“Did you ever hear of Fre-donia, another village far west of here?” “Yes.” “It is in Arizona, near the Utah line. There are few men there. Is it the same kind of village as this one in which you live?” “Yes.” “What does Fre-donia mean? The name--has it any meaning?” “It means free women.” The judge maintained silence for a moment, turned to whisper to his assistants, and presently, without glancing up, said to the woman: “That will do.” Ruth was led back to the bench, and the woman next to her brought forward. This was a heavier person, with the figure and step of a matured woman. Upon removing her bonnet she showed the plain face of a woman of forty, and it was striking only in that strange, stony aloofness noted in the older men. Here, Shefford thought, was the real Mormon, different in a way he could not define from Ruth. This woman seated herself in the chair and calmly faced her prosecutors. She manifested no emotion whatever. Shefford remembered her and could not see any change in her deportment. This trial appeared to be of little moment to her and she took the oath as if doing so had been a habit all her life. “What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, glancing up from a paper he held. “Mary Danton.” “Family or married name?” “My husband's name was Danton.” “Was. Is he living?” “No.” “Where did you live when you were married to him?” “In St. George, and later here in Stonebridge.” “You were both Mormons?” “Yes.” “Did you have any children by him?” “Yes.” “How many?” “Two.” “Are they living?” “One of them is living.” Judge Stone bent over his paper and then slowly raised his eyes to her face. “Are you married now?” “No.” Again the judge consulted his notes, and held a whispered colloquy with the two men at his table. “Mrs. Danton, when you were arrested there were five children found in your home. To whom do they belong?” “Me.” “Are you their mother?” “Yes.” “Your husband Danton is the father of only one, the eldest, according to your former statement. Is that correct?” “Yes.” “Who, then, is the father--or who are the fathers, of your other children?” “I do not know.” She said it with the most stony-faced calmness, with utter disregard of what significance her words had. A strong, mystic wall of cold flint insulated her. Strangely it came to Shefford how impossible either to doubt or believe her. Yet he did both! Judge Stone showed a little heat. “You don't know the father of one or all of these children?” he queried, with sharp rising inflection of voice. “I do not.” “Madam, I beg to remind you that you are under oath.” The woman did not reply. “These children are nameless, then--illegitimate?” “They are.” “You swear you are not the sealed wife of some Mormon?” “I swear.” “How do you live--maintain yourself?” “I work.” “What at?” “I weave, sew, bake, and work in my garden.” “My men made note of your large and comfortable cabin, even luxurious, considering this country. How is that?”