“Friend of the prisoner,” the man with the mallet said authoritatively.  “Bring a stool for’ard, some of you.”

“One moment . . .”  She staggered against the table and rested a hand on it.  “I do not understand.  This is all new . . .”  But her eyes happened to come to rest on her feet, wrapped in dirty rags, and she knew that she was clad in a short and tattered skirt, that her arm peeped forth through a rent in her sleeve, and that her hair was down and flying.  Her cheek and neck on one side seemed coated with some curious substance.  She brushed it with her hand, and caked mud rattled to the floor.

“That will do,” the man said, not unkindly.  “Sit down.  We’re in the same box.  We do not understand.  But take my word for it, we’re here to find out.  So sit down.”

She raised her hand.  “One moment—­”

“Sit down!” he thundered.  “The court cannot be disturbed.”

A hum went up from the crowd, words of dissent, and the man pounded the table for silence.  But Frona resolutely kept her feet.

When the noise had subsided, she addressed the man in the chair.  “Mr. Chairman:  I take it that this is a miners’ meeting.” (The man nodded.) “Then, having an equal voice in the managing of this community’s affairs, I demand to be heard.  It is important that I should be heard.”

“But you are out of order.  Miss—­er—­”

“Welse!” half a dozen voices prompted.

“Miss Welse,” he went on, an added respect marking his demeanor, “it grieves me to inform you that you are out of order.  You had best sit down.”

“I will not,” she answered.  “I rise to a question of privilege, and if I am not heard, I shall appeal to the meeting.”

She swept the crowd with her eyes, and cries went up that she be given a fair show.  The chairman yielded and motioned her to go on.

“Mr. Chairman and men:  I do not know the business you have at present before you, but I do know that I have more important business to place before you.  Just outside this cabin is a man probably dying from starvation.  We have brought him from across the river.  We should not have bothered you, but we were unable to make our own island.  This man I speak of needs immediate attention.”

“A couple of you nearest the door go out and look after him,” the chairman ordered.  “And you, Doc Holiday, go along and see what you can do.”

“Ask for a recess,” St. Vincent whispered.

Frona nodded her head.  “And, Mr. Chairman, I make a motion for a recess until the man is cared for.”

Cries of “No recess!” and “Go on with the business!” greeted the putting of it, and the motion was lost.

“Now, Gregory,” with a smile and salutation as she took the stool beside him, “what is it?”

He gripped her hand tightly.  “Don’t believe them, Frona.  They are trying to”—­with a gulping swallow—­“to kill me.”