He paused and Nathaniel stared at him, partly understanding, yet giving no sign.

“You will hang upon the thong about your neck until you choke to death,” finished Neil.  “That’s the ‘Straight Death.’  If the end doesn’t come by morning the sun will finish the job.  It will dry out the wet rawhide until it grips your throat like a hand.  Poetically we call it the hand of Strang.  Pleasant, isn’t it?”

The grim definiteness with which he described the manner of their end added to those sensations which had already become acutely discomforting to Nathaniel.  Had he possessed the use of his voice when the Mormons were leaving he would have called upon them to return and lengthen the thongs about his ankles by an inch or two.  Now, with almost brutal frankness, Neil had explained to him the meaning of his strange posture.  His knees began to ache.  An occasional sharp pain shot up from them to his hips, and the thong about his neck, which at first he had used as a support for his chin, began to irritate him.  At times he found himself resting upon it so heavily that it shortened his breath, and he was compelled to straighten himself, putting his whole weight on his twisted feet.  It seemed an hour before Neil broke the terrible silence again.  Perhaps it was ten minutes.

“I’m going to begin,” he said.  “Listen.  If you hear an answer nod your head.”

He drew a deep breath, turned his face as far as he could toward the shore, and shouted.

“Help—­help—­help!”

Again and again the thrilling words burst from his throat, and as their echoes floated back to them from the forest, like a thousand mocking voices, Nathaniel grew hot with the sweat of horror.  If he could only have added his own voice to those cries, shrieked out the words with Neil—­joined even unavailingly in this last fight for life, it would not have been so bad.  But he was helpless.  He watched the desperation grow in his companion’s face as there came no response save the taunting echoes; even in the light of the stars he saw that face darken with its effort, the eyes fill with a mad light, and the throat strain against its choking thong.  Gradually Neil’s voice became weaker.  When he stopped to rest and listen his panting breath came to Nathaniel like the hissing of steam.  Soon the echoes failed to come back from the forest, and Nathaniel fought like a crazed man to free himself, jerking at the thongs that held him until his wrists were bleeding and the rawhide about his neck choked him.

“No use!” he heard Neil say.  “Better take it easy for a while, Nat!”

Marion’s brother had turned toward him, his head thrown back against the stake, his face lifted to the sky.  Nathaniel raised his own head, and found that he could breath easier.  For a long time his companion did not break the silence.  Mentally he began counting off the seconds.  It was past midnight—­probably one o’clock.  Dawn came at half past two, the sun rose an hour later.  Three hours to live!  Nathaniel lowered his head, and the rawhide tightened perceptibly at the movement.  Neil was watching him.  His face shone as white as the starlit sand.  His mouth was partly open.