With a gasp of relief Nathaniel rose to his feet.  Through the door he saw the red glare growing in the northern sky and heard the great bell at St. James ring a wilder and more excited alarm.  For a few moments he stood in silent, listening inaction, his nerves tingling with a strange sensation of impending peril.  Obadiah’s madness, the mysterious trembling of the earth beneath his feet, the volcano of fire, the clanging of the bell and the councilor’s insane rejoicing had all come so suddenly that he was dazed.  What great calamity, what fearful vengeance, was about to come upon the Mormon kingdom?  Was it possible that the fishermen and settlers of the mainland had risen, as Obadiah had said, and were already at hand to destroy Strang and his people?  The thought spurred him to the door.  The blood rushed like fire through his veins.  What would it mean to Marion—­to Neil?

In his excitement he started down the path that led to the lilac hidden home beyond the forest.  Then he thought again of Obadiah and his last choking utterance of Marion’s name.  He had tried to speak of her, even with that death-like rattling of the breath in his throat; and the memory of the old councilor’s frantic struggle for words brought Nathaniel quickly back to the cabin.  He bent over Obadiah’s shriveled form and spoke the girl’s name again and again in his ears.  There came no response, no quiver of life to show that the old man was conscious of his presence.  As he worked over him, bathing his face and chest in cool water, the feeling became strong in him that he was fighting death in this gloomy room for Marion’s sake.  It was like the whispering of an invisible spirit in his ears—­something more than presentiment, something that made his own heart grow faint when death seemed winning in the struggle.  His watchfulness was acute, intense, desperate.  When, after a time, he straightened himself again, rewarded by Obadiah’s more regular breathing, the sweat stood in beads upon his face.  He knew that he had triumphed.  Obadiah would live, and Marion—­

He placed his mouth close to the councilor’s ear.

“Tell me about Marion,” he said again.  “Marion—­Marion—­Marion—­”

He waited, stilling his own breath to catch the sound of a whisper.  None came.  As he bent over him he saw through the open door that the red glare of fire had faded to a burnt out glow in the sky.  In the deep silence the sullen beating of the bell seemed nearer, and he could hear the excited barking of dogs in St. James.  Slowly the hope that Obadiah might speak to him died away and he returned to the door.  It still lacked an hour of midnight, when Marion, had promised to come to him.  He was wildly impatient and to his impatience was added the fear that had filled him as he hovered over Obadiah, a nameless, intangible fear—­something which he could not have analyzed and which clutched at his heart and urged him to follow the path that led to Marion’s.  For a time he resisted the impulse.