ns. He would have rejected them forthwith,
as he believed the Lord would have had them do,--nay, as he believed the
Lord would sooner or later punish them for not doing. He would have
thrust them into the desert, and called upon the Lord for strength to
meet the storm that would doubtless be raised by such a course. He was
impatient when the older men cautioned moderation and the petty wiles of
diplomacy. Yet he was not altogether discouraged; for even they lost
patience at times, and were almost as outspoken as he could have wished.

Even Brigham, on one notable occasion, had thrilled him, when in the
tabernacle he had bearded Brocchus and left him white and cowering
before all the people, trembling for his life,--Brocchus, the unworthy
Associate Justice, who had derided their faith, insulted their prophet,
and slandered their women. How he rejoiced in that moment when Brigham
for once lost his temper and let his eyes flash their hate upon the
frightened official.

"But you," Brigham had roared, "standing there white and shaking at the
hornets' nest you have stirred up--you are a coward--and that is why you
praise men that are not cowards--why you praise Zachary Taylor!"

Brigham had a little time before declared that Zachary Taylor was dead
and in hell, and that he, Brigham, was glad of it.

"President Taylor you can't praise," he had gone on to the gradually
whitening Brocchus. "What was he? A mere soldier with regular army
buttons on--no better to go at the head of troops than a dozen men I
could pick up between Leavenworth and Laramie. As to what you have
intimated about our morals--you miserable cringing coward, you--I won't
notice it except to make my personal request of every brother and
husband present not to give your back what your impudence deserves. You
talk of things you have on hearsay since you came among us. I'll talk of
hearsay, then--the hearsay that you are mad and will go home because we
can't make it worth your while to stay. What it would satisfy you to get
out of us it wouldn't be hard to tell; but I know it's more than you'll
get. We don't want you. You are such a baby-calf that we would have to
sugar your soap to coax you to wash yourself on Saturday night. Go home
to your mammy, straightaway, and the sooner the better."

This was the manner, thought Joel Rae, that Federal officials should be
treated when they were out of sympathy with Zion--though he thought he
might perhaps have chosen wo