He examined the pistol that Winnsome had given him.  There were five shots in it and he smiled joyously as he saw that it had been loaded by an experienced hand.  It would be easy enough for him to find Strang.  He would not consider the woman—­his wife.  The king’s wife!  Like a flash there occurred to him the incident of the battlefield.  Was it this woman—­the woman who had begged him to spare the life of the prophet, who had knelt beside him, and whispered in his ear, and kissed him?  Had that been her reward for the sacrifice she believed he had made for her in the castle chamber?  The thought of this woman, whose beauty and love breathed the sweet purity of a flower and whose faith to her king and master was still unbroken even in her hour of repudiation fell upon him heavily.  For there was no choice, no shadow of alternative.  There was but one way for him to break the bondage of the girl he loved.

For hours he trod steadily through the sand.  The sun rose above him, hot and blistering, and the dunes still stretched out ahead of him, like winnows and hills and mountains of glittering glass.  Gradually the desert became narrower.  Far ahead he could see where the forest came down to the shore and his heart grew lighter.  Half an hour later he entered the margin of trees.  Almost immediately he found signs of life.  A tree had been felled and cut into wood.  A short distance beyond he came suddenly upon a narrow path, beaten hard by the passing of feet, and leading toward the lake.  He had meant to rest under the shade of these trees but now he forgot his fatigue.  For a moment he hesitated.  Far back in the forest he heard the barking of a dog—­but he turned in the opposite direction.  If there was a boat the path would take him to it.  Through a break in the trees he caught the green sweep of marsh rice and his heart beat excitedly with hope.  Where there was rice there were wild-fowl, and surely where there were wild-fowl, there would be a punt or a canoe!  In his eagerness he ran, and where the path ended, the flags and rice beaten into the mud and water, he stopped with an exultant cry.  At his feet was a canoe.  It was wet, as though just drawn out of the water, and a freshly used paddle was lying across the bow.  Pausing but to take a quick and cautious glance about him he shoved the frail craft into the lake and with a few quiet strokes buried himself in the rice grass.  When he emerged from it he was half a mile from the shore.

For a long time he sat motionless, looking out over the shimmering sea.  Far to the south and west he could make out the dim outline of Beaver Island, while over the trail he had come, mile upon mile, lay the glistening dunes.  Somewhere between the white desert sand and that distant coast of the Mormon kingdom Marion was making her way back to bondage.  Nathaniel had given up all hope of overtaking her now.  Long before he could intercept her she would have reached the island.  When he started again he paddled