THE KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN MELICE. (continued 8)

"The woman, I think, hath confessed the whole," said Dudley. "She openly admits that this Gardiner, or whatever else be his name, is her paramour; and, for the remainder, what hath been wrested from her by her own contradictions, sufficiently confounds her."

"Base man, it is false!" cried the lady, roused into indignation by the charge. I have confessed to naught whereof a woman should be ashamed. There is no infamy attached to my name; and as high as Heaven is above the earth, so far is Sir Christopher above thy craven nature."

"Heyday!" said Dudley; "it thunders and lightens. I bandy not words with thee, but the record of the Secretary will show."

"I find not the exact word," said the Secretary, Master Nowell, after examining his minutes, "but she doth acknowledge this pretended Knight as her protector since they left England, and the terms are equivalent."

"I meant it not so. I have acknowledged nothing to my disgrace," exclaimed the lady. "Ye have enveigled and entrapped me by artful questions, and then put constructions on my answers which do not belong to them. A worthy business, truly, for grave and learned men to be engaged in, to set their wits to work against a forlorn woman, to pervert her language into shameful meanings."

"Madam," said Winthrop, "you have permission to retire. Bring with thee," he added, addressing the beadle, "the little Indian girl, without letting her come to speech with this gentlewoman, and also Sassacus, properly guarded."

CHAPTER XXX.

Bryant.

"A manifest Papist! I can scent one of them out as easily as a hound doth the hare," said Endicott, after the lady had retired.

"Beyond a peradventure," echoed Dudley; "and the attempt at deception doth aggravate her guilt."

"I, too, remarked," said an Assistant, "that she possesses not the shibboleth whereunto she laid claim."

"Yet, wherefore should they, being Papists, come hither?" said Master Nowell. "I understand not the mystery that surrounds them."

"A circumstance in itself suspicious," said Endicott, "wherefore needs an honest intent to hide its head?"

"On the contrary, it is ever ready to show itself in the sunlight," said Master Nowell.

"Know you what is expected to be learned from the child?" asked an Assistant, of Dudley.

"I surmise our Governor desires something further to quiet his ever-anxious and doubting mind," answered Dudley.

"I lack no light to form a judgment," said Endicott, "and a further inquiry is supererogatory."

"Nevertheless," said Master Bradstreet, "there be some of us on whom a clear light hath not yet shined. My charity strongly inclines me to view this poor woman in a less unfavorable light since she hath avowed herself not to be an idolater of Rome."

"Well saith the Scripture," exclaimed Dudley, "that charity doth cover a multitude of sins. The rule is good in the exercise of judgment in things pertaining to private concerns, but in public business it is naught. But your scruples, and those of Master Winthrop, are likely soon to be satisfied, for here comes the little Canaanite."

And as he spoke the door was opened, and the servitor appeared, bringing in the child.

"Where is the other Indian?" inquired Endicott.

"He will be here incontinently, your worship," replied the man. "As there was some delay in the needful preparation, I did think it expedient not to keep your worships waiting, more especially as it would not be becoming that ye should be put to inconvenience for a heathen red skin."

"Reasoned like Aristoteles," said Dudley, laughing. "Give me a man of thy humor, Hezekiah Negus, who rightly apprehends the value of time, and the danger of keeping his superiors dependent on his laziness."

"Bring hither the child," said Winthrop.

The servitor, in obedience to the order, led the girl to the Governor's seat, and placed her standing by his side.

"What is thy name, little one?" asked Winthrop, putting his hand upon her head.

"Neebin," answered the girl, whose eyes, from the moment of her entrance, had been scanning the company and the room in that quiet, covert way, in which the Indian is wont to gratify his curiosity while endeavoring to conceal it. At the same time, if she felt fear, neither her voice nor manner betrayed it.

"Neebin!" repeated Winthrop. "A very pretty name, and hath a pretty meaning in English, I doubt not."

The child, encouraged by the gentleness of his voice and looks, and perhaps proud of showing her knowledge of the language of the whites, answered:

"Neebin is summer."

"Darling Neebin," said Winthrop, whose countenance really expressed an interest in the little Indian, "hast ever been taught thy prayers?"

"Neebin knows two prayers."

"Will she say them for me?"

The child crossed her arms upon her bosom, after having first made the sign of the cross upon her brow, her lips, and breast; and then, letting fall the long, black lashes of her eye-lids, commenced repeating the "pater-noster." At the sign of the cross, Dudley started; but, as if recollecting himself, sunk back with a groan. After finishing the pater-noster, the little girl began the "Ave Maria;" but this was more than the scandalized deputy could endure.

"I may not," he cried, starting up, "listen without sin to this idolatry. Better to smite—"

"I pray thee to have a little patience," said Winthrop, interrupting him. "None of its guilt attaches itself to us."

"I know not that," replied Dudley. "I will not, like Naaman the Syrian, bow myself down in the house of Rimmon, even although my master leaneth on my hand. I do bear my testimony against these popish incantations."

The face of Winthrop flushed at the taunt conveyed, both in the manner and in the language; but, as his custom was, he paused before replying, which gave opportunity to Endicott to say:

"My teeth, also, as well as those of Master Dudley, are set on edge; and I think that any farther inquiry on this branch of the subject may well be pretermitted."

"In my judgment," said Sir Richard Saltonstall, "it were well, inasmuch as, though not partaking to the degree of their delicacy of the scruples of the Deputy-Governor and of Master Endicott, yet do I respect them, considering the fountain whence they flow. I also highly approve of and thank the Governor for his judicious questions, whereby the truth hath been brought to light, and what was a little dark before hath been made plain. But the end being sufficiently attained, it were better, perhaps, not to press in this way after further knowledge, seeing we neither need nor desire it."

"I accede to your wishes, gentlemen," said Winthrop, "though I hardly approve of this cutting short the answer of a witness. Ye shall have, however, your will."

"What!" exclaimed Dudley; "not when the answer is blasphemous, or idolatrous, or otherwise impious?"

"We will have no argument thereupon, Master Dudley," said Winthrop. "Your desire is granted, and that, methinks, should satisfy you."

The door now opened, and Sassacus entered between two soldiers, clanking the fetters on his wrists as he moved. Alas! confinement, though short, had not been without baleful effect on the Sagamore. Not that he appeared cast down or humiliated; not that his gait was uncertain, or his bearing less proud; but a shadow, the shadow of a prison house, encompassed him. The iron was evidently beginning to enter his soul. The free denizen of the boundless forest could no more live without liberty, than flame without air. He was like an eagle struck down from his home in the clouds,

to be chained upon a stump, and approached and gazed at by every wayfarer. The imperial bird darts round the lightning of his eyes, but he knows them to be innocuous, and his head droops at the consciousness.

"Remain where ye are," said an Assistant to the soldiers. "The Governor is engaged at this moment."

"Can Neebin," said Winthrop, resuming his interrogatories, "tell me where is Sir Christopher Gardiner?"

"Flower of the forest and of the wild rushing stream," exclaimed Sassacus, in his own language, "be to him as the rock to which the wind whispers an idle tale."

"What says he?" inquired the Assistants of one another, not one of whom understood more than here and there a word.

"Let the chief keep silent," said Winthrop, addressing Sassacus. "He will soon have an opportunity to say what he will;" and he repeated the question.

But the little Indian showed herself no longer docile as before, but to every question returned a stubborn silence.

"We have made a mistake in bringing in the chief," said an Assistant. "She will not open her lips again. He hath said something to frustrate our inquires."

"Thou hast rightly divined," said Winthrop, after another vain attempt to induce the child to speak. "And now what shall be done? for I hold it unmeet that she should be sent back to the source whence, instead of the Gospel truth she should have been taught, she hath sucked only error."

"That were indeed a deadly unkindness to the poor fawn," said Sir Richard, "seeing it would be imperiling her eternal salvation."

"Better," said Endicott, "that she should continue in a darkness penetrated only by the dim light of nature than be made a victim of Roman superstition."

"If any one of ye, gentlemen, will take her in charge," said Winthrop, "gladly will I resign the child into your hands; but if not, then will I receive her into mine own household, where, by God's grace, the tares which the enemy hath sown may be eradicated."

No one manifesting a desire to accept the offer of Winthrop, he ordered the child to be removed to his own house.

As the little girl on her way out of the apartment passed nigh the chief, she stopped, and with childish impatience strove to take the manacles from his arms. A sad smile crossed the face of Sassacus at her vain attempt, and he said:

"They are the presents of Owanux. Neebin will not forget."

"Allow no farther speech between them," cried Winthrop, as the Sagamore commenced saying something more. "Part them, and take her instantly away."

"Waqua, or Sassacus, or whatever be thy name," said Winthrop, "wherefore, being at peace with my people, have you slain two of my men."

The chief looked steadily at the questioner, but returned no answer.

"We know," said the Governor, "that thou hast sufficient knowledge of our tongue to make thyself intelligible, for thou hast conversed with me. Speak, lest for thy refusal it should go the harder with thee."

Thus addressed, Sassacus surveyed with an indignant look his chains, and then stretching out one of his arms as far as his bonds permitted, spoke in a bold tone several sentences in his own language in reply.

