t altogether
unexpected by him, but once spoken in cold blood under oath, how tragic,
how appallingly significant of the shadow, the mystery, the yoke that
bound them! He was amazed, saddened. He felt bewildered. He needed to
think out the meaning of the falsehoods of women he knew to be good and
noble. Surely religion, instead of fear and loyalty, was the foundation
and the strength of this disgrace, this sacrifice. Absolutely, shame was
not in these women, though they swore to shameful facts. They had been
coached to give these baffling answers, every one of which seemed
to brand them, not the brazen mothers of illegitimate offspring, but
faithful, unfortunate sealed wives. To Shefford the truth was not in
their words, but it sat upon their somber brows.

Was it only his heightened imagination, or did the silence and
the suspense grow more intense when a deputy led that dark-hooded,
white-clad, slender woman to the defendant's chair? She did not walk
with the poise that had been manifest in the other women, and she sank
into the chair as if she could no longer stand.

"Please remove your hood," requested the prosecutor.

How well Shefford remembered the strong, shapely hands! He saw them
tremble at the knot of ribbon, and that tremor was communicated to him
in a sympathy which made his pulses beat. He held his breath while she
removed the hood. And then there was revealed, he thought, the loveliest
and the most tragic face that ever was seen in a court-room.

A low, whispering murmur that swelled like a wave ran through the hall.
And by it Shefford divined, as clearly as if the fact had been blazoned
on the walls, that Mary's face had been unknown to these villagers. But
the name Sago Lily had not been unknown; Shefford heard it whispered on
all sides.

The murmuring subsided. The judge and his assistants stared at Mary.
As for Shefford, there was no need of his personal feeling to make the
situation dramatic. Not improbably Judge Stone had tried many Mormon
women. But manifestly this one was different. Unhooded, Mary appeared
to be only a young girl, and a court, confronted suddenly with her youth
and the suspicion attached to her, could not but have been shocked.
Then her beauty made her seem, in that somber company, indeed the white
flower for which she had been named. But, more likely, it was her
agony that bound the court into silence which grew painful. Perhaps the
thought that flashed into Shefford's mind