Already the mounted escort was coming into view, four abreast, captained by Elder Wardle, who, with a sash of red and gold slanted across his breast, was riding nervously, as if his seat could be kept only by the most skillful horsemanship, a white mule that he was known to treat with fearless disrespect on days that were not great.  Behind the martial Wardle was Peter Peterson, Peter Long Peterson, and Peter Long Peter Peterson, the most martial looking men in Amalon after their leader; and then came a few more fours of proudly mounted Saints.

After this escort, separated by an interval that would let the dust settle a little, came the body of the procession.  First a carriage containing the Prophet, portly, strong-faced, easy of manner, as became a giant who felt kindly in his might.  By his side was his wife, Amelia, the reigning favourite, who could play the piano and sing “Fair Bingen on the Rhine” with a dash that was said to be superb.  Behind this float of honour came other carriages, bearing the Prophet’s Counsellors, the Apostles, Chief Bishop, Bishops generally, Elders, Priests, and Deacons, each taking precedence near the Prophet’s carriage by seniority of rank or ordination.  Along the line of carriages were outriders, bearing proudly aloft banners upon which suitable devices were printed: 

“God bless Brigham Young!”

“Hail to Zion’s Chief!”

“The Lion of the Lord.”

“Welcome to our Mouthpiece of God!”

Behind the last carriage came the citizens in procession, each detachment with its banner.  The elderly brethren stepped briskly under “Fathers in Israel”; the elderly sisters gazed proudly aloft to “Mothers in Israel.”  Then came a company of young men whose banner announced them as “Defenders of Zion.”  They were followed by a company of maidens led by Matilda Wright, striving to be not too much elated, and whose banner bore the inscription, “Daughters of Zion.”  At the last came the children, openly set up by the occasion, and big-eyed with importance, the boy who carried their banner, “The Hope of Israel,” going with wonderful rigidity, casting not so much as an eye either to right or left.

But Prudence had not been in this triumphal column, nor was she among any of the women who stood with children in their arms, or who rushed to the doors with sleeves rolled up and a long spoon or fork in their hands.

Then all at once a great inspiration came to Follett.  When the last dusty little white-dressed girl had trudged solemnly by, and the head of the procession was already winding down the lane that led to Elder Wardle’s place, he called himself a fool and turned back.  He walked like a man who has suddenly remembered that which he should not have forgotten.  And yet he had remembered nothing at all.  He had only thought of a possibility, but one that became more plausible with every step; especially when he reached the Rae house and found it deserted.  Whenever he thought of his stupidity, which was every score of steps, he would break into a little trot that made the willows along the creek on his left run into a yellowish green blur.