“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer. “He appears to have chosen a

fair crowd of ye.”

 

“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other sternly. “We are of those

who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates of

beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have

come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We

have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even

though it be the heart of the desert.”

 

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. “I see,” he

said, “you are the Mormons.”

 

“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice.

 

“And where are you going?”

 

“We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our Prophet.

You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with you.”

 

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded by

crowds of the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women, strong laughing children,

and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment and of

commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of one of the