"The spirit of the old proverb," said an Assistant, "that one may lead a horse to water, nathless it will be impossible to compel him to drink, applies, it seems, as well to Indians as to horses."

"Why sit here to be scorned by this unbreeched heathen?" cried Dudley. "Away with him! He was taken in the very act, and can render no excuse for this devilish malignity."

"Under favor," said Sir Richard, "that were but a hasty conclusion. It is only Christian mercy to labor with him a little more."

"It may be," said Winthrop, "that on an occasion so momentous, he distrusts his ability worthily to defend himself in a speech wherewith he is imperfectly acquainted. He must not be condemned unheard. The flashes of nobility I have discovered in him did once prepossess me greatly in his favor, and, therefore, if for nought else, would I be indulgent. But, besides, he is a man whose blood is not to be spilled like a wild animal's."

"Be it so," said Dudley, "If ye can make him speak, I will promise to listen."

"Samoset is in the settlement, and may be instantly forthcoming," suggested Master Nowell.

"Let him then be called," said Winthrop.

But a short time elapsed before the messenger returned with the Indian, Samoset, who, in consequence of his superior acquaintance with the English language, had often acted as interpreter between his countrymen and the white strangers. This knowledge he had acquired from his intercourse with the English fishermen, before the wanderers who erected their tabernacle at Shawmut arrived in the country. He was a quick, apprehensive fellow, who, on account of the services he had rendered the colonists, stood high in their favor, and was treated with considerable confidence. No sign of recognition passed betwixt him and Sassacus on his entrance, but they regarded one another as strangers.

"We have called thee, Samoset," said Winthrop, "to interpret between us and this prisoner. Ask him if he acknowledges himself to be the famous chief of the Pequots."

"Tell him," replied Sassacus, "that I am that eagle at whose scream the Narraghansetts hide themselves like little birds in the bushes."

"A bold answer," said Winthrop. "Ask him now, wherefore he hath been lurking in the woods in the vicinity of our lodges."

"The feet of Sassacus," answered the chief, "tread upon the forest leaves at his pleasure. His ancestors never inquired of the Taranteens nor of the Narraghansetts where they should hunt, and he will not ask permission of the strangers with beards."

"Frank and defiant," muttered Endicott. "Come, I like this."

"The forests are very wide," said Winthrop, "and the game is not so abundant in our immediate neighborhood. There must be some more particular reason for thy conduct."

"Listen, O, white chief!" returned the Indian. "The path whereon the tongue of Sassacus travels is a straight path. A great chief disdains to tell a lie. Know then, that, for a long, long time—our oldest men cannot recollect so far back, for they heard the legend from their grandfathers, and they again from theirs—it hath been told among us, that a race with a skin like the snow should come to our land, with strange manners, and speaking a strange language; and when I heard of Owanux, I came to see whether they were the men, for it becomes a chief to watch for his people."

"And what said the tradition," asked Winthrop, "should be the fate of the two races?"

"Tell him not, O, Samoset! my friend, who hast eaten with me from the same pot—that the legend, sadder than the wail of warriors from an unsuccessful expedition over the dead; than the sobs of the wintry wind around the grave of my first-born—that, like the cloud in the full moon, we were to waste away, and the intruders to occupy our hunting grounds."

"He says," said Samoset, interpreting to suit the chief, "that the Indians were to drive the strangers, as the wind whirls the leaves into little heaps."

"There will be two words to that bargain," said Dudley. "I trow it will take more than one Powah to make me believe such a story."

"It is the inspiration of the devil, who is ever the father of lies," observed Endicott. "Go to, with nonsense like this, but I do admire the brave bearing of the savage."

"Yet is it an unfortunate belief to prevail among the natives," said Master Bradstreet. "If extensively entertained, it may be fraught with great peril."

"A cunning invention of the Powahs, no doubt, to sustain the fainting courage of their deluded followers," said Sir Richard.

"Give me three hundred stout and well-armed fellows, trusting in the Lord, and careful to keep their powder dry and bullets ready, and I will so take the conceit out of their red-skins, from the Kennebec to the mouth of the Connecticut, that they will never tell this story again," said Endicott.

"Ask him," proceeded Winthrop, "if this Sir Christopher Gardiner is his friend."

"Soog-u-gest is my brother," answered the Sagamore.

"Does he know the occasions of Soog-u-gest's frequent absences from home?"

"He hunted sometimes with Sassacus," was the answer.

"And what knows he of the woman?"

"She is the sister of Soog-u-gest."

"Is she not his wife?" demanded Dudley.

But Sassacus, merely shaking his head, made no reply.

"The proud savage disdains to answer your question, Master Dudley," observed Endicott, with a smile.

"Nay," answered Dudley. "It is because he cannot deny it."

"We will see," said Winthrop; and he put the question.

It was as Endicott (better acquainted from his longer residence in the country than the others with the feelings of the natives) had suggested, for now Sassacus spoke without hesitation.

"Soog-u-gest is the woman's brother. His wigwam is large. The woman and Neebin, the little sister of Sassacus, live in one part, and Soog-u-gest and his men in the other."

An expression of great astonishment was visible in the faces of the members of the Council, as Sassacus avowed his relationship to the little girl, but nothing was said. The thoughtful countenance of Winthrop became still more grave, and a moment or two passed before he asked the next question.

"Why did Sassacus give away his own sister?"

"He gave her not away. She was to remain to learn the wisdom of the white man, as the little bird stays in the nest until it is strong enough to fly."

Another pause ensued, for the reply of the Sagamore had furnished pregnant matter for thought, until the silence was broken by the voice of Winthrop.

"Why did Sassacus attack my people, and kill two of my men?"

"A superfluous question, after what we have heard," said Sir Richard Saltonstall.

"Nevertheless, it is involved in the purpose for which the Indian was brought before us, and he shall have the benefit of a reply, Sir Richard," answered the Governor.

"Is it an earnest question the white chief asks," demanded the Pequot chief. "Why does the bear attack the hunter who has robbed her of her cubs? Shall Sassacus love Neebin less than a bear its cub? Owanux burned the lodge of my friend. They seized his sister and Neebin, and carried them away, and their chief asks why Sassacus fought for his friends, and for the daughter of many Sachems! What white man ever before was hurt by Sassacus? Who ever came to his lodge, and he set not a meal before him? Who ever was tired, and Sassacus gave him not a skin whereon to lay his limbs? When the white chief burns our lodges, and carries away captive our women and children in the dark, must Sassacus run with a bowl of succotash to refresh him, after his great victory?"

"A shrewd retort withal, and, according to the law of nature, and of the woods, an all-sufficient justification," said Sir Richard Saltonstall, who had been opposed to the plan to capture the Knight from the beginning.

"And yet none other than I expected," said Winthrop, whose generous design in allowing the chief to exculpate himself in his own way was only now understood. "Gentlemen," he added, desirous to take advantage of the favorable impression produced by the Sagamore's reply, "what remains but to remand our prisoner, unless it be your intention to discharge him in consideration of the provocation, and that he can hardly be said to be as fully amenable to our laws as they who understand what these laws are."

"I desire to express my hearty astonishment," exclaimed Deputy Dudley, "at the extraordinary proposition of the Governor. The consequences which lie hid therein are horrible. Are our friends, engaged in the execution of our orders, to be slaughtered with impunity, and thus others to be encouraged to like atrocities?"

"Blood for blood," thundered Endicott. "If that of Abel fell not to the ground unavenged, though the slayer knew no law, save that written in his heart, to forbid the deed, so now may not this savage escape. Besides, the example were impolitic, as hath been already set forth."

Similar opinions were uttered by almost all of the Assistants, being none other than anticipated by the wily Governor, who meant not what he said, but desired to mitigate the severer counsels of his associates.

During these remarks, a conversation in a low tone had been passing betwixt the Sagamore and Samoset.

"Has the heart of Samoset turned white?" asked the Pequot.

"Samoset is an Indian," replied the interpreter, "and his heart is red."

"Has he forgotten the time when, with Sassacus and his Paniese, he drank of the Shetucket, where it bounds into the river of the Pequots, when he was thirsty with driving the Narraghansetts over the hills, like leaves chased by the wind?"

"Samoset has not forgotten."

"Does he powah with Owanux, or is he true to the faith of his fathers?"

"The feet of Samoset will chase the deer and the bear over the happy hunting grounds, whither his fathers have gone. He would not know what to do in the heaven of Owanux."

"Then is not Samoset my brother, and lies he not close to the heart of Sassacus, as a pappoose nestles up to its mother?"

"Samoset will do the bidding of the great Sagamore," said the interpreter, anticipating what was to follow.

"Go then, my friend, my brother, terror of the Narraghansetts, praise of the valiant Pequots, and find Soog-u-gest. Tell him that the blood of Sassacus is running away, like water from an overturned vessel, and that soon all will be spilled, unless he comes to set up the vessel. Tell him to come quickly, and deliver the great Sagamore of the Pequots, and his sister, and the young man with eyes like the sky."

