But Kruger cries: "Powder and lead cost money! The Church is too poor to give ye an easy atonement." And he piles the rocks up to the pleading wretch's shoulders.
A moment after, he blows out every candle, save one, to light him in the finishing touches of his awful work; when, desperately struggling, Travenion drags himself to the barrier, and screams: "My God! You are mad—you don't know what you do! I'm your old friend and chum!"
"I'm sacrificin' you here on the altar, where I heerd ye blaspheme your religion an' your prophets! That's what I'm doin'!"
"Mercy! Not this death!" gasp the white lips, and bloodshot eyes beseech the executioner, looking over the barrier rising steadily between them.
"Ye've been given into my hands by Jehovah and Brigham, both of whom ye've blasphemed!" cries Kruger, piling the barrier up to the shuddering man's neck.
Then he goes on in savage mockery. "Ye'll tell no funny anecdotes and sacrilegious jokes about our president, Brigham Young, and our prophet, Joseph Smith! Champagne won't flow over yer infamous apostasy, in the Unity Club. It will be a rare tale to tell yer chums Von Punster and De Beekman, and Travis, an' Larry Jerry, of how yer made a mockery of our sainted religion, an' jeered us, even when ye preached from our altars! But ye'll never tell it! 'Dead men tell no tales!'"
Then the barrier is up to Ralph Travenion's face, which is now pale as the flickering candle that lights its agonies. Over this face comes one pang more cruel than the others, and the white lips sigh, "My daughter!"
"Yer darter—that's the p'int! I'll look after her salvation. She shall be a lamb of Zion. I'll take her right into my sheepfold."
"Powers of Heaven! What do you mean?" And the wall now rises above his mouth.
"I sha'n't be hard on her," mocks Kruger. "I'll spare her herding and cattle work. She shall do chores round the house. I'll be light on her, I will, bishop, for I mean—" He whispers three words into the fainting wretch's ear, who reels back from him and shrieks: "MY GOD! NOT THAT!"