The Lions of the Lord | Page 2

and why he feared, as an angel of vengeance, that early cowboy with the yellow hair, who came singing down from the high divide into Amalon where a girl was waiting in her dream of a single love; others who, to this day, will do not more than whisper with averted faces of the crime that brought a curse upon the land; who still live in terror of shapes that shuffle furtively behind them, fumbling sometimes at their shoulders with weak hands, striving ever to come in front and turn upon them. But these will know only one side of the Little Man of Sorrows who was first the Lute of the Holy Ghost in the Poet's roster of titles: since they have lacked his courage to try the great issue with their God.
New York City, May 1st, 1903.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.
THE DEAD CITY
II. THE WILD RAM OF THE MOUNTAINS
III. THE LUTE OF THE HOLY GHOST BREAKS HIS FAST
IV. A FAIR APOSTATE
V. GILES RAE BEAUTIFIES HIS INHERITANCE
VI. THE LUTE OF THE HOLY GHOST IS FURTHER CHASTENED
VII. SOME INNER MYSTERIES ARE EXPOUNDED
VIII. A REVELATION FROM THE LORD AND A TOAST FROM BRIGHAM
IX. INTO THE WILDERNESS
X. THE PROMISED LAND
XI. ANOTHER MIRACLE AND A TEMPTATION IN THE WILDERNESS
XII. A FIGHT FOR LIFE
XIII. JOEL RAE IS TREATED FOR PRIDE OF SOUL
XIV. HOW THE SAINTS WERE BROUGHT TO REPENTANCE
XV. HOW THE SOULS OF APOSTATES WERE SAVED
XVI. THE ORDER FROM HEADQUARTERS
XVII. THE MEADOW SHAMBLES
XVIII. IN THE DARK OF THE AFTERMATH
XIX. THE HOST OF ISRAEL GOES FORTH TO BATTLE
XX. HOW THE LION OF THE LORD ROARED SOFT
XXI. THE BLOOD ON THE PAGE
XXII. THE PICTURE IN THE SKY
XXIII. THE SINNER CHASTENS HIMSELF
XXIV. THE COMING OF THE WOMAN-CHILD
XXV. THE ENTABLATURE OF TRUTH MAKES A DISCOVERY AT AMALON
XXVI. HOW THE RED CAME BACK TO THE BLOOD TO BE A SNARE
XXVII. A NEW CROSS TAKEN UP AND AN OLD ENEMY FORGIVEN
XXVIII. JUST BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD
XXIX. THE WILD RAM OF THE MOUNTAINS OFFERS TO BECOME A SAVIOUR ON MOUNT ZION
XXX. HOW THE WORLD DID NOT COME TO AN END
XXXI. THE LION OF THE LORD SENDS AN ORDER
XXXII. A NEW FACE IN THE DREAM
XXXIII. THE GENTILE INVASION
XXXIV. HOW THE AVENGER BUNGLED HIS VENGEANCE
XXXV. RUEL FOLLETT'S WAY OF BUSINESS
XXXVI. THE MISSION TO A DESERVING GENTILE
XXXVII. THE GENTILE ISSUES AN ULTIMATUM
XXXVIII. THE MISSION SERVICE IN BOX CA?ON IS SUSPENDED
XXXIX. A REVELATION CONCERNING THE TRUE ORDER OF MARRIAGE
XL. A PROCESSION, A PURSUIT, AND A CAPTURE
XLI. THE RISE AND FALL OF A BENT LITTLE PROPHET
XLII. THE LITTLE BENT MAN AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS
XLIII. THE GENTILE CARRIES OFF HIS SPOIL

ILLUSTRATIONS
Lifting off his broad-brimmed hat to her in a gracious sweep
"Her goal is Zion, not Babylon, sir--remember that!"
"_I'm_ the one will have to be caught"
"But you're not my really papa!"
Full of zest for the measure as any youth
"Oh, Man ... how I've longed for that bullet of yours!"

THE LIONS OF THE LORD
CHAPTER I.
The Dead City The city without life lay handsomely along a river in the early sunlight of a September morning. Death had seemingly not been long upon it, nor had it made any scar. No breach or rent or disorder or sign of violence could be seen. The long, shaded streets breathed the still airs of utter peace and quiet. From the half-circle around which the broad river bent its moody current, the neat houses, set in cool, green gardens, were terraced up the high hill, and from the summit of this a stately marble temple, glittering of newness, towered far above them in placid benediction.
Mile after mile the streets lay silent, along the river-front, up to the hilltop, and beyond into the level; no sound nor motion nor sign of life throughout their length. And when they had run their length, and the outlying fields were reached, there, too, was the same brooding spell as the land stretched away in the hush and haze. The yellow grain, heavy-headed with richness, lay beaten down and rotting, for there were no reapers. The city, it seemed, had died calmly, painlessly, drowsily, as if overcome by sleep.
From a skiff in mid-river, a young man rowing toward the dead city rested on his oars and looked over his shoulder to the temple on the hilltop. There was something very boyish in the reverent eagerness with which his dark eyes rested upon the pile, tracing the splendid lines from its broad, gray base to its lofty spire, radiant with white and gold. As he looked long and intently, the colour of new life flushed into a face that was pinched and drawn. With fresh resolution, he bent again to his oars, noting with a quick eye that the current had carried him far down-stream while he stopped to look upon the holy edifice.
Landing presently at the wharf, he was stunned by the hush of the streets. This was not