"The feet of the blue eyes are free," said Samoset. "I saw him only a little while ago."

"Good!" said the chief. "Then seek first my young friend, for he loves Sassacus, and tell him, and do what he says. But if they cannot help, fly, like the swallow over the hills and streams, to the hunting grounds of my tribe, and say to my people that their Sachem is a wolf in a trap, and Neebin a slave to Owanux."

"What says he?" inquired Endicott, whose attention had been attracted by the longer speech, and somewhat raised tone of the Sagamore's voice.

"He says," answered Samoset, drawing readily on his invention, "that a great Sachem ought not to be put into a box for killing wolves who run into his wigwam."

A pleased expression lighted up the face of the captive chief at the answer, which he perfectly understood, as indeed he had much that had been spoken. His avoiding to use the English language, as through ignorance, having had for him, at least, the advantage of putting his examiners off their guard, and inducing them to speak more freely in his hearing. The tone of Samoset's voice, and the reply, satisfied the Pequot that he was secure of the interpreter's fidelity, and he stretched out both his arms, as though grasping his recovered liberty.

Endicott bent his brow at the reply, as a suspicion darted through his jealous mind; but the stolid mien of the Indian, who bore the look as if he had been a statue carved out of the heart of the cedars of his native hills, baffled his penetration.

"Why do I distrust him?" he murmured, under his thick moustache. "Yet is distrust the mother of safety, and in our situation a duty."

"Let him return now," said Winthrop, "and take order that every comfort be supplied consistent with safe keeping. Noble Sassacus," he added, "it grieves me that we meet and part thus."

The savage, who, through the whole interview, could not mistake the favorable sentiments of Winthrop, answered as before, in his own Pequot tongue.

"Sassacus understands the thoughts of chiefs, for he is one himself. The voice of the long knife (alluding to the rapier worn by Winthrop) is not so unpleasant to him as those of these counsellors, and he hopes that what he is about to say will be listened to as the words of a great Sagamore. Sassacus is very tired of lying in a box, but not afraid to die. Let him depart to his own country, or if the white chief will kill, let him, with his long knife, pierce the bosom of Sassacus, for the blood of a chief should be shed by a chief."

"It may not be, noble savage," said Winthrop, mournfully. "Such is not our custom. Yet be not cast down, but rely upon our justice."

The withdrawal of the captives was a signal for the discussion of what had been elicited by their examination. It had confirmed suspicions before entertained, and more than that, revealed an intimacy betwixt the Knight and Pequots, a warlike and restless, though not numerous tribe, which filled the minds of the Assistants with apprehension. If the influence of Sir Christopher (whom not one doubted to be a Catholic) extended as far as they suspected, he might make himself a formidable enemy. He had been able to induce the chief of the Pequots to intrust to him his own sister, to be taught the Catholic faith, doubtless intending to make her conversion the means of extending among the tribes the superstitions of Popery. The success of the plan was fraught with danger to the colony, for the new religion would be a means of reconciling the differences of the tribes, and binding them together, in a common union with the Eastern Indians, already much under the influence of the Romish priests. Favored secretly or openly by the French government, which they were sure to be, and supplied with fire-arms, they might become too powerful to be resisted, and, reversing the campaign of the Israelites in the wilderness, drive out those who had intruded into their Canaan, only themselves to fall finally a prey to the French, and to have one form of idolatry substituted for another. Sternly frowned Dudley, and grimly stroked Endicott his tufted chin, as they revolved such thoughts, and inly vowed, as they trusted in the God of Jacob, that such things should not be. The conclusion to which the council came, was that the Pequot and the woman should be detained in custody until the Knight was taken, whose capture they considered not difficult, and that then the fate of the three should be decided.

As for Samoset, he sought Arundel at the earliest opportunity when he could do so unnoticed, and acquainted him with the message of the chief. With this coadjutor it was easy to establish a communication with his friends in the forest, the consequences of which will presently be seen.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Old Ballad.

In order to secure the person of the Knight of the Golden Melice, several small parties were dispatched to scour the forest—another object being to protect the remoter colonists against wandering Taranteens, should any have the temerity to venture near the settlement. A reward was offered to the Indians for the apprehension of Sir Christopher—strict injunctions being given that he should be taken alive. An increased vigilance also was exercised over the rude prison wherein the captives were confined—a soldier being kept constantly on guard before its entrance.

On the plot in front the sentry was pacing his round on a night which was dark and threatening. No rain had fallen, but the clouds were constantly becoming denser, and it was plain that a storm might soon be expected. With the wind rose also the voice of the ocean, murmuring along the curving shores of the bay, distinctly heard in the silence of the night by the solitary soldier, whose thoughts it carried back to the sea-beaten island he had left.

"An' my guns deceive me not," he said to himself, "it should be past midnight. There is no moon, nor star, to be sure, to tell by, but I have mounted guard before, and my feelings let me know as surely as a dial what's the hour. Hark! (as a measured step was heard approaching) that must be Cowlson. Stand," he cried, "and give the countersign!"

"Poh! Job Bloyce," answered a voice. "You know my croak as well as your own; but babes and sucklings must be taught, and it is regular, so I will let you know lest you may have forgotten—the sling of David."

"Always full of thy nonsense," said Bloyce. "But what made thee so late?"

"Late is it? It can be but a matter of ten minutes past twelve, and it takes a little while to rub one's eyes and get them open after being called. Hast seen or heard anything on thy watch?"

"Nothing. I had better have been in my warm bed and asleep, considering the hoeing I must give my corn-field to-morrow, than be watching a skeary Indian and a woman."

"Thou hast little need to trouble thy gizzard on that score," returned Cowlson; "for, an' I mistake not greatly, the rain will fall heavy enough to spoil thy chance at hoeing. It is blacker than the darkness in Egypt. I cannot see the tip of thy nose."

"That is of no consequence. My nose is a white nose and no Indian's, and I take it that it is for the copper skins you are to watch."

"And they will be still harder to be seen. But I care not. I am good for ten Indians any day, though I expect not that they will venture to sneak into our streets, be it light or dark."

"Nevertheless, keep your eyes open, for thou mayest need them; so good night."

"Good night, and shut thine own, so soon as Dame Bloyce will permit thee."

The two knew not, so dark was the night, that a third person stood so near to them that he had overheard the whole of their dialogue. Soon after the departure of the first sentinel, his successor, Cowlson, seemed to consider it of very little importance to make his rounds with much diligence, and to be more intent on protecting himself from the rain, which began to fall, than to perform his duty. He, therefore, after a few turns, ensconced himself as comfortably as possible on the lee side of the building during the violence of the storm, taking advantage of occasional intermissions to resume his walk. The stranger waited until the little vigilance of the sentinel was relaxed, and, noting exactly the place where he had bestowed himself, stole noiselessly back to a group of three or four persons. Here a whispered conversation was carried on until the rain began to pour more violently, when, as if they thought it a favorable moment for their enterprise, the whole party began to move forward in Indian file—that is to say, following one another in a line—led by the man who had overheard the conversation of the soldiers. Such was the noise made by the falling drops, and so dark the night, that they had approached close to the sentry before he became aware of any one's presence. An accidental slipping of one of the men betrayed them, and, presenting his piece, he demanded the countersign.

"The sling of David," was the reply, and the sentry dropped the breech of the musket on the earth. He had hardly done so before he was violently seized. A strong hand grasped his throat; another was applied to his mouth; his piece was wrested from him, and, disarmed and unable to utter a cry, he was hurled to the ground. His hands and feet were then bound; a gag inserted into his mouth; his coat taken off and muffled around his head to stifle the least sound, and he was then removed to a little distance behind the building, and one left to guard him and give notice of any approach. The rest of the party next proceeded to the door of the cabin occupied by the jailer Bars. A light was burning inside, but it was impossible, through the oiled paper, to see anything within. He who appeared to be the leader, having disposed his men on each side of the door, rapped upon it. No answer was returned, and it was not until after repeated rappings, and the patience of the strangers was becoming exhausted, and they had begun to consult respecting bursting open the door, when some one was heard moving and growling at the disturbance of his slumbers.

"Who is there?" he demanded, impatiently.

A low voice from the outside now entreated to be let in, for a moment, out of the rain.

"Nay," returned Bars. "You put no foot into my house, at this time of night, without the countersign."

"The sling of David," replied the voice.

"All right," said Bars, beginning to unbar the door, "But what do you"—

He was unable to finish the sentence, for, as soon as the door turned on its hinges, a rush was made by those on the outside, and poor Bars, half clothed, rudely upset on the floor. "Murder," he undertook to cry, but his throat was choked whenever he attempted to make a sound, and he was soon disposed of in like manner as the sentinel, and thrust into a corner, after having discovered that his assailants were Indians. All this, with however little noise accomplished, could not be done without disturbing Dame Bars, who, from the closet where she slept, inquired what was the matter. One of the party thereupon gliding over the floor with moccasoned feet, presented himself with finger on lip before her. Terror benumbed the tongue of the poor woman at the sight, and the cry she strove to utter died in her throat. By smiles and gestures the Indian endeavored to satisfy her that no injury was designed, and then, as if to confirm his peaceable intentions, retired, drawing the door after him; and frightened, though in some slight degree re-assured, the dame employed the respite in clothing herself in her day-apparel.

