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.

"Indeed, sir, I am not alone. I have in the chaise with me a sick man,
and I fear that he may be dying. I thought to find friends, but it seems
in the darkness I have missed my way. I must beg of you to assist me to
lift him into the house and give us shelter for the night."

The men had remained perfectly still, drinking in her every syllable
with that fierce thirst for news which is a first passion of dwellers in
such desolate places; then, aroused by what they heard, they came
forward across a rough bit of ground to the road. The burly form of John
Biery came first, and he called for a lantern, which was instantly
produced by one of those who followed. They held it up over Angel's
crouching form and death-like face. Then they held it higher and stared
at Susannah. Her shawl had fallen from off her shoulders. The
handkerchief upon her neck was loose, and underneath the pink border of
her bonnet the ringlets had begun to stray. Her resolute face, so young
and beautiful, startled them almost as an apparition might have done.

"I'm dead beat," said the hotel-keeper under his breath, "if I ever seed
anything like that!" But with the ready suspicion of a prudent