Neil was as cool as though acting his part in a play.  His face was flushed, his eyes gleamed fearlessly defiant.  And Nathaniel, looking upon the courage of this man, from under whose feet had been swept all hope of life, felt a twinge of shame at his own nervousness.  MacDougall grew black with passion at the taunting reminder of his humiliation and tightened the thongs about Neil’s wrists until they cut into the flesh.

“That’s enough, you coward!” exclaimed

Nathaniel, as he saw the blood start.  “Here—­take this!”

Like lightning he struck out and his fist fell with crushing force against the side of the man’s head.  MacDougall toppled back with a hollow groan, blood spurting from his mouth and nose.  Nathaniel turned coolly to the four rifles leveled at his breast.

“A pretty puppet to do the king’s commands!” he cried.  “If there’s a man among you let him finish the work!”

Jeekum had fallen upon his knees beside the whipper.

“Great God!” he shrieked.  “You’ve killed, him!  You’ve stove in the side of his head!”

There was a sudden commotion in the corridor.  A terrible voice boomed forth in a roar.

“Let me in!”

Strang stood in the door.  He gave a single glance at the man gasping and bleeding in the mud.  Then he looked at Nathaniel.  The eyes of the two men met unflinching.  There was no hatred now in the prophet’s face.

“Captain Plum, I would give a tenth of my kingdom for a brother like you!” he said calmly.  “Here—­I will finish the work.”  He went boldly to the task, and as he tied Nathaniel’s arms behind him he added, “The vicissitudes of war, Captain Plum.  You are a man—­and can appreciate what they sometimes mean!”

A few minutes later, gagged and bound, the prisoners fell behind two of the armed guards and at a command from the king, given in a low tone to Jeekum, marched through the corridor and up the short flight of steps that led out of the jail.  To Nathaniel’s astonishment there was no light to guide them.  Candles and lights had been extinguished.  What words he heard were spoken in whispers.  In the deep shadow of the prison wall a third guard joined the two ahead and like automatons they strode through the gloom with slow, measured step, their rifles held with soldierly precision.  Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder and saw three other white masked faces a dozen feet away.  The king had remained behind.

He shuddered and looked at Neil.  His companion’s appearance was almost startling.  He seemed half a head taller than himself, yet he knew that he was shorter by an inch or two; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin held high, he kept step with the guards ahead.  He was marching to his death as coolly as though on parade.