Meanwhile, one of the Indians, who had found two or three large keys tied together, had taken them from the peg where they hung and proceeded to the prison. His actions evinced a strange familiarity with the place. He advanced straight to the prison door, and, fitting the key, presently stood in the narrow passage which ran round the two cells into which the central part was divided. Only one of these was locked. Opening it, he called, in a low tone—"Sassacus."

"Who wants Sassacus?" asked the chief in his own language out of the darkness, for the stranger had come without a light.

"I do not understand your gibberish," answered the other. "Know you not Philip's voice?"

"Thou hast come to place the feet of Sassacus on the forest leaves. Quick! O good white man! and free him," cried the impatient chief.

Philip, guided by the sounds, bent down, and feeling for the shackles which confined the legs of the captive, soon unfastened them, and the liberated Sagamore stretched out with delight his cramped limbs. "Sassacus," he said, "shall see again the pleasant river of the Pequots, and he will deliver Neebin from the robbers." Then following Joy, the two entered, noiselessly, the cabin of the jailer.

During the absence of Joy, a scene of a different kind had been passing. The Lady Geraldine, aroused by the sounds, had left her couch, and appeared among the intruders. She manifested no fear at sight of the Indians, (for what had she to dread from those who had always shown her kindness?) and when owe of them glided to her side, she strove not to avoid him.

"Celestina!" said a well-known voice in her ear, "hasten to accompany me from this wretched den, and the tyranny of your oppressors."

She started at the first sound, but quickly recovering herself, replied, in a tone as low:

"Of what avail? My usefulness here is ended. I will give place to another, and Heaven will employ me somewhere else."

"Be it so," said the Knight; "yet fly, for the sake of thy liberty, perhaps of thy life."

"I fear not for my life," she added; "and as for my liberty, I cannot long be deprived of it."

"Time flies! What madness is this? I have risked my life to rescue thee, and now dost thou reject my service?"

"I cannot fly with thee. Better to die."

"What strange language do I hear? What mean you? Explain quickly, for our time is short."

"I have no explanation, except that I will not go. The heretics may rage, but the virgin will protect me."

"O, listen!" urged the Knight. "You shall be delivered from this atrocious persecution. I will take thee to the French settlements, where thou wilt be secure, and mistress of thine own movements."

"And thereby seem to admit the truth of all wherewith we are charged. That were in some sort a betrayal of our trust, and what neither thou nor I may do."

"Call you the preservation of our liberty and lives a betrayal of trust? Celestina, grief hath crazed thy brain."

"Nay, Sir Christopher, I have thought over all these things, and the virgin inspires my determination. I will do nought to confirm a suspicion already entertained, that we are Catholics, which would be turned into certainty, were we to take refuge among our French neighbors. Thus should we make the task more difficult for the successors who must take our places, since we have been found unworthy."

"Then we will remain among the Indians, if that please thee better."

"To bring trouble upon them for their hospitality; to cause them to be hunted on our account, like wild beasts. Thy generosity would disdain safety purchased by another's suffering."

"We will go to some distant tribe. Anything is better than to remain in the hands of these pitiless fanatics."

"I dread them not," answered Sister Celestina, loftily. "The talisman of the true faith will preserve me."

"Is, then, thy resolution fixed beyond change? Will no prayers, no entreaties change thee?"

"It is better thus: the poor Sister Celestina knows how to suffer and to die, but not how to desert the post entrusted to her by her superiors."

At this moment Joy and Sassacus entered, and the former, approaching the Knight, informed him that all was ready for a start.

"I am ready," said the Knight. "Yet, once again, before I hasten away, O, Celestina, come! I cannot bear to leave thee with these men with natures rougher than the savage."

"If I were to tell thee all," she said, moved by his importunities, "thou thyself wouldst bid me remain. Noble gentleman! unfortunate and slandered Knight, save thyself from thine enemies. Hasten away; there is danger in every moment's delay. Whatever may become of me, no fault is thine."

She took his hand in hers, and as she pressed it to her lips, the Knight felt a tear trickling over its surface.

"Farewell, then," he said, "since it must be so; but I will hover near to assist thee, shouldst thou change thy resolution."

He turned away, greeted the Sagamore, and, with his followers, began to leave the cabin. As he passed the jailer, he stooped, and, removing the gag from his mouth, looked at him steadily an instant, and then placed two broad gold pieces on the floor before him.

The lady pursued with her eyes the retreating figures till swallowed up by the darkness. "I will bear my cross as I may," she said to herself, "for I deserve it for all my unhappy suspicions of his generous nature. But I will do nothing which may give further color to the malignant charge devised by the justly-slain Spikeman, and taken up by his associates. An escape with him were sure to do that. The tongue of calumny would wag, and the finger of scorn be universally pointed at me, and all would cry, 'aha! we said it.' Such triumph shall not mine enemies have over me."

Her meditations were interrupted by Bars, who now begged her to release him from bondage, or call his wife to do the friendly office for him.

"I desire to take you to witness," said the lady, "that, though flight was in my power, I have not availed myself of the opportunity. Say that to my oppressors, to increase the guilt of their cruelty."

"I will say what you please," Answered Bars, peevishly, "an' you will untie me."

"I will do so, if you promise to make no hue and cry."

"What should I want of tramping after Indians in the dark, and perhaps catch an arrow in my paunch for my pains?" groaned the jailer; "though I have some notions of my own about the Indian part of the business."

"Trusting thy promise, I will relieve thee from thy bonds," said the lady, cutting the cords.

"I made no promise," said Bars, as soon as he was set at liberty, "though I will behave as if I had. These be brave Indians," he said to himself, slyly taking up the gold, "and pay handsomely for their right to be considered such. An' it be thy pleasure that it should be so," he added aloud, "these golden Indians shall remain Indians till the day of judgment, for all Bars—"

Dame Bars, now, from her nook, made her appearance on the scene.

"O, Sam!" she exclaimed, "be they gone, and have not they scalped you?"

"You can look for yourself, wife," answered Sam, passing his fingers through his shock of hair, as if to satisfy any doubts of his own. "But what should they want with my scalp, I wonder."

"I am sure I can't tell what they do with such things," said the dame, "unless to cover their own heads when they get bald."

"A pretty figure," grunted Bars, "my red crop would make on the top of one of them salvages. It never will come to that, goody. But I must not stay here talking about scalps, when, perhaps, the poor sentinel may have lost his." And he started toward the door.

"O do not go, do not go, Sam!" said his wife, throwing her arms around him; "they may be watching for thee on the outside."

"Women be always cowards," said the jailer; "but thou need not hug me so tight now. I warrant, having got what they wanted, they are in the woods before this time."

"Yet stay a little longer," persisted his wife. "If the poor soldier be murdered, thou canst do him no good."

"You forget, goody, that I am a public officer, and must do my duty," said Sam, extricating himself from her grasp; and, lighting a lantern, he went out of doors.

Bars directed his course straight to the door of the prison, which he found open.

"It is as I expected," he thought, "There is no use in going in. The Indian's long legs are loping far away in the forest, be sure. Cowlson! friend Cowlson!" he asked, "art thou dead, or only scalped?"

He listened for an answer, but none was returned. Proceeding round the little building, he soon found what he sought—the soldier, tied by the neck and heels, in a most uncomfortable posture, and soaked with the rain.

"Humph!" ejaculated Bars; "these salvages be learning civilization fast. An' I had done it myself, I could not have tied the knot with more judgment."

The soldier (to add to whose misfortunes, his musket was gone, together with the powder and ball wherewith he had been furnished) felt in no talking humor, and sulkily followed the jailer into the house, where he recovered his speech, and recounted his portion of the adventures of the night. Bars pretended to believe that the party consisted entirely of Indians; of which, however, Cowlson could by no means be persuaded; "for how," asked he, "could they learn our countersign?"

"They be cunning vermin," said Bars. "But now, that I recollect, methinks that when they deceived me it sounded a little heathenish."

"Then, why did you admit them?" demanded Cowlson.

"A fine question for you to ask, Jim Cowlson. An' I had not, the chance is they would have bowled you off with them, as a hostage for the sachem, and like as not burned us up besides. But the fact is, I was half asleep. An' I had been wide awake, perhaps I would have discovered the trick. And who would have guessed that Indians knew anything about countersigns? I wonder how they found it out."

"I must report this night's work forthwith," said Cowlson, rising; "but I had almost as lief have lost my scalp as my musket."

The disconsolate soldier accordingly wended on his way, to tell the best story he could to save himself from blame; while Bars, after relocking his empty prison, and barring his door, snuggled himself alongside his partner to busy his rather obtuse brain with schemes of a like nature on his own behalf.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Anonymous.

While with rapid steps through the tempestuous night the retiring party were seeking the forest, one of them, the only one in the dress of the whites, and who for that reason had not ventured into the cabin of the jailer, but had kept watch on the outside, approaching Sassacus, said:

"Let the feet of the chief be swift, for many warriors will be after him with the morning light."

