Even in these last hours of failure and defeat the fire of adventure flamed up in Nathaniel’s blood.  He felt his nerves leaping again to action, his arms grew tense with new ambition—­almost he forgot that death had him cornered and was already preparing to strike him down.  Another thought replaced all fear of this.  A few feet beyond that log wall were gathered the men whose bloodthirsty deeds had written for them one of the reddest pages in history—­men who had burned their souls out in the destruction of human lives, whose passions and loves and hatreds carried with them life and death; men who had bathed themselves in blood and lived in blood until the people of the mainland called them “the leeches.”

“The Mormon jury!” Nathaniel spoke the words scarcely above his breath.

“I’d like to take a look through that hole, Neil,” he added.

“Easy enough—­if you keep quiet.  Here!” He doubled himself against the wall.  “Climb up on my shoulders.”

No sooner had Nathaniel’s face come to a level with the hole than a soft cry of astonishment escaped him.  Neil whispered hoarsely but he did not reply.  He was looking into a room twice as large as the dungeon cell and lighted by narrow windows whose lower panes were on a level with the ground outside.  At the farther end of the room, in full view, was a platform raised several feet from the main floor.  On this platform were seated ten men, immovable as statues, every face gazing straight ahead.  Directly in front of them, on the lower floor, stood the Mormon king, and at his side, partly held in the embrace of one of his arms was Winnsome!

Strang’s voice came to him in a low, solemn monotone, its rumbling depth drowning the words he was speaking, and as Nathaniel saw him lift his arm from about the girl’s shoulders and place his great hand upon her head he dug his own fingers fiercely into the rotting logs and an imprecation burned in his breath.  He did not need to hear what the king was saying.  It was a pantomime in which every gesture was understandable.  But even Neil, huddled against the wall, heard the last words of the prophet as they thundered forth in sudden passion.

“Winnsome Croche demands the death of her father’s murderer!”

Nathaniel felt his companion’s shoulders sinking under his weight and he leaped quickly to the floor.

“Winnsome is there!” he panted desperately.  “Do you want to see her?”

Neil hesitated.

“No.  Your boots gouge my shoulder.  Take them off.”

The scene had changed when Nathaniel took his position again.  The jury had left its platform and was filing through a small door.  Winnsome and the king were along.