The Collected Works of James Oliver Curwood (Illustrated Edition). James Oliver Curwood

of us will ever see Marion or Winnsome again. That note is the last word in life from us—from you. It's a dying prayer. Tell Winnsome your love, tell her that it is your last wish that she go out into the big, free world—away from this hell-hole, away from Strang, away from the Mormons, and live as other women live! And commanded by your love—she will go!"

      "I've told her that!" breathed Neil.

      "I knew you would!"

      Nathaniel threw another handful of gold on the table.

      "Five hundred!" he exclaimed. "It's cheap enough for a woman's soul!"

      He motioned for Neil to put the money in his pocket. The pain was coming back into his head, he grew dizzy, and hastened to the bench. Neil came and sat beside him.

      "So you think it's the end?" he asked. He was glad that his companion had guessed the truth.

      "Don't you?"

      "Yes."

      There was a minute's dark silence. The ticking of Nathaniel's watch sounded like the tapping of a stick.

      "What will happen?"

      "I don't know. But whatever it may be it will come to us soon. Usually it happens at night."

      "There is no hope?"

      "Absolutely none. The whole mainland is at the mercy of Strang. He fears no retribution now, no punishment for his crimes, no hand stronger than his own. He will not even give us the pretense of a hearing. I am a traitor, a revolutionist—you have attempted the life of the king. We are both condemned—both doomed."

      Neil spoke calmly and his companion strove to master the terrible pain at his heart as he thought of Marion. If Neil could go to the end like a martyr he would at least make an attempt to do as much. Yet he could not help from saying:

      "What will become of Marion?"

      He felt the tremor that passed through his companion's body.

      "I have implored Winnsome to do all that she can to get her away," replied Neil. "If Marion won't go—" He clenched his hands with a moaning curse and sprang to his feet, again pacing back and forth through the gloomy dungeon. "If she won't go I swear that Strang's triumph will be short!" he cried suddenly. "I can not guess the terrible power that the king possesses over her, but I know that once his wife she will not endure it long. The moment she becomes that, her bondage is broken. I know it. I have seen it in her eyes. She will kill herself!"

      Nathaniel rose slowly from the bench and came to his side.

      "She won't do that!" he groaned. "My God—she won't do that!"

      Neil's face was blanched to the whiteness of paper.

      "She will," he repeated quietly. "Her terrible pact with Strang will have been fulfilled. And I—I am glad—glad—"

      He raised his arms to the dripping blackness of the dungeon ceiling, his voice shaking with a cold, stifled anguish. Nathaniel drew back from that tall, straight figure, step by step, as though to hide beyond the flickering candle glow the betrayal that had come into his face, the blazing fire that seemed burning out his eyes. If what Neil had said was true—

      Something choked him as he dropped alone upon the bench.

      If it was true—Marion was dead!

      He dropped his head in his hands and sat for a long time in silence, listening to Neil as he walked tirelessly over the muddy earth. Not until there came a rattling of the chain at the cell door and a creaking of the rusty hinges did he lift his face. It was the jailer with a huge armful of straw. He saw Neil approach him after he had thrown it down. Their low voices came to him in an indistinct murmur. After a little he caught the sound of the chinking gold pieces.

      Neil came and sat down beside him as the heavy door closed upon them again.

      "He took it," he whispered exultantly. "He will deliver it this morning. If possible he will bring us an answer. I kept out a hundred and told him that a reply would be worth that to him."

      Nathaniel did not speak, and after a moment's silence Neil continued.

      "The jury is assembling. We will know our fate very soon."

      He rose to his feet, his words quivering with nervous excitement, and Nathaniel heard him kicking about in the straw. In another breath his voice hissed through the gloom in a sharp, startled command:

      "Good God, Nat, come here!"

      Something in the strange fierceness of Neil's words startled Nathaniel, like the thrilling twinges of an electric shock. He darted across the cell and found Marion's brother with his shoulder against the door.

      "It's open!" he whispered. "The door—is—open!"

      The hinges creaked under his weight. A current of air struck them in the face. Another instant and they stood in the corridor, listening, crushing back the breath in their lungs, not daring to speak. Only the drip of water came to their ears. Gently Neil drew his companion back into the cell.

      "There's a chance—one chance in ten thousand!" he whispered. "At the end of this corridor there is a door—the jailer's door. If that's not locked, we can make a run for it! I'd rather die fighting—than here!"

      He slipped out again, pressing Nathaniel back.

      "Wait for me!"

      Nathaniel heard him stealing slowly through the blackness. A minute later he returned.

      "Locked!" he exclaimed.

      In the opposite direction a ray of light caught Nathaniel's eye.

      "Where does that light come from?" he asked.

      "Through a hole about as big as your two hands. It was made for a stove pipe. If we were up there we could see into the jury room."

      They moved quietly down the corridor until they stood under the aperture, which was four or five feet above their heads. Through it they could hear the sound of voices but could not distinguish the words that were being spoken.

      "The jury," explained Neil. "They're in a devil of a hurry! I wonder why?"

      Nathaniel could feel his companion shrug himself in the darkness.

      "Lord—for my revolver!" he whispered excitedly. "One shot through that hole would be worth a thousand notes to the girls!" He caught Marion's brother by the arm as a voice louder than the others came to them.

      "Strang!"

      "Yes—the—king!" affirmed Neil laying an expostulating hand on him. "Hush!"

      "I would like to see—"

      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