It came to him with the effect of a blinding light, yet seemed to endow him with a new vigour, so that he felt strong and eager to be up, to spread his truth abroad.  Some remnant of that old fire of inspiration flamed up within him as he lay on the hard bed in his little room, with the summer scents floating in and the out-of-doors sounds,—­a woman’s voice calling a child afar off, the lowing of cattle, the rhythmic whetting of a scythe-blade, the echoing strokes of an axe, the mellow fluting of a robin,—­all coming to him a little muted, as if he were no longer in the world.

He raised upon his elbow, glowing with the flush of old memories when his heart had been perfect with the Lord; when he had wrought miracles in the face of the people; when he had besought Heaven fearlessly for signs of its favour; when he had dreamed of being a pillar of fire to his people in their march across the desert, and another Lion of the Lord to fight their just battles.  The little bent man of sorrows had again become the Lute of the Holy Ghost.

He knew it must be a true revelation.  And, while he might not now have strength to preach it as it should be preached, there were other mighty men to spread its tidings.  Even his simple announcement of it must work a revolution.  Others would see it when he had once declared it.  Others would spread it with power until the Saints were again become a purified people.  But he would have been the prophet, seer, and revelator, to whom the truth was given, and so his suffering would not have been in vain; perhaps that suffering had been ordained to the end that his vision should be cleared for this truth.

He remembered the day was Saturday, and he began at once to word the phrases in which he would tell his revelation on the morrow.  He knew that this must be done tactfully, in spite of its divine source.  It would be a momentous thing to the people and to the priesthood.  It was conceivable, indeed, that members of the latter might dispute it and argue with him, or even denounce him for a heretic.  But only at first; the thing was too simply true to be long questioned.  In any event, his duty was plain; with righteousness as the girdle of his loins he must go forth on the morrow and magnify his office in the sight of Heaven.

When the decision had been taken he lay in an ecstasy of anticipation, feeling new pulses in all his frame and the blood warm in his face.  It would mean a new dawn for Israel.  There would, however, be a vexing difficulty in the matter of the present wives of the Saints.  The song of Lorena came in to him now:—­

  “I was riding out this morning
     With my cousin by my side;
   She was telling her intentions
     For to soon become a bride.”