CHAPTER X
WINNSOME'S VERDICT OF DEATH
The voice—the condemning words—followed Nathaniel as he staggered on between his two guards; it haunted him still as the cold chill of the rotting dungeon walls struck in his face; it remained with him as he stood swaying alone in the thick gloom—the voice rumbling in his ears, the words beating against his brain until the shock of them sickened him, until he stretched out his arms and there fell from him such a cry as had never tortured his lips before.
Strang was alive! He had left the spark of life in him, and the woman who loved him had fanned it back into full flame.
Strang was alive! And Marion—Marion was his wife!
The voice of the king taunted him from the black chaos that hid the dungeon walls. The words struck at him, filling his head with shooting pain, and he tottered back and sank to the ground to get away from them. They followed, and that vengeful leer of the king was behind them, urging them on, until they beat his face into the sticky earth, and smothered him into what he thought was death.
There came rest after that, a long silent rest. When Nathaniel slowly climbed up out of the ebon shadows again the first consciousness that came to him was that the word-demons had stopped their beating against his brain and that he no longer heard the voice of the king. His relief was so great that he breathed a restful sigh. Something touched him then. Great God! were they coming back? Were they still there—waiting—waiting—
It was a wonderfully familiar voice that spoke to him.
"Hello there, Nat! Want a drink?"
He gulped eagerly at the cool liquid that touched his lips.
"Neil," he whispered.
"It's me, Nat. They chucked me in with you. Hell's hole, isn't it?"
Nathaniel sat up, Neil's strong arm at his back. There was a light in the room now and he could see his companion's face, smiling at him encouragingly. The sight of it was like an elixir to him. He drank again and new life coursed through him.
"Yes—hell of a hole!" he repeated drowsily. "Sorry for you—Neil—" and he seemed to sleep again.
Neil laughed as he wiped his companion's face with a wet cloth.
"I'm used to it, Nat. Been here before," he said. "Can you get up? There's a bench over here—not long enough to stretch you out on or I would have made you a bed of it, but it's better than this mud to sit on."
He put his arms about Nathaniel and helped him to his feet. For a few moments the wounded man stood without moving.
"I'm not very bad, I guess," he said, taking a slow step. "Where is the seat, Neil? I'm going to walk to it. What sort of a bump have I got on the head?"
"Nothing much," assured Neil. "Suspicious, though," he grinned cheerfully. "Looks as though you were running and somebody came up and tapped you from behind!"
Nathaniel's strength returned to him quickly. The pain had gone from his head and his eyes no longer hurt him. In the dim candle-light he could distinguish the four walls of the dungeon, glistening with the water and mold that reeked from between their rotting logs. The floor was of wet, sticky earth which clung to his boots, and the air that he breathed filled his nostrils and throat with the uncomfortable thickness of a night fog at sea. Through it the candle burned in a misty halo. Near the candle, which stood on a shelf-like table against one of the walls, was a big dish which caught Nathaniel's eyes.
"What's that?" he asked pointing toward it.
"Grub," replied Neil. "Hungry?"
He went to the table and got the plate of food. There were chunks of boiled meat, unbuttered bread, and cold potatoes. For several minutes they ate in silence. Now that Nathaniel was himself again Neil could no longer keep up his forced spirits. Both realized that they had played their game and that it had ended in defeat. And each believed that it was in his individual power to alleviate to some extent the other's misery. To Neil what was ahead of them held no mystery. A few hours more and then—death. It was only the form in which it would come that troubled him, that made him think. Usually the victims of this dungeon cell were shot. Sometimes they were hanged. But why tell Nathaniel? So he ate his meat and bread without words, waiting for the other to speak, as the other waited for him. And Nathaniel, on his part, kept to himself the secret of Marion's fate. After they had done with the meat and the bread and the cold potatoes he pulled out his beloved pipe and filled it with the last scraps of his tobacco, and as the fumes of it clouded round his head, soothing him in its old friendship, he told of his fight with Strang and his killing of Arbor Croche.
"I'm glad for Winnsome's sake," said Neil, after a moment. "Oh, if you'd only killed Strang!"
Nathaniel thought of what Marion had said to him in the forest.
