For a few moments he seemed struggling to command all his strength.
"A good many years ago," he said, as if speaking to himself, "I loved a girl—like Marion, and she loved me—as Marion loves you. Her people were Mormons, and they went to Kirtland—and I followed them. We planned to escape and go east, for my Jean was good and beautiful, and hated the Mormons as I hated them. But they caught us and—thought—they—killed—"
The old man's lips twitched and a convulsive shudder shook his body.
"When everything came back to me I was older—much older," he went on. "My hair was white. I was like an old man. My people had found me and they told me that I had been mad for three years, Nat—mad—mad—mad! and that a great surgeon had operated on my head, where they struck me—and brought me back to reason. Nat—Nat—" He strained to raise himself, gasping excitedly. "God, I was like you then, Nat! I went back to fight for my Jean. She was gone. Nobody knew me, for I was an old man. I hunted from settlement to settlement. In my madness I became a Mormon, for vengeance—in hope of finding her. I was rich, and I became powerful. I was made an elder because of my gold. Then I found—"
A moan trembled on the old man's lips.
"—they had forced her to marry—the son of a Mormon—"
He stopped, and for a moment his eyes seemed filling with the glazed shadows of death. He roused himself almost fiercely.
"But he loved my Jean, Nat—he loved her as I loved her—and he was a good man!", he whispered shrilly. "Quick—quick—I must tell you—they had tried to escape from Missouri and the Danites killed him,—and Joseph Smith wanted Jean and at the last moment she killed herself to save her honor as Marion was going to do, and she left two children—"
He coughed and blood flecked his lips.
"She left—Marion and Neil!"