“What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, glancing up from a paper he held.

“Mary Danton.”

“Family or married name?”

“My husband’s name was Danton.”

“Was.  Is he living?”

“No.”

“Where did you live when you were married to him?”

“In St. George, and later here in Stonebridge.”

“You were both Mormons?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any children by him?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Are they living?”

“One of them is living.”

Judge Stone bent over his paper and then slowly raised his eyes to her face.

“Are you married now?”

“No.”

Again the judge consulted his notes, and held a whispered colloquy with the two men at his table.

“Mrs. Danton, when you were arrested there were five children found in your home.  To whom do they belong?”

“Me.”

“Are you their mother?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband Danton is the father of only one, the eldest, according to your former statement.  Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Who, then, is the father—­or who are the fathers, of your other children?”

“I do not know.”

She said it with the most stony-faced calmness, with utter disregard of what significance her words had.  A strong, mystic wall of cold flint insulated her.  Strangely it came to Shefford how impossible either to doubt or believe her.  Yet he did both!  Judge Stone showed a little heat.

“You don’t know the father of one or all of these children?” he queried, with sharp rising inflection of voice.

“I do not.”

“Madam, I beg to remind you that you are under oath.”

The woman did not reply.

“These children are nameless, then—­illegitimate?”

“They are.”

“You swear you are not the sealed wife of some Mormon?”

“I swear.”

“How do you live—­maintain yourself?”

“I work.”

“What at?”

“I weave, sew, bake, and work in my garden.”

“My men made note of your large and comfortable cabin, even luxurious, considering this country.  How is that?”

“My husband left me comfortable.”

Judge Stone shook a warning finger at the defendant.

“Suppose I were to sentence you to jail for perjury?  For a year?  Far from your home and children!  Would you speak—­tell the truth?”

“I am telling the truth.  I can’t speak what I don’t know. . . .  Send me to jail.”

Baffled, with despairing, angry impatience, Judge Stone waved the woman away.

“That will do for her.  Fetch the next one,” he said.

One after another he examined three more women, and arrived, by various questions and answers different in tone and temper, at precisely the same point as had been made in the case of Mrs. Danton.  Thereupon the proceedings rested a few moments while the judge consulted with his assistants.