"Neil," he said quietly, "do you know that Winnsome loves you—not as the little girl whom you toted about on your shoulders—but as a woman? Do you know that?" In the other's silence he added, "When I last saw Marion she sent this message to you—'Tell Neil that he must go, for Winnsome's sake. Tell him that her fate is shortly to be as cruel as mine—tell him that Winnsome loves him and that she will escape and come to him on the mainland.'" Like words of fire they had burned themselves in his brain and as Nathaniel repeated them he thought of that other broken heart that had sobbed out its anguish to him in the castle chamber. "Neil, a man can die easier when he knows that a woman loves him!"
He had risen to his feet and was walking back and forth through the thick gloom.
"I'm glad!" Neil's voice came to him softly, as though he scarcely dared to speak the words aloud. After a moment he added, "Have you got a pencil, Nat? I would like to leave a little note for Winnsome."
Nathaniel found both pencil and paper in one of his pockets and Neil dropped upon his knees in the mud beside the table. Ten minutes later he turned to Nathaniel and a great change had come into his face.
"She always seemed like such a little child to me that I never dared—to—tell her," he faltered. "I've done it in this."
"How will you get the note to her?"
"I know the jailer. Perhaps when he comes to bring us our dinner I can persuade him to send it to her."
Nathaniel thrust his hands into his pockets. His fingers dug into Obadiah's gold.
"Would this help?" he asked.
He brought out a shimmering handful of it and counted the pieces upon the table.
"Two hundred dollars—if he will deliver that note," he said.
Neil stared at him in amazement.
"If he won't take it for that—I've got more. I'll go a thousand!"
Neil stood silent, wondering if his companion was mad. Nathaniel saw the look in his face and his own flushed with sudden excitement.
"Don't you understand?" he cried. "That note means Heaven or hell for Winnsome—it means life—her whole future! And you know what this cell means for us," he said more calmly. "It means that we're at the end of our rope, that the game is up, that neither 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 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.
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.
"Don't be afraid, Jeekum," said Neil reassuringly. "You forgot the door and we've been having a little fun with the jury. That's all!"
The nervous whiteness left Jeekum's face at this cheerful report and he was about to close the door when Nathaniel exhibited a handful of gold pieces in the candle-light and frantically beckoned the man to come in. The jailer's eyes glittered understandingly and with a backward glance down the lighted corridor he thrust his head and shoulders inside.
"Five hundred dollars for that note!" he whispered. "Five hundred beside the four you've got!"
"Jeekum's a fool!" said Neil, as the door closed on them. "I feel sorry for him."
"Why?"
"Because he is accepting the money. Don't you suppose that you have been searched? Of course you have—probably before I came, while you were half dead on the floor. Somebody knows that you have the gold."
"Why hasn't it been taken?"
For a full minute Neil made no answer. And his answer, when it did come, first of all was a laugh.
"By George, that's good!" he cried exultingly. "Of course you were searched—and by Jeekum! He knows, but he hasn't made a report of it to Strang because he believes that in some way he will get hold of the money. He is taking a big risk—but he's winning! I wonder what his first scheme was?"
"Thought I'd bury it, perhaps," vouchsafed Nathaniel, throwing himself upon the straw. "There's room for two here, Neil."
A long silence fell between them. The action during the last few minutes had been too great an effort for Nathaniel and his wound troubled him again. As the pain and his terrible thoughts of Marion's fate returned to him he regretted that they had not ended it all in one last fight at the door. There, at least, they might have died like men instead of waiting to be shot down like dogs, their hands bound behind them, their breasts naked to the Mormon rifles. He did not fear death. In more than one game he had played against its hand, more often for love of the sport than not, but there was a horror in being penned up and tortured by it. He had come to look upon it as a fair enemy, filled of course with subterfuge and treachery, which were the laws of the game; but he had never dreamed of it as anything but merciful in its quickness. It was as if his adversary had broken an inviolable pact with him and he sweated and tossed on his bed of straw while Neil sat cool and silent on the bench against the dungeon wall. Sheer exhaustion brought him relief, and after a time he fell asleep.
He was awakened by Neil. The white face of Marion's brother was over him when he opened his eyes and he was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Nat!" he cried. "For Heaven's sake—wake up!"
