Gently, as though his touch was about to fall upon some fragile flower, he drew the girl to him, took her beautiful face between his two strong hands and gazed steadily and silently for a moment into her eyes.
"God bless you, little Winnsome!" he whispered.

"I hope that someday you will--forgive me." The girl understood him.
"If I have anything to forgive--you are forgiven." The pistol dropped upon the sand, her hands stole to his shoulders.
"I want you to take something to Marion for me," she whispered softly.
"This!" And she kissed him.
Her eyes shone upon him like a benediction.
"You have given me a new life, you have given me--Neil! My prayers are with you." And kissing him again, she slipped away from under his hands before he could speak.
And Nathaniel, following her with his eyes until he could no longer see her, picked up the pistol and set off again toward the forest, the touch of her lips and the prayers of this girl whose father he had slain filling him with something that was more than strength, more than hope.
Life had been given to him again, strong, fighting life, and with it and Winnsome's words there returned his old confidence, his old daring.
There was everything for him to win now.

His doubts and his fears had been swept away.

Marion was not dead, she was not the king's wife--and it was not of another that he had accepted proof of her love for him, for he had felt the pressure of her arms about his neck and the warmth of her lips upon his face.

He had until night--and the dawn was just beginning to break.