“Oh yes, indeed, I have heard one good thing of you—your undertaking the salvation of eight or nine wives.”
“Not yet nine,” he responded, humorously. “And I am glad you mentioned that. It is one of our mysteries that you will learn later. You have helped me greatly by such a candid unburdening of your mind. For you must know that you and I are to be more to each other than strangers. The revelation was given to you when it was given to me in the Tabernacle. I saw that.”
The air was thickening with dusky motes. Emeline fancied that living dark atoms were pressing down upon her from infinity.
“You must know,” she said, with determination, “that I came to Beaver Island because I hated men, and expected to see nothing but Mormons here—”
“Not counting them men at all,” indulgently supplemented the King of Beaver, conscious that she was struggling in the most masculine presence she had ever encountered. He dropped his voice. “My child, you touch me as no one has touched me yet. There is scarcely need of words between us. I know what I am to you. You shall not stay on the island if you do not wish it. Oh, you are going to make me do my best!”
“I wish you would go away!”
“Some Gentile has hurt you, and you are beating your bruised strength on me.”
“Please go away! I don't like you. I am bound to another man.”
“You are bound to nobody but me. I have waited a lifetime for you.”
“How dare you talk so to me when you have eight wives already!”