He drew back as Nathaniel sleepily roused himself.
"I couldn't help it, Nat," he apologized, laughing nervously. "You've lain there like a dead man for hours. My head is splitting with this damned silence. Come—smoke up! I got some tobacco from our jailer and he loaned me his pipe."
Nathaniel jumped to his feet. A fresh candle was burning on the table and in its light he saw that a startling change had come into Neil's face during the hours he had slept. It looked to him thinner and whiter, its lines had deepened, and the young man's eyes were filled with gloomy dejection.
"Why didn't you awaken me sooner?" he exclaimed. "I deserve a good drubbing for leaving you alone here!" He saw fresh food on the table. "It's late—" he began.
"That is our dinner and supper," interrupted Neil. He held his watch close to the candle. "Half past eight!"
"And no word—from—"
"No."
The two men looked deeply into each other's eyes.
"Jeekum delivered my note to her at noon when he was relieved," said Neil. "He did not carry it personally but swears that he saw her receive it. He sent her word that he would call at a certain place for a reply when he was relieved again at five. There was no reply for him—not a word from Winnsome."
Their silence was painful. It was Nathaniel who spoke first, hesitatingly, as though afraid to say what was passing in his mind.
"I killed Winnsome's father, Neil," he said, "and Winnsome has demanded my death. I know that I am condemned to die. But you—" His eyes flashed sudden fire. "How do you know that my fate is to be yours? I begin to see the truth. Winnsome has not answered your note because she knows that you are to live and that she will see you soon. Between Winnsome and—Marion you will be saved!"
Neil had taken a piece of meat and was eating it as though he had not heard his companion's words.
"Help yourself, Nat. It's our last opportunity."
"You don't believe—"
"No. Lord, man, do you suppose that Strang is going to let me live to kill him?"
Somebody was fumbling with the chain at the dungeon door.
The two men stared as it opened slowly and Jeekum appeared. The jailer was highly excited.
"I've got word—but no note!" he whispered hoarsely. "Quick! Is it worth—"
"Yes! Yes!"
Nathaniel dug the gold pieces out of his pockets and dropped them into the jailer's outstretched hand.
"I've had my boy watching Winnsome Croche's house," continued the sheriff, white with the knowledge of the risk he was taking. "An hour ago Winnsome came out of the house and went into the woods. My boy followed. She ran to the lake, got into a skiff, and rowed straight out to sea. She is following your instructions!"
In his excitement he betrayed himself. He had read the note.
There came a sound up the corridor, the opening of a door, the echo of voices, and Jeekum leaped back. Nathaniel's foot held the cell door from closing.
"Where is Marion?" he cried softly, his heart standing still with dread. "Great God—what about Marion?"
For an instant the sheriff's ghastly face was pressed against the opening.
"Marion has not been seen since morning. The king's officers are searching for her."
The door slammed, the chains clanked loudly, and above the sound of Jeekum's departure Neil's voice rose in a muffled cry of joy.
"They are gone! They are leaving the island!"
Nathaniel stood like one turned into stone. His heart grew cold within him. When he spoke his words were passionless echoes of what had been.
"You are sure that Marion would kill herself as soon as she became the wife of Strang?" he asked.
"Yes—before his vile hands touched more than the dress she wore!" shouted Neil.
"Then Marion is dead," replied Nathaniel, as coldly as though he were talking to the walls about him. "For last night Marion was forced into the harem of the king."
As he revealed the secret whose torture he meant to keep imprisoned in his own breast he dropped upon the pallet of straw and buried his face between his arms, cursing himself that he had weakened in these last hours of their comradeship.
He dared not look to see the effect of his words on Neil. His companion uttered no sound. Instead there was a silence that was terrifying.
At the end of it Neil spoke in a voice so strangely calm that Nathaniel sat up and stared at him through the gloom.
"I believe they are coming after us, Nat. Listen!"
The tread of many feet came to them faintly from beyond the corridor wall.
Nathaniel had risen. They drew close together, and their hands clasped.
"Whatever it may be," whispered Neil, "may God have mercy on our souls!"
"Amen!" breathed Captain Plum.