magnificent fountain of flame, visible far out on the starlit lake,
spurted from the north end of Beaver Island. It was the temple, in which
the Mormon people had worshipped for the last time, sending sparks and
illumined vapor to the zenith. The village of St. James was partly in
ashes, and a blue pallor of smoke hung dimly over nearly every hill
and hollow, for Gentile fishermen crazed with drink and power and long
arrears of grievances had carried torch and axe from farm to farm. Until
noon of that day all householding families had been driven to huddle
with their cattle around the harbor dock and forced to make pens for
the cattle of lumber which had been piled there for transportation.
Unresisting as sheep they let themselves be shipped on four small armed
steamers sent by their enemies to carry them into exile. Not one of the
twelve elders who had received the last instructions of their murdered
king rose up to organize any defence. Scarcely a month had passed since
his wounding unto death, and his withdrawal, like Arthur, in the arms
of weeping women to that spot in Wisconsin where he had found his sacred
Voree plates or tables of the law. Scarcely two weeks had passed since
news came back of his burial there. And already the Mormon settlement
was swept off Beaver Island.

Used to border warfare and to following their dominating prophet to
victory, they yet seemed unable to strike a blow without him. Such
non-resistance procured them nothing but contempt. They even submitted
to being compelled to destroy a cairn raised over the grave of one
considered a malefactor, carrying the heap stone by stone to throw into
the lake, Gentiles standing over them like Egyptian masters.

Little waves ran in rows of light, washing against the point on
the north side of the landlocked harbor. A primrose star was there
struggling aloft at the top of a rough rock tower. It was the fish-oil
flame of Beaver lamp, and the keeper sat on his doorsill at the bottom
of the light-house with his wife beside him.

The lowing of cattle missing their usual evening tendance came across
from the dock, a mournful accompaniment to the distant roaring of fire
and falling of timbers.

"Do you realize, Ludlow," the young woman inquired, slipping her hand
into her husband's, "that I am now the only Mormon on Beaver Island?"

"You never were a very good Mormon, Cecilia. You didn't like the breed
any better than I did, though there were good people