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.