The girl had turned from him.  She was deathly pale and yet she was wondrously beautiful, so beautiful that Nathaniel’s breath came in quick dread as the king approached her.  He could see the triumph in his eyes, a terrible eagerness in his face.  He seized Winnsome’s hand and spoke to her in a soft, low voice, so low that it came to Nathaniel only in a murmur.  Then, in a moment, he began stroking the shimmering glory of her hair, caressing the silken curls between his fingers until the blood seemed as if it must burst, like hot sweat from Nathaniel’s face.  Suddenly Winnsome drew back from him, the pallor gone from her face, her eyes blazing like angry stars.  She had retreated but a step when the prophet sprang to her and caught her in his arms, straining her to him until the scream on her lips was choked to a gasping cry.  In answer to that cry a yell of rage hurled itself from Nathaniel’s throat.

“Stop, you hell-hound!” he cried threateningly.  “Stop!”

He shrieked the words again and again, maddened beyond control, and the Mormon king, whose self-possession was more that of devil than man, still held the struggling girl in his arms as he turned his head toward the voice and saw Nathaniel’s long arm and knotted fist threatening him through the hole in the wall.  Then Neil’s name in a piercing scream resounded through the dungeon corridor and in response to it the man under Nathaniel straightened himself so quickly that his companion fell back to the floor.

“Great God! what is the matter, Nat?  Quick! let me up!”

Nathaniel staggered to his feet, the breath half gone out of his body, and in another instant Neil was at the opening.  The great room into which he looked was empty.

“What was it?” he cried, leaping down.  “What were they doing with Winnsome?”

“It was the king,” said Nathaniel, struggling to master himself.  “The king put his arms around Winnsome and—­she struck him!”

“That was all?”

“He kissed her as she fought—­and I yelled.”

“She struck him!” Neil cried.  “God bless little Winnsome, Nat! and—­God bless her!”

Neil’s breath came fast as he caught the other’s hand.

“I’d give my life if I could help you—­and Marion!”

“We’ll give them together,” said Nathaniel coolly, turning down the corridor.  “Here’s our chance.  They’ll come through that door to relock us in our cell.  Shall we die fighting?”

He was groping about in the mud of the floor for some object.

“If we had a couple of stones—­”

“It would be madness—­worse than madness!” interposed Neil, steadying himself.  “There will be a dozen rifles at that door when they open it.  We must return to the cell.  It is worth dying a harder death to hear from Marion and Winnsome.  And we will hear from them before night!”

They retreated into the dungeon.  A few minutes later the door opened cautiously at the head of the corridor.  A light blazed through the blackness and after an interval of silence the jailer made his appearance in front of the cell, a pistol in his hand.