“But I know Joseph was not a good man—­and they tell such absurd stories about the miracles the Elders pretend to work.”

“I believe with all my heart Joseph was good; but even if not—­we have never pretended that he was anything more than a prophet of God.  And was not Moses a murderer when God called him to be a prophet?  And as for miracles, all religions have them—­why not ours?  Your people were Methodists before Joseph baptised them.  Didn’t Wesley work miracles?  Didn’t a cloud temper the sun in answer to his prayer?  Wasn’t his horse cured of a lameness by his faith?  Didn’t he lay hands upon the blind Catholic girl so that she saw plainly when her eyes rested upon the New Testament and became blind again when she took up the mass book?  Are those stories absurd?  My father himself saw Joseph cast a devil out of Newell Knight.”

“And this awful journey into a horrid desert.  Why must you go?  Surely there are other ways of salvation.”  She hesitated a moment.  “I have been told that going to heaven is like going to mill.  If your wheat is good, the miller will never ask which way you came.”

“Child, child, some one has tampered with you.”

She retorted quickly.

“He did not tamper, he has never sought to—­he was all kindness.”

She stopped, her short upper lip holding its incautious mate a prisoner.  She blushed furiously under the sudden blaze of his eyes.

“So it’s true, what Seth Wright hinted at?  To think that you, of all people—­my sweetheart—­gone over—­won over by a cursed mobocrat—­a fiend with the blood of our people wet on his hands!  Listen, Prue; I’m going into the desert.  Even though you beg me to stay, you must have known—­perhaps you hoped—­that I would go.  There are many reasons why I must.  For one, there are six hundred and forty poor hunted wretches over there on the river bank, sick, cold, wet, starving, but enduring it all to the death for their faith in Joseph Smith.  They could have kept their comfortable homes here and their substance, simply by renouncing him—­they are all voluntary exiles—­they have only to say ’I do not believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God,’ and these same Gentiles will receive them with open arms, give them clothing, food, and shelter, put them again in possession of their own.  But they are lying out over there, fever-stricken, starving, chilled, all because they will not deny their faith.  Shall I be a craven, then, who have scarcely ever wanted for food or shelter, and probably shall not?  Of course you don’t love me or you couldn’t ask me to do that.  Those faithful wretched ones are waiting over there for me to guide them on toward a spot that will probably be still more desolate.  They could find their way, almost, by the trail of graves we left last spring, but they need my strength and my spirit, and I am going.  I am going, too, for my own salvation.  I would suffer anything for you, but by going I may save us both.  Listen, child; God is going to make a short work on earth.  We shall both see the end of this reign of sin.  It is well if you take wheat to the mill, but what if you fetch the miller chaff instead?”