slowly, and laid out for himself the plan that he was to follow.  There must be no mistake this time, no error in judgment, no rashness in his daring.  He would lie in hiding until dusk, and then under cover of darkness he would hunt down Strang and kill him.  After that he would fly to his canoe and escape.  A little later, perhaps that very night if fate played the game well for him, he would return for Marion.  And yet, as he went over and over his scheme, whipping himself into caution—­into cool deliberation—­there burned in his blood a fire that once or twice made him set his teeth hard, a fire that defied extinction, that smoldered only to await the breath that would fan it into a fierce blaze.  It was the fire that had urged him into the rescue at the whipping-post, that had sent him single-handed to invade the king’s castle, that had hurled him into the hopeless battle upon the shore.  He swore at himself softly, laughingly, as he paddled steadily toward Beaver Island.

The sun mounted straight and hot over his head; he paddled more slowly, and rested more frequently, as it descended into the west, but it still lacked two hours of sinking behind the island forest when the white water-run of the shore came within his vision.  He had meant to hold off the coast until the approach of evening but changed his mind and landed, concealing his canoe in a spot which he marked well, for he knew it would soon be useful to him again.  Deep shadows were already gathering in the forest and through these Nathaniel made his way slowly in the direction of St. James.  Between him and the town lay Marion’s home and the path that led to Obadiah’s.  Once more the spirit of impatience, of action, stirred within him.  Would Marion go first to her home?  Involuntarily he changed his course so that it would bring him to the clearing.  He assured himself that it would do no harm, that he still would take no chances.

He came out in the strip of dense forest between the clearing and St. James, worming his way cautiously through the underbrush until he could look out into the opening.  A single glance and he drew back in astonishment.  He looked again, and his face turned suddenly white, and an almost inaudible cry fell from his lips.  There was no longer a cabin in the clearing!  Where it had been there was gathered a crowd of men and boys.  Above their heads he saw a thin film of smoke and he knew what had happened.  Marion’s home had burned!  But what was the crowd doing?  It hung close in about the smoldering ruins as if every person in it were striving to reach a common center.  Surely a mere fire would not gather and hold a throng like this.