And the man who turned toward him at the slamming of that door, turned slowly, coolly, and gazed into the black muzzle of his pistol looked, indeed, every inch of him a king.  The muscles of his face betrayed no surprise, no fear.  His splendid nerve was unshaken, his eyes unfaltering as they rose above the pistol to the face behind it.  For fifteen seconds there was a strange terrible silence as the eyes of the two men met.  In that quarter of a minute Nathaniel knew that he had not guessed rightly.  Strang was not afraid.  He would not tell him where Marion was.  The insuperable courage of this man maddened Captain Plum and unconsciously his finger fell upon the trigger of his pistol.  He almost shrieked the words that he meant to speak calmly: 

“Where is Marion?”

“She is safe, Captain Plum.  She is where the friends who are invading us from the mainland will have no chance of finding her.”

Strang spoke as quietly as though in his own office beside the temple.  Suddenly he raised his voice.

“She is safe, Captain Plum—­safe!”

His eyes wavered, and traveled beyond.  As accurately as a striking serpent Nathaniel measured that glance.  It had gone to the door.  He heard a movement, felt a draft of air, and in an instant he whirled about with his pistol pointed to the door.  In another instant he had fired and the huge form of Arbor Croche toppled headlong into the room.  A roar like that of a beast came from behind him and before he could turn again Strang was upon him.  In that moment he felt that all was lost.  Under the weight of the Mormon king he was crushed to the floor; his pistol slipped from his grasp; two great hands choked a despairing cry from his throat.  He saw the prophet’s face over him, distorted with passion, his huge neck bulging, his eyes flaming like angry garnets.  He struggled to free his pinioned arms, to wrench off the death grip at his throat, but his efforts were like those of a child against a giant.  In a last terrible attempt he drew up his knees inch by inch under the weight of his enemy; it was his only chance—­his only hope.  Even as he felt the fingers about his throat sinking like hot iron into his flesh and the breath slipping from his body he remembered this murderous knee-punch of the rough fighters of the inland seas and with all the life that remained in him he sent it crushing into the abdomen of the Mormon king.  It was a moment before he knew that it had been successful, before the film cleared from his eyes and he saw Strang groveling at his feet; another moment and he had hurled himself on the prophet.  His fist shot out like a hammer against Strang’s jaw.  Again and again he struck until the great shaggy head fell back limp.  Then his fingers twined themselves like the links of a chain about the purplish throat and he choked until Strang’s eyes opened wide and lifeless and his convulsions ceased.  He would have held on until there was no doubt of the end, had not the king’s wife—­the woman whose misery he had shared that night—­suddenly flung herself with a piercing cry, between him and the blackened face, clutching at his hands with all her fragile strength.