For a full half minute there was silence, and he knocked again.  He heard the approach of a shuffling step, the thump, thump, thump of a cane, and the door swung back.  It was the man who opened it, a tall giant of an old man, doubled as if with rheumatism, and close behind him was the frightened face of the woman.  An involuntary shudder passed through Nathaniel as he looked at them.  They were old—­so old that the man’s shrivelled hands were like those of a skeleton; his giant frame seemed about to totter into ruin, his eyes were sunken until his face gave the horror of a death mask.  Was it possible that these people were the father and mother of Marion—­and of Neil?  As he stepped to the threshold they timidly drew back from him.  In a single glance Nathaniel swept the room and what he saw thrilled him, for everywhere were signs of Marion; in the pictures on the walls, the snowy curtains, the cushions in the window-seat—­and the huge vase of lilacs on the mantle.

“I am a messenger of the king,” he said, advancing and closing the door behind him.  “I want to speak with Marion.”

“Strang—­the king!” cried the old man, clutching the knob of his cane with both hands.  “She has gone!”

“Gone!” exclaimed Nathaniel.  For an instant his heart bounded with delight.  Marion was on her way to the tryst!  He sprang back to the door.  “When?  When did she go?”

The woman had come forward, her hands trembling, her lips quivering.  Something in the terror of her face sent the hot blood from Nathaniel’s cheeks.

“They sent for her an hour ago,” she said.  “The king sent Obadiah Price for her!  O, my God!” she shrieked suddenly, clutching at her breast, “Tell me—­what are they doing with Marion—­”

“Shut up!” snarled the old man.  “That is Strang’s business.  She has gone to Strang.”  With an effort he straightened himself until his towering form rose half a head above Nathaniel.  “She has gone to the king,” he repeated.  “Tell Strang that she will wive him to-night, as she has promised!”

In spite of his effort to control himself a terrible cry burst from Nathaniel’s lips.  He flung open the door and stood for an instant with his white face turned back.

“She went to the castle—­an hour ago?” he cried.

“Yes, to the castle—­with Obadiah Price—­” The last words followed him as he sped out into the night.  As swiftly as a wolf he raced across the clearing to the trail that led down to St. James.  Something seemed to have burst in his brain; something that was not blood, but fire, seemed to burn in his veins—­a mad desire to reach Strang, to grip him by the throat, to mete out to him the vengeance of a fiend instead of that of a man.  He was too late to save Marion!  His brain reeled with the thought.  Too late—­too late—­too late.  He panted the words.  They came with every gasp for breath.  Too late!  Too late!  His heart pumped like an engine as he strained to keep up his speed.  He passed a