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 ra