“I like Beaver Island,” she remarked, winding the remaining bits of string into a ball. “'Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'”
“You mean Gentile man,” said King Strang. “He is vile, but we hope to get rid of him some time.”
“By breaking his fish-nets and stealing his sailboats? Is it true that a Gentile sail-boat was sunk in Lake Galilee and kept hidden there until inquiry ceased, and then was raised, repainted, and launched again, a good Mormon boat?”
He linked his hands behind him and smiled at her daring.
“How many evil stories you have heard about us! My dear young lady, I could rejoin with truths about our persecutions. Is your uncle Cheeseman a malefactor?”
“My uncle Cheeseman is a good man.”
“So are all my people. The island, like all young communities, is infested with a class of camp-follow-ers, and every depredation of these fellows is charged to us. But we shall make it a garden—we shall make it a garden.”
“Let me train vines over the whipping-post in your garden,” suggested Emeline, turning back the crimson edge of her lip.
“You have heard that a man was publicly whipped on Beaver Island—and he deserved it. Have you heard also that I myself have been imprisoned by outsiders, and my life attempted more than once? Don't you know that in war a leader must be stern if he would save his people from destruction? Have you never heard a good thing of me, my child?”
Emeline, facing her adversary, was enraged at the conviction which the moderation and gentleness of a martyr was able to work in her.