“What shall I do?” she asked piteously.  The blood, diverted from the brain, had left it without healthy circulation, but she did not know yet that this was affecting his mind.

“Friend,” he whispered, “that was in truth no bull; it was the devil himself.”

“The devil?” she asked faintly.

“He almost succeeded in his cruel attempt to cause us to be discouraged from the way.”

“It seems to me he only succeeded in causing us to take the way with greater vehemence,” she replied in some scorn.

In the next minute she heard him whisper eagerly, “Look up; look between the branches; quick!  Do you not see the face looking at us?”

The branches of the overhanging tree were black with night.  She looked up in the direction that his feeble hand indicated, and with indescribable terror scanned the blank spaces in which no human face could possibly be.

“Look!” he whispered again impatiently.  “Don’t you see it?  It is the face of a man.  A white face!  It is the face of thy cousin as I saw it yesterday when I was counted worthy to suffer.  Look! look! does thou not see him?”

His words had the effect of producing in her that maddening fear of the dark which ghostly tales induce, and now he fainted again.  She was afraid to cry for help, afraid even of the rustle of her own garments.  She did not know how far she was from any house.  And it seemed to her that this lover, who was almost a stranger, was dying in her arms.  The misery of this hour governed her action in the next.

Halsey in the bottom of the chaise lay with his head against her knee, and soon, holding the bandages of his wound close upon it with one hand, she took the reins with the other and urged the horse forward.  She had had no thought all that day but to go, as Halsey had said, to Emma Smith’s protection.  She hoped now that there was but one road; that when she came to the first settlement she would be with the Smiths.  This was not the case.  She travelled an hour, obliged to pass more than one cross-road because she dared not turn down it.  At length she found herself in front of a large house with lighted windows, which was evidently an inn.

The door opened, letting out a stream of candlelight.  A man stood in the doorway.  “What place is this?” cried Susannah’s voice from the darkness.

“It’s John Biery’s hotel.”

“Will you have the kindness to tell me if you know of any one called Mr. Joseph Smith?”

There was some talking within.  “No, we never heard of Mr. Joseph Smith.”

“Or Mr. Oliver Cowdery?” Again there was talking.

“No, it don’t seem that we’ve any of us heard o’ those names before.  Be you alone?” The deep bass voice of John Biery was becoming more insistent in its rising inflection.

For some half-minute Susannah did not answer, and then fear of being compelled to retake the road made irresolution impossible.