"My brother!" said the delighted Sagamore, recognizing the voice of Arundel. "Let not my brother be afraid. The forest loves Sassacus, and tells him all its secrets."

"Yet remain not here, my friend, my Sassacus, nor be troubled about Neebin. I will take care of her, and she shall be restored to thee."

"Sassacus trusts his young white brother," said the Indian, "He hears Neebin singing by the river of the Pequots."

"We part here, and perhaps forever," said Arundel. "Farewell, Sagamore. A nobler heart than thine never beat in savage or Christian bosom. I will never forget you."

He wrung the hand of the chief, and, turning, was instantly lost in the darkness.

The occasion permitted no further words, and, as the two separated, it was with a glow of pleasure on the part of each. Arundel reflected with satisfaction on the success of his enterprise, and the Sagamore's enjoyment of his recovered freedom was heightened by the thought that he had been remembered by one who had so much attracted him. The young man succeeded in reaching his quarters without being discovered, and we now leave him, to accompany those with whom he had been associated.

So well had their measures been taken, and with such good fortune executed, that they were already deep in the woods before the settlement was aroused by the alarm given by the sentinel.

"They may make as much noise as they choose, for their own pleasure," said Philip, laughing, as the report of the culverins, which startled the colonists from their sleep, were heard; "but it is only a useless pother, and a vain rubbing of drowsy eyes. I should like to see how valiant Captain Endicott will look, when he finds that the bird has flown."

"In thy present habiliments of a savage?" said the Knight.

"Nay," answered the soldier. "I care not to be seen naked, and stained up like an Aberginian. I was half ashamed of myself, especially before the lady, though there was not much light."

"It were well," said the Knight, "to cast our slough before we chance to be seen by Indians, notwithstanding they may be friendly. We must retire deep, too, into the forest, for I mistake much the character of Winthrop and his council, if desperate means be not adopted to avenge the doings of this night."

This indeed appeared to be the opinion of all, to judge from the haste with which they pushed steadily on, resting not until they had reached the wigwam of the chief whereto Spikeman had been taken. Here, the first care of the white men was to wash off the paint from their persons, not without a half-jesting objection from the Sagamore.

"The two friends of Sassacus," he said, "have Indian hearts; why should they not keep their Indian skins? Let them come with me, and they shall become great sachems over the tribes that listen to the voice of the little salt lake."

Philip, who was in high spirits at the success of their enterprise, and whose philosophy enabled him always to enjoy the present moment, was ready with an answer.

"A tempting offer," he said; "and, by the head of King Charles, (his favorite oath), better, I trow, than this hand-to-mouth life we have lately been leading. Plenty of bear's meat and venison, and no prisons, Sagamore! Verily, thy words are pleasant."

"The deer shall come to lick the hands of my brothers, and the bear offer his steaks, and they will be as free as the wind on the tops of the hills. They shall also have many squaws, and young wives shall smile on them when the old are wrinkled and cross."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Philip. "I misdoubt whether that would suit all round. But, Sagamore, if I should ever have the luck to get a nice white squaw, I will ask her opinion; and if she fancies the plan of my having half a dozen wives, I will consider it."

"A truce to this trifling," said Sir Christopher. "It is all sport with thee, Philip, but dost not remark it begins to be earnest with the chief?"

"He is quick-witted enough to understand," answered Joy. "Why, Sir Christopher, these salvages laugh so seldom, that they ought to be encouraged when they begin. I fear me that the long faces of the folk at the settlement are catching, and that the poor Indians are more than half spoiled already. Now, according to my judgment, it is a human privilege to laugh. Some say, to be sure, that dogs and horses laugh, but I never heard anything that amounted to more than a snicker, and that I suppose they caught from being with people."

"Sassacus," said the Knight, "this is no longer any place for thee. The white men are at this moment seeking me, and will soon be also on thy track, and show no mercy. The voices of thy tribe are shouting thy name through the forest, and calling thee home. Here and now we part."

"Sassacus is troubled," replied the Sagamore, "about his little sister. How shall he answer his mother, when she asks after Neebin?"

"Neebin is in no danger," said the Knight; "and though she were, thy remaining could do no good. But I will stay, and if artifice can avail—for force we have none—Neebin shall be restored to her mother."

"My brother speaks well," said the Sagamore, having thus secured another guardian for the sister whom he tenderly loved. "He shall stay, but Sassacus will return to the river of the Pequots, and will speak a loud word in the ears of his tribe, and they shall fill their quivers with arrows, and sharpen their tomahawks, and many will come back with him to ask for Neebin. Sassacus will go alone, and will leave Towanquattick."

"Leave not the Paniese behind," said the Knight. "That were only to expose him to unnecessary danger."

But the chief was not be diverted from his purpose. To every objection he replied: "A great chief takes not back the word he has spoken. Were he to do so, what would become of the respect of his people?"

Yet, notwithstanding the peremptory tone wherewith he had announced his determination, very soft was the voice, and gentle the manner of the Sagamore, as he addressed his follower:

"Towanquattick," he said, "is my friend, and will watch over the little Pequot bird that has strayed into the trap of Owanux."

"Towanquattick will watch," was the answer.

"Stay to teach the little bird to fly away, or until I return with my warriors. Sassacus goes now like a brook just starting from the ground; but he will come back like a mighty river when angry 'Hpoon pours its swollen waters into the salt lake. Sassacus hath said."

The words were pronounced with a dignity and gravity that impressed those who heard them, and seemed to communicate some of the daring of the speaker; but the wiser Knight saw the rashness of their import, and determined to convince the Sagamore of the impolicy of the course proposed. Taking him for that purpose on one side, that the chief might speak uninfluenced by the presence of his follower, he represented to him the superior strength of the English, and the impossibility of prevailing in any contest until a complete union was established among the tribes.

"Behold!" he said: "these strangers are as one man, and across the salt lake come in ships from time to time fresh forces. They are clad in armor thy arrows' cannot pierce, and wield the thunder and the lightning. What have the Pequots to oppose, but naked bodies and uncertain arrows?"

"Owanux are few, and the Indians many," replied the Sagamore. "Sassacus will bury the tomahawk with the Narraghansetts, and exchange wampompeag with the Taranteens, and they unite against the strangers. The eyes of Sassacus are opened. There can be no peace with Owanux."

"Good!" answered the Knight, whose apprehensions, lest plans which he cherished might be defeated by the precipitancy of the chief, were quieted by the answer, knowing that the pacification of the tribes among themselves was no easy matter, and would require time. "Good! the eyes of the Sagamore are sharp. He is wise when he says that he will do nothing until he has made friends with the Narraghansetts and the Taranteens. Farewell, then, and be that the compact between us."

The chief now turned away, and, calling Towanquattick, the two began to dig a hole in the ground with pointed sticks. The white men, looked on in silence, rightly judging it to be some ceremony, and waiting for its explanation. After a cavity of a foot in depth, and about the same diameter was dug, the Indians ceased their labor, and the chief answered the wondering eyes of his friends.

"This hole," he said, "shall tell all Indians who see it of the captivity of Sassacus, and of the white men, his deliverers."

"I never heard before of a hole talking," said Joy.

"It will talk," said the chief. "When Sassacus passes by with his Paniese he will tell them that here was a great parting, and Towanquattick will do so also, and they shall tell it it to their children, and so the tale shall run, as the waters of a spring follow one another until they become a lake. So the hole shall speak, long after I have departed with my friends for the happy hunting grounds. Hole!" he added, addressing it as if it were capable of understanding what he said, "Sassacus is sad because he leaves Neebin behind, but say thou not that. Say to all who behold thee, that Soog-u-gest and Sassacus were friends; say that when Owanux put Sassacus into a box, Soog-u-gest and two other white men, and Towanquattick, let him out; say that Soog-u-gest and the other white men, and Towanquattick, remain to watch that no harm shall happen to Neebin, whom Owanux have made a prisoner; and say that Sassacus has gone after his warriors. This is enough for thee, O hole, to remember. Forget not lest thou be ashamed."

While the Pequot chief was speaking, the Paniese paid the strictest attention, evidently striving to fasten the speech in his memory. It was a custom common among the natives, though witnessed by the Knight and Joy for the first time, whereby, on the same principle that more civilized communities erect monuments to perpetuate the memory of events, the Indians transmitted to posterity matters of interest. The hole was usually dug either by the side of some traveled path or on the spot where the event desired to be commemorated took place. They who passed by naturally inquired into its meaning, and the facts, known to few at first, became of public notoriety.

When the ceremony was completed, the Sagamore of the Pequots, as if unwilling by further words to confuse the record, turned away in silence, and took his solitary way through the forest, to seek the seat of his tribe.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Dryden.

