It was but a short time before the guards returned.  This time their prisoner walked free and erect.  The thongs dangled from his wrists and he was a pace ahead of the two men who accompanied him.  He was a young man.  Nathaniel judged his age at twenty-five.  He was a striking contrast to the man who had suffered first at the post.  His face instead of betraying the former’s pallor was flushed with excitement; his head was held high; not a sign of fear or hesitation shone in his eyes.  As he glanced quickly around the circle of faces the flush grew deeper in his cheeks.  He nodded and smiled at MacDougall and in that nod and smile there was a meaning that sent a shiver to the whip-master’s heart.  Then his eyes fell upon Obadiah and Nathaniel.  He saw the councilor’s hand resting upon the young captain’s arm and a flash of understanding passed over his face.  For an instant the eyes of the two young men met.  The man at the post took half a step forward.  His lips moved as if he was on the point of speaking, the defiant smile went out of his face, the flush faded in his cheeks.  Then he turned quickly and held out his hands to the guards.

As the young man kneeled before the post Nathaniel heard a smothered sob at his side which he knew came from Obadiah.

“Come, Dad,” he said softly.  “I can’t stand this.  Let’s get away!”

He shoved the councilor back.  The lash whistled through the air behind him.  As it fell there came a piercing cry.  It was a woman’s voice, and with a snarl like that of a tortured animal the old man struck down Nathaniel’s arm and clawed his way back to the edge of the line.  On the opposite side there was a surging in the crowd and as MacDougall raised his whip a woman burst through.

“My God!” cried Nathaniel, “it’s—­”

He left the rest of the words unspoken.  His veins leaped with fire.  A single sweep of his powerful arms and he had forced himself through the innermost line of spectators.  Within a dozen feet of him stood Strang’s wife, her beautiful hair disheveled, her face deadly white, her bosom heaving as if she had been running.  In a moment her eyes had taken in the situation—­the man at the stake, the upraised lash—­and Nathaniel.  With a sobbing, breathless cry, she flung herself in front of MacDougall and threw her arms around the kneeling man, her hair covering him in a glistening veil.  For an instant her eyes were raised to Nathaniel and he saw in them that same agonized appeal that had called to him through the king’s window.  The striking muscles of his arms tightened like steel.  One of the guards sprang forward and caught the girl roughly by the arm and attempted to drag her away.  In his excitement he pulled her head back and her hair trailed in the dirt.  The sight was maddening.  From Nathaniel’s throat there came a fierce cry and in a single leap he had cleared the distance to the guard and had driven his fist against the officer’s head with the sickening force of a sledge-hammer.  The man fell without a groan.  In another flash he had drawn his knife and severed the thongs that held the man at the stake.  For a moment his face was very near the girl’s and he saw her lips form the glad cry which he did not wait to hear.