of Nathaniel's heart. What had
the jailer meant to say? What did he know about Marion and Winnsome, and
why had he given birth to new hope in the same breath that he mentioned
their names?
His words carried at least one conviction.
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