The voice--the condemning words--followed Nathaniel as he staggered on between his two guards; it haunted him still as the cold chill of the rotting dungeon walls struck in his face; it remained with him as he stood swaying alone in the thick gloom--the voice rumbling in his ears, the words beating against his brain until the shock of them sickened him, until he stretched out his arms and there fell from him such a cry as had never tortured his lips before. Strang was alive! He had left the spark of life in him, and the woman who loved him had fanned it back into full flame. Strang was alive! And Marion--Marion was his wife! The voice of the king taunted him from the black chaos that hid the dungeon walls. The words struck at him, filling his head with shooting pain, and he tottered back and sank to the ground to get away from them. They followed, and that vengeful leer of the king was behind them, urging them on, until they beat his face into the sticky earth, and smothered him into what he thought was death. There came rest after that, a long silent rest. When Nathaniel slowly climbed up out of the ebon shadows again the first consciousness that came to him was that the word-demons had stopped their beating against his brain and that he no longer heard the voice of the king. His relief was so great that he breathed a restful sigh. Something touched him then. Great God! were they coming back? Were they still there--waiting--waiting-- It was a wonderfully familiar voice that spoke to him. "Hello there, Nat! Want a drink?" He gulped eagerly at the cool liquid that touched his lips. "Neil," he whispered. "It's me, Nat. They chucked me in with you. Hell's hole, isn't it?" Nathaniel sat up, Neil's strong arm at his back. There was a light in the room now and he could see his companion's face, smiling at him encouragingly. The sight of it was like an elixir to him. He drank again and new life coursed through him. "Yes--hell of a hole!" he repeated drowsily. "Sorry for you--Neil--" and he seemed to sleep again. Neil laughed as he wiped his companion's face with a wet cloth. "I'm used to it, Nat. Been here before," he said. "Can you get up? There's a bench over here--not long enough to stretch you out on or I would have made you a bed of it, but it's better than this mud to sit on." He put his arms about Nathaniel and helped him to his feet. For a few moments the wounded man stood without moving. "I'm not very bad, I guess," he said, taking a slow step. "Where is the seat, Neil? I'm going to walk to it. What sort of a bump have I got on the head?" "Nothing much," assured Neil. "Suspicious, though," he grinned cheerfully. "Looks as though you were running and somebody came up and tapped you from behind!"