The colonists were exasperated at the breaking of the prison, justly concluding that it was not entirely the work of Indians, notwithstanding Bars, faithful to the impression made on him by the gold pieces, stoutly maintained such to be the fact; and that Cowlson was unable to contradict him. But it was, after all, only suspicion—a suspicion, too, that pointed at various persons. While some, with a lucky sagacity, ascribed the violence done their authority to the Knight, as a leader; there were those who suspected others, of whom they would gladly be rid. For, however desirous the great bulk of the colonists were that only they of their own moral habits and modes of thinking should be connected with their enterprise, it was impossible completely to exclude the obnoxious. Some would creep in, and the colony resembled a draught of fishes from the rivers in the spring, when the schools are running; wherein, although the great majority are shad or salmon, occasional intruders of other scales and stripes are found. This little minority were watched with Argus eyes—every transgression being visited with exemplary punishment—the hand of Justice being made heavier by two considerations, viz: difference of opinion, and a desire to drive away recusants, who were regarded as vessels doomed to destruction, and whose presence was held to be dangerous. That was no era of toleration, but of fierce, intractable dogma. The breach betwixt Protestants then was almost, if not quite, as wide as between Protestants and Catholics now. Opinion, bold, enthusiastic opinion, calling itself by the gracious name of saving faith, usurped the place and prerogative of reason; and, as from a Papal chair, denounced, as damnable error, whatever harmonized not with itself. In this strife of ignorances, the amenities and charities of life were lost sight of and forgotten; and, if not quite trampled out of existence, it was owing more to that celestial spark which, with a dimmer or a brighter light, guides every man who comes into the world than to the lessons of the teachers. Men were dismissed from the colony, or otherwise punished, on bare suspicion of wrong-doing or wrong-thinking. Nor is it unlikely that hostility in high places may have availed itself of this laxity of law to gratify private malignity.

Hence, let it not be wondered at, that, in consequence of the prison breach, several innocent persons were arrested, whose modes of life or principles of faith came not up to the orthodox standard. If their apprehension answered no other purpose, it, at least, served to weaken the desire of the suspected persons to remain where they were not wanted.

Hitherto the magistrates had been foiled, but failure only increased their vigilance and activity. Additional men were despatched to scour the woods; word was sent to Salem and to Plymouth, and co-operation to capture the fugitives asked for; rewards were offered for their seizure; and, in fine, no means omitted which indomitable will and ingenuity could devise. So hot, at length, became the chase, that, familiar as they were with the woods, Sir Christopher and his companions found it difficult to avoid capture. They had it, indeed, in their power to place themselves in comparative safety, either by following the steps of the Pequot chief, or seeking the Taranteens—for to the west they dared not go, for fear of the tribes in that direction, who were at feud with those on the Atlantic border—but various considerations interfered to prevent. With neither Sir Christopher nor the Indian was mere personal safety a ruling motive. The former had not abandoned all hope of changing the strange resolution of Sister Celestina, with whom he determined, on accomplishing her release, to proceed with Neebin to the country of the Pequots—in this way only transferring their labors to another place—and with the latter, the charge wherewith he was entrusted was too sacred for any cause to be neglected. Flying from their posts, even though bands of enemies were after them, was therefore not to be thought of. As for Philip, his wild, reckless nature took pleasure in their adventurous mode of life; satisfied, besides, that were he even made prisoner, no serious punishment could befall him, unless his participation in the prison-breach became known, which, he confided too much in the fidelity of his associates to believe was possible. Seldom daring, therefore, to discharge their fire-locks, but depending principally on the arrows of the Indian, and snares they set for subsistence, occasionally aided by the friendly natives with whom the Knight was a favorite, and constantly changing their places, the three continued to elude the search, and the baffled soldiers were obliged to return, digesting their disappointment as they might, and asserting that those whom they sought had left the neighborhood. To make assurance sure and to stimulate the Indians to exertions, which the magistrates were certain had never been made, higher rewards were offered for the capture of Sir Christopher in particular, which, it was supposed, the cupidity of the natives would be unable to resist.

Among the Indians trusted by Sir Christopher, none had contrived to secure a greater share of his confidence than Quecheco, the frequent and favored companion of his hunts. The skill of the Indian in hunting had, at first, recommended him to the Knight, and afterwards, the interest of the latter in his protegé was increased by the attention with which Quecheco listened to instruction and by the intelligence of his questions. Hitherto he had always been found faithful, in consequence whereof the haunts of the outlyers were not concealed from him, and he was employed to procure information from the English settlements, and depended on, generally, as a confederate. Quecheco was not without affection; in proof whereof, he had withstood the bribe at first offered for the capture of Sir Christopher, but his feeble virtue finally succumbed. There was one temptation which he was unable to withstand. He had frequently been a witness of the effectiveness of the gun in the hands of the Knight, and, with a hunter's love, conceived a longing to possess one. This was no easy matter to be accomplished, furnishing guns to Indians being strictly prohibited, and such weapons taken away whenever found in their possession. Quecheco now thought he saw an opportunity of gratifying a desire that had become a mania, and determined that a gun should be the price of his friend's liberty.

With this view, at one of his visits to Plymouth, or Accomack, he sought Governor Bradford, with whom he was acquainted, and proposed to deliver the Knight into his hands, in consideration of the coveted gun and a certain quantity of powder and ball. Much as was desired the capture of Sir Christopher, Bradford hesitated, but finally promised the bribe, stipulating for the life of the Knight, considering that the rule might bear infringement in a single instance, for the sake of the object to be attained; and from that moment Quecheco begun his work of treachery.

In consequence of the activity of the search, the fugitives had been obliged not only often to change their hiding-place, but sometimes to remove to a considerable distance from Boston. One of their favorite resorts was near Plymouth, both because they were less likely to be suspected to lurk in a vicinity where the Knight had no acquaintances, and also on account of a greater abundance of game. Here the two white men often remained without Towanquattick, who, less liable to discovery, hovered around the spot where was the sister of his Sagamore.

Such being the state of things, Quecheco selected the neighborhood of Plymouth (on account of the absence of Towanquattick, betwixt whom and himself a feeling of mutual dislike existed, caused in his jealous mind by the favor which the Knight had lately shown the Pequot, and which he esteemed a derogation of his rights) as the theatre of his plot, and here we find Sir Christopher at this moment.

"Our larder is exhausted, Philip," said the Knight one morning, "and must be replenished. Shall we try our fortune together?"

"I am always ready," answered Philip. "It is two days since I stretched my legs, and, by my halidome, I shall forget how to use them, without more practice."

"Methinks," replied the Knight, smiling, "it is less than a week since I saw legs much resembling thine moving with marvellous celerity."

"When this copper-hide here showed us Venn's band, within a hundred yards of the old wigwam, right under Winthrop's nose, in the swamp. Aye, it was high time to be moving; but it was unkind of Venn to burn our quarters, seeing that I had been a sergeant in his company.

"Quecheco, my line fellow," said Sir Christopher, "thou didst us a service on that day not to be forgotten, and now we must look to thee for another. Where shall we hunt?"

"Let Soog-u-gest and Quecheco go a little towards Accomack, where I saw yesterday some deer, and the sanop toward the setting sun," answered the Indian.

"Go thou with Philip, and I will take my chance alone," said the Knight:

"The chief must not go alone," said the Indian. "Quecheco will go to carry the deer which Soog-u-gest will shoot."

"A sensible Indian," said Philip. "Take him with you, Sir Christopher. For my part, I do not want his copper skin gliding like a snake among the bushes; and, Sir Christopher, look sharp, and see if I bring not back as much game as you and your friend."

"I accept the challenge," said the Knight, good-humoredly, "and will take him, since you prefer to go alone."

"I will none of him. He is thy valley-doo-doo—a murrain on mounseer for his hard words; and why a waiting-man should be called a valley, more than a mountain, or a river, doth pass my understanding."

"An interesting mystery. Yet is its solution unnecessary at the present. Get thy bow and quiver, Quecheco, and we will see by evening how Philip's boastings will turn out."

"And, hark ye, red-skin," cried the soldier, "take care that thou bring back Soog-u-gest, as thou callest Sir Christopher, safe, and with a good appetite to eat my game."

In spite of his habitual self-possession, the Indian started. A guilty conscience began already to affright him, and for an instant he fancied his purpose detected.

"What ails thee?" asked the Knight, regarding him with a quick, keen glance.

"Quecheco hurt his foot," answered the Indian, with a limp, and bending down to hide his face from the sharp eyes.

"Poor fellow, then, remain behind, and we will hunt for thee, who hast done so often for us."

"Quah!" exclaimed the Indian, with a gesture of disdain, "It is nothing. See, Quecheco can run like a deer," And with that he sprung round with great agility, as if to make good his words.

"Enough," said the Knight; "reserve thy breath until it is wanted."

The course taken by the two was toward the south, as recommended by the savage, in order to find the herd which he said he had seen the day before.

"Why, then, brought you back no venison!" asked the Knight.

"The deer was quicker than the arrow of Quecheco," returned the Indian; "but he will not escape," he added, looking with admiring eyes at Sir Christopher's gun, "the round stone which Soog-u-gest will throw at him."

"I have often seen thee," said the Knight, "gaze at my piece with such eyes as the sight of thy squaw, after long absence, might kindle up. Were it not sure to be thy ruin, I could find it in my heart to give it thee."

