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.

[Illustration: His fingers twined about the purplish throat.]

"My God, you are killing him--killing him!" she moaned.

Her eyes blazed as she tore at his fingers.

"You are killing him--killing him!" she shrieked. "He has not destroyed
Marion! You said you would take her and leave him--for me--" She struck
her head against his breast, tearing the flesh of his wrists with her
nails.

Nathaniel loosened his grip and staggered to his feet.

"For you!" he panted. "If you had only come--a little sooner--" He
stumbled to his pistol and picked it up. "I am afraid he is--dead!"

He did not look back.

Arbor Croche barred the door. He had not moved since he had fallen. His
head was twisted so that his face was turned to the glow of the lamp
and Nathaniel shuddered as he saw where his shot had struck. He had
apparently died with that last cry on his lips.

There was no longer a fear of the Mormons in Nathaniel. He believed the
king and Arbor Croche dead, and that in the gloom and excitement