‘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 is,’ said Birkin, ‘why, surely it is open to me to decide, 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.

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden all were gone. It was only too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during his absence — a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

JOHN FERRIER,

FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY.

Died August 4th, 1860.

The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of an Elder’s son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the Avenging Angels.