The eyes of Quecheco flashed. "Give me the stick," he cried, "that makes a loud noise, and Quecheco will do a great thing."

"I have done wrong," thought the Knight, "in raising his expectations. Nay, Quecheco," he said, "it would be taken away from thee by the white men, and who would sell thee powder and ball!"

"Nin-e-yi-u wa-wee," (it is well,) said the Indian. "Soog-u-gest flies so high that he sees a great way, and Quecheco spoke like a pappoose. What has he to do with guns?"

The gift of the gun would have diverted the savage from his purpose, by awakening the affection which covetousness had put to sleep, and probably altered the fate of Sir Christopher and himself; but the answer of the Knight dispelled the hope that for a single instant warmed the heart of Quecheco with better feeling, and he persisted in his original design.

They had walked several miles without seeing any game of importance, or such as was thought worthy of other attention than the arrows of the Indian, before they reached the spot indicated by him as where he had marked the deer the day previous. It was a falsehood invented by Quecheco, and great was his astonishment, on approaching, to behold a herd of a dozen of these timid creatures.

It was a sort of lawn, of six or seven acres in extent, with a few trees scattered over it, where they were feeding. The shape of the ground was an irregular oblong, in some places not more than a hundred yards across, and in others of double the distance, being like a basin, at a depression of twenty or thirty feet below where the Knight stood, concealed by trees and bushes. At the bottom flowed a small, rapid stream, perhaps three rods wide, interposing itself betwixt him and the herd. Sir Christopher had visited the locality before, and was familiar with its features; and expecting game, from the story of Quecheco, had taken care to approach with the wind in his face, to avoid the scent of his person being carried to the delicate nostrils of the animals while he stepped noiselessly along. The Indian, in order the better to carry out his meditated deceit, had been imitating the Knight's conduct, and on the discovery of the deer, his hunter's instinct induced him to continue what his hypocrisy had begun. Selecting the finest buck from the herd, Sir Christopher levelled his piece and fired. A single instant stood, with erected heads, the beautiful creatures, as if stupefied with astonishment, and then all but one vanished in the wood—all but the stricken buck, who made one bound, and fell to the earth. The prodigious leap testified to the extremity of his terror and his hurt; and vain struggles to rise from his knees, to its fatal character. With eyes fixed upon the struggling deer, the Knight reloaded his gun, and then bounded down the declivity after him.

Arrived at the margin of the stream, he discovered a canoe drawn up a little way on the bank, approaching which, to push it into the water, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a number of Indians. They were the confederates of Quecheco, who had been for some time lying in wait in the thick bushes. Simultaneously rushing forward, they attempted to seize him; but this was no easy matter. A resolute, athletic man, with body and sinews hardened; by his hunter's life, and accustomed to exercise command over the natives, Sir Christopher shook roughly off the hands laid on him, and shouting, "ha, villains!—death to traitors!" presented his gun, before the terror of whose fatal lightning his assailants recoiled. Keeping the muzzle of the piece directed at them, and threatening with it any one who made a motion to draw near, the Knight succeeded in getting the canoe afloat, when, jumping in, he pushed from the shore. With a pole found in the canoe, he strove to urge it across the stream; but, embarrassed with watching his enemies, and swept down by the current, the effort was attended with great difficulty. Meanwhile, the savages, who had hitherto forborne any act that might endanger life, bearing in mind their instructions, became apprehensive of losing him, and excited by his resistance, began to shoot arrows at him. One of the missiles took effect in the right arm of the Knight, just above the elbow, and the pole dropped from his hand. At the same instant the canoe struck against a submerged rock and upset. Taking advantage of the accident, the Indians sprung into the water, and succeeded in mastering his person.

"Quecheco," said the Knight, reproachfully, as he stood upon the bank, "is it thou, and thou, too, Negabamat, who treat me as an enemy? Why this violence?"

"Soog-u-gest is wanted among his own people," said Quecheco, who had possessed himself of the much coveted gun which had fallen into the water. "Indians will not hurt him."

"Quecheco, thou art a villain," said the Knight; "but if not an incarnate demon, outrage me not further than is necessary for thy base purpose."

Thus spoke Sir Christopher, seeing that preparations were made to confine his arms with withes. The Indians said something among themselves, and at length Quecheco replied:

"Soog-u-gest always speaks the truth. Let him promise not to run away, and his arms shall be free."

"I promise," said the Knight, who, in spite of his treatment, could not but feel pleased at this evidence of the confidence in his truth with which he had inspired the natives. "Take the powder horn and bullets," he added, detaching them from his person. "I will attend you."

At a sign from Quecheco the Indians released Sir Christopher, nor seemed after that to trouble themselves much with watching him.

An Indian, who had crossed the stream, now returned bearing the slain buck on his back, and threw it down on the grass, and his companions with pleased faces gathered around it. Sir Christopher, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of his situation, could not avoid smiling.

"Nature's children!" he said to himself, "It would have pained me had I unfortunately killed one of them. Blessed Jesu, I thank thee for saving me from bloodshedding."

He threw himself on the ground, and watched their proceedings in cooking the venison with some interest, for he was hungry, and, when it was ready, partook of it with them as though they had been a party of friendly hunters, nor would any one have suspected that he was a prisoner. Having thus placed himself on terms as little disagreeable as possible with his captors, Sir Christopher endeavored, while they were under the influence of the welcome dinner, to dissuade them from their purpose in regard to himself, but on this point he found remonstrance useless. The Indians were not inclined to talk about it, and either preserved a total silence, or simply said that the white chief at Accomack had sent them. When they had eaten up the buck, they started with the Knight in the direction of Plymouth.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Morton's New England's Memorial.

The ancient town of Plymouth has probably about as much resemblance to what it was two hundred years ago, as an ante-diluvian at a like age had to his boyhood. Were Governor Bradford, whose worth is more quaintly than poetically delineated in the above lines, Captain Miles Standish, Master Thomas Prince, or any other worthies of those days of peaked hats and falling bands to revisit the scenes of their pilgrim labors, I fancy that they would find it difficult at first to recognize them. By the eternal features, only, of nature, the sparkling waters of the bay, the waving line of its shore, and by the eminences not wholly levelled, would the site be identified, and the likeness traced. Only with memory, assisted by these marks, might they be able, as the moonbeams fell upon their pale faces, and they stroked their solemn beards, to exclaim—here stood our Plymouth.

As it presented itself that day to the eyes of Sir Christopher Gardiner, surrounded by his Indian escort, it seemed an inconsiderable village lying on the slope of a hill, dropping towards the sea. A broad street, some eight hundred yards long, led down the hill, and was crossed nearly in the middle by another, the ends of which were protected by gates made of solid planks—the fourth end, viz: that on the hay, being without any barricade. The houses were rude and small, constructed of hewn planks, and stood in areas, around which were thrown fences made also of plank, serving as very effectual stockades against any sudden attack, and bidding defiance to the simple enginery of the natives. Near the centre was the Governor's house (built in like manner), and in front of it, at the intersection of the streets, a square block, answering the purposes of a fort, and mounted with four patereros, or small cannon, commanded the streets and four points of entrance. On the top of the hill, a large square edifice with a flat roof, whereupon were placed six cannons, shooting balls of four or five pounds, dominated the surrounding country. The upper part of this building served for a fort, and the lower for public worship and meetings generally. On the whole, as against arrows and tomahawks, it was a very pretty fortified place, and would not have been found fault with by Vauban himself, could he have had the good fortune to behold it.

The Knight passed through one of the open gates, which were closed only at night, and proceeded straight to the residence of the Governor. Here he was delivered by the Indians to Bradford, who chid them for wounding Sir Christopher. They excused themselves on the ground of his resistance, declaring that the wound was trivial, and had merely numbed his arm for a moment. (Such, indeed, proved to be a fact, when, shortly afterwards, the broken piece of the arrow was cut out.) The Indians were dismissed with the promised presents, Quecheco being permitted to retain the coveted gun of the Knight as part of his reward. A moment's digression to record the fate of the savage, and we will return to Sir Christopher.

Proud was the Indian of his new acquisition, with its gold and silver ornaments, so far surpassing in beauty all other pieces he had seen, and affectionately he caressed it, calling it his week-su-buck otaw, (sweetheart,) and often repeating, gee-wawee-fee-yi-ee, i.e., you are welcome. He was alone in the forest, the others having departed in different directions, and was on his way to Boston, where he expected to get more of the powder and ball for which he had covenanted. It was the day after his treachery, and he had nearly accomplished his journey, only three or four miles remaining between him and his place of destination, when he heard a rustling in the bushes, and saw Towanquattick advancing. He had first been seen by the Pequot, who, recognizing him, came unsuspiciously forward. Instantly saw Quecheco the consequences of being found by Towanquattick in possession of the gun, with which the latter was familiar as the property of Sir Christopher, and this thought, combining with his hatred, made him suddenly raise the weapon and fire at the approaching Pequot. The forest rang with the report, and as Quecheco, unpractised in the use of fire-arms, having discharged the piece but a few times, recovered himself, he beheld Towanquattick fitting an arrow to his bow. Seizing the tomahawk out of his belt, Quecheco hurled it at the Pequot as the arrow whizzed from the string, but both weapons failed of their mark. Drawing his own tomahawk, the Pequot in turn threw it at his foe, who escaped by a sudden movement of the body.

