‘Detest it,’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, assured and satisfied.

‘But,’ Gerald insisted, ‘you don’t allow one man to take away his neighbour’s living, so why should you allow one nation to take away the living from another nation?’

There was a long slow murmur from Hermione before she broke into speech, saying with a laconic indifference:

‘It is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is not all a question of goods?’

Gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar materialism.

‘Yes, more or less,’ he retorted. ‘If I go and take a man’s hat from off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man’s liberty. When he fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty.’

Hermione was nonplussed.

‘Yes,’ she said, irritated. ‘But that way of arguing by imaginary instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? A man does NOT come and take my hat from off my head, does he?’

‘Only because the law prevents him,’ said Gerald.

‘Not only,’ said Birkin. ‘Ninety–nine men out of a hundred don’t want my hat.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Gerald.

‘Or the hat,’ laughed the bridegroom.

‘And if he does want my hat, such as it it is,’ said Birkin, ‘why, surely it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or my liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offer fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.’

‘Yes,’ said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely. ‘Yes.’

‘But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?’ the bride asked of Hermione.

The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to this new speaker.

‘No,’ she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a chuckle. ‘No, I shouldn’t let anybody take my hat off my head.’

‘How would you prevent it?’ asked Gerald.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Hermione slowly. ‘Probably I should kill him.’

There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing humour in her bearing.

‘Of course,’ said Gerald, ‘I can see Rupert’s point. It is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.’

‘Peace of body,’ said Birkin.

‘Well, as you like there,’ replied Gerald. ‘But how are you going to decide this for a nation?’

‘Heaven preserve me,’ laughed Birkin.

‘Yes, but suppose you have to?’ Gerald persisted.

‘Then it is the same. If the national crown–piece is an old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.’

‘But CAN the national or racial hat be an old hat?’ insisted Gerald.

On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on the entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse, bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in his pockets whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I’m Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true fold.”

“As He will all the nations in His own good time,” said the other in a nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly but exceeding small.”

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one.”

“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”

“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the Lord removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church.”

“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”

During this dialogue John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter summons you, you can come, but until then I don’t want to see your faces again.”

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this competition between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of honours both to her and her father.

“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?”

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening, that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old farmer followed them to the door.