The spectators backed away with awed expressions. But still he had to conduct his examination with the utmost circumspection. He held Alberta's hand while furtively seeking her pulse-he didn't find any. He looked at her nostrils, and there was no movement. Her eyes had rolled back into her head so that only the whites showed. He stroked her face, feeling for the vein in the temple, but her skin was like cooling wax. He would have liked to put a mirror over her mouth, but couldn't risk alarming the spectators. He was so terrified he coulti hardly breathe, but he kept repeating, "Glory be to Jesus," to camouflage his fears. He requested the police to keep back the crowd, then climbed slowly to the throne dais.

Sweet Prophet gave one look at Elder Jones' black face, which had dried to the texture of wood ashes, and expected the Worst. "Well?" he asked fearfully.

"She looks dead to me," Elder Jones reported.

Sweet Prophet's already protruding eyes bulged perilously from their sockets. "Great God Almighty!" he whispered in a tone of consternation. "How in God's name could that happen?"

Elder Jones' mouth felt cotton-dry, and the hot air burned inside of his nostrils. "The only way I figure it could have happened is the water you blessed was poisoned," he said.

"Lord in Heaven help us," Sweet Prophet moaned. "How could it be poisoned?"

"Only God knows," Elder Jones said.

Sweet Prophet drew a bottle of smelling salts from somewhere beneath his robe and held it to his nose. He couldn't afford to faint in this emergency, but his head whirled in a blind panic.

He pulled a yellow silk handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.

"Are you certain she's dead, Elder?" he asked with a faint remnant of hope.

"I couldn't find any pulse, and she sure looks dead," the elder affirmed.