Mary faced the court and the crowd on that side of the platform.  Unlike the other women, she did not look at or seem to see any one behind the railing.  Shefford was absolutely sure there was not a man or a woman who caught her glance.  She gazed afar, with eyes strained, humid, fearful.

When the prosecutor swore her to the oath her lips were seen to move, but no one heard her speak.

“What is your name?” asked the judge.

“Mary.”  Her voice was low, with a slight tremor.

“What’s your other name?”

“I won’t tell.”

Her singular reply, the tones of her voice, her manner before the judge, marked her with strange simplicity.  It was evident that she was not accustomed to questions.

“What were your parents’ names?”

“I won’t tell,” she replied, very low.

Judge Stone did not press the point.  Perhaps he wanted to make the examination as easy as possible for her or to wait till she showed more composure.

“Were your parents Mormons?” he went on.

“No, sir.”  She added the sir with a quaint respect, contrasting markedly with the short replies of the women before her.

“Then you were not born a Mormon?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen or eighteen.  I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know your exact age?”

“No.”

“Where were you born?”

“I won’t tell.”

“Was it in Utah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you lived in this state?”

“Always—­except last year.”

“And that’s been over in the hidden village where you were arrested?”

“Yes.”

“But you often visited here—­this town Stonebridge?”

“I never was here—­till yesterday.”

Judge Stone regarded her as if his interest as a man was running counter to his duty as an officer.  Suddenly he leaned forward.

“Are you a Mormon now?” he queried, forcibly.

“No, sir,” she replied, and here her voice rose a little clearer.

It was an unexpected reply.  Judge Stone stared at her.  The low buzz ran through the listening crowd.  And as for Shefford, he was astounded.  When his wits flashed back and he weighed her words and saw in her face truth as clear as light, he had the strangest sensation of joy.  Almost it flooded away the gloom and pain that attended this ordeal.

The judge bent his head to his assistants as if for counsel.  All of them were eager where formerly they had been weary.  Shefford glanced around at the dark and somber faces, and a slow wrath grew within him.  Then he caught a glimpse of Waggoner.  The steel-blue, piercing intensity of the Mormon’s gaze impressed him at a moment when all that older generation of Mormons looked as hard and immutable as iron.  Either Shefford was over-excited and mistaken or the hour had become fraught with greater