A groan of horror rose to his imprisoned lips.

His companion's face was full upon him, ghastly white; his eyes were wide and staring, like balls of shimmering glass in the starlight, and his throat was straining at the fatal rawhide! Nathaniel heard no sound, saw no stir of life in the inanimate figure.
A moaning, wordless cry broke through the cloth that gagged him.
At the sound of that cry, faint, terrifying, with all the horror that might fill a human soul in its inarticulate note, a shudder of life passed into Neil's body.

Weakly he flung himself back, stood poised for an instant against the stake, then fell again upon the deadly thong.
Twice--three times he made the effort, and failed.

And to Nathaniel, staring wild eyed and silent now, the spectacle was one that seemed to blast the very soul within him and send his blood in rushing torrents of fire to his sickened brain.

Neil was dying! A fourth time he struggled back.