The two Indians now stood regarding one another with looks of rage, and took the knives off their necks. Neither spoke a word. Each understood the other, and with flashing eyes watched to take an advantage. They were both powerful men, well matched in size and age, and equally armed, so that upon fortune and skill, more than upon brute strength, the result was likely to depend.

Presently, each grasping the knife in his right hand, and bending over, ready for a spring, they began, with eyes fixed on one another, to move round and round, watching for a favorable opportunity to make the fatal dart. Thus, occasionally increasing the rapidity of their movements, then relaxing their swiftness again, they moved in circles several times, but without drawing within striking distance. The thought occurred to both of throwing the knife, which, if skilfully done, might terminate the contest, but the consideration that if the stroke failed, the unsuccessful combatant would be left at the mercy of the other, deterred from the hazardous experiment. After various feints and stratagems foiled, by mutual cunning the two foes stopped, as if by agreement, to devise more effectual schemes of destruction. In this truce of a moment, the eyes of Quecheco fell upon a tomahawk lying near the feet of his opponent, and unobserved by him. His efforts were now directed to getting possession of the weapon, and he re-commenced the system of attack he had practised. It was no difficult thing, by a series of retreats and advances, and constant changes of position, to entice the Pequot, ignorant of the other's design, from the place whereon he stood, and presently the foot of Quecheco touched the missile. The movement of his foe's limbs in searching for the tomahawk had caught the notice of Towanquattick, and before it was touched by Quecheco's foot he had seen it. At the sight, throwing aside the caution he had practised, the Pequot sprung straight at his enemy, and, without seeking to protect himself, plunged his knife into the breast of Quecheco. The force of the blow threw the stooping savage upon his back, and before he could rise, the tomahawk, caught from the ground by the hand of the Pequot, crashed into the brain of the dying traitor. Drawing out, then, the knife, the Pequot, with a rapid turn that indicated a practised hand, passed it round the head of his foe, and tearing off the bloody trophy, hung it at his girdle. A little while the Pequot stood contemplating the body, and as his eyes wandered from the corpse to the gun, which lay on the ground, and back again to the corpse a ferocious gleam of gratified revenge, like the lurid gleam of fires at night, swept over his swarthy face. Picking up, then, the gun, the knives and tomahawks, and stripping the corpse of the articles containing the powder and bullets, the Indian started in search of Joy.

Meanwhile, the Knight had been entertained with all humanity and honor by the Governor of Plymouth; nor was other treatment to be expected from the learned and accomplished Bradford. In appearance he was somewhat less than fifty years of age, with a mild and thoughtful expression of countenance, which revealed to the close observer as much of the meditative student as of the man of action. A thorough receiver and admirer of the principles of the sect to which he belonged, it was the business of his life to illustrate them by his learning, and enforce them by his example.

That strange charm of manner for which the Knight of the Golden Melice was so distinguished, his persuasive voice and intellectual cultivation, failed not to exert their wonted fascination over one so likely to be influenced by exactly such qualities and acquirements as Bradford, and, indeed, nowhere were they calculated to exercise so great a power as in a country where they were uncommon.

The two gentlemen had met before, but the interview had never ripened into acquaintance; and now, that fortune had thrown them together in relations which might seem none of the most agreeable, but which the kindness of the one and the polish of the other hid in flowers, it appeared as if they were welcome to both.

"We have become acquainted under singular circumstances, Sir Christopher," said Bradford, a day or two after the Knight came to Plymouth; "and, although wishing they were somewhat different, I can scarcely regret the providence which has brought so every way accomplished a gentleman to honor my roof. Your mind, wonderfully imbued with the gentler humanities, sweetly accords with mine own, and when you are gone I shall look back with refreshment and a sad longing to our thoughtful conferences. Never have the strains of the divine harper of Israel, whether exulting in the favor of Jehovah or sorrowing for sin, so affected my spirit as when read by you in the original speech of Eden."

"For your kind expressions, right worshipful sir," answered the Knight, "and the delicate attentions which make my imprisonment sweet, receive my unforgetting gratitude. I, too, whatever unjust suspicion may inflict, will revert to these our religious and philosophic hours, wherein we discussed questions nobler than those which, in the shades of Tusculum, engaged the minds of the great Roman orator and of his friends, with a satisfaction which shall not run out with the sands in the hour-glass of time."

"If outraged, by I scarcely know what wild reports, for the moment," replied Bradford, "I entreat you to forgive it, and to believe me that I believe them not. Remember that David fled before his enemies, yet the Lord delivered him and brought him to great honor."

"I am not worthy to be joined in thought with the Shepherd King, who, to the ringing strings of the harp, warbled inspiration," said the Knight. "Yet, noble sir, do I accept your words of cheer, and they shall be a buoy to bear me up as I cross this tempestuous Jordan. When is it your purpose that I should depart? Accompany you me, or go I melancholy, alone?"

"As for the first question, you shall remain at your pleasure, or until Governor Winthrop requires your presence; as for the latter, though unable to leave home at present, I hope shortly to be at leisure. Thus generally can I answer, but present or absent, my best wishes shall attend you."

The above conversation is sufficient to give an idea of the relation of the Governor and Knight to one another, and of the feelings of both. In truth, the enjoyment of Sir Christopher was almost as great as Bradford's, and neither manifested any desire to shorten their intercourse. Every leisure moment devoted the Plymouth Governor to his agreeable companion—their conversations turning more on questions of literature than on political matters. These latter, the Knight avoided, seeking thereby to impress the other with the opinion, that he felt but little interest in them.

In this manner passed the time, until one morning the Governor announced that messengers had arrived from Winthrop, commissioned to wait on Sir Christopher to his presence.

"I grieve," said Bradford, "that I cannot go with you. Matters of instant importance demand my presence here, but so far as friendly words in a letter may avail they shall not be wanting. May it please you to be ready at your convenience, and meanwhile I will prepare my epistle."

At the time appointed, four armed men appeared at the Governor's house to receive the prisoner. To them Sir Christopher was delivered by Bradford, who, at the same time, handed them a letter for Winthrop.

Upon the departure of one whose presence had imparted so much pleasure; from whom no unguarded word of censure or impatience had escaped, and who had revealed a mind adorned with such rich stores of culture, the scholastic Bradford sought his study, a small room, or closet, well supplied with books, to meditate on what had happened and to pursue his studies. Absorbed in his books, hours passed away unheeded, and he remarked not the opening of the door and entrance of a serving-man, who, seeing his master engaged, waited respectfully until he should be noticed. At length Bradford looked up and demanded his business.

"This," said the man, "was found in the chamber of Sir Christopher Gardiner." So saying, he handed to the Governor a small leathern pocket-book, such as were used for making memoranda, and withdrew.

Bradford, on being left alone, turned the book several times in his hand with a doubting air, then placing it at a little distance before him, leaned his head on his elbow, and began to muse.

"Publico utilitati cedet jus privatum," he said at last aloud, and opened the book. He had hardly glanced his eyes at the page, when they lighted up, and he seemed to read with intense interest.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, after reading through several leaves: "was ever man worse deceived? Here have I been harboring in my house and taking to my bosom a concealed Papist, as this writing sufficiently discloses. Nor yet a born Papist either, laboring under a delusion sucked in with mother's milk, but a recreant Protestant, a voluntary seeker after error; for here are written down the memorial of his shame, the very time and place where and when he struck hands with Anti-Christ, the name of the university where he assumed the scapula, as the blinded errorists call two woollen bands, the one crossing the breast and the other the back, one of those ridiculous mummeries whereby, with other devices and unseemly grimaces, they have contrived to bring the cross itself of the Redeemer into disrespect, and the degrees in superstition taken by this wretched backslider. Woe is me! How can the arch-deceiver assume the form of an angel of light! Yet is here no name written. The memorandum may refer to some-one else. But that cannot be. Himself is meant. Why should he carry about with him a note of this kind respecting another? This betrayer of treachery, this touchstone of truth, shall off forthwith to Winthrop, and be the antidote to the bane of my letter."

Thus murmured Governor Bradford, grieved as well as vexed at the deceit, as he supposed it to be. With a rapid hand, he wrote an account of his discovery, and entrusting it, with the note-book, to a messenger, commanded him to hasten after the soldiers from Governor Winthrop, and deliver to them the package.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Spenser's Faery Queen.

It was with some embarrassment that Governor Winthrop received his prisoner, though none was manifested in the mien of Sir Christopher. On the contrary, his manner indicated conscious innocence, and just that degree of resentment which a well-balanced mind and good temper might be expected to exhibit under the circumstances. If there was any change in his bearing, he was a trifle haughtier, as presuming on his rank—a trait never noticed in him before, and it showed itself by his speaking first, without waiting to be addressed, the moment he entered the presence of the Governor.

"By what authority," he demanded with some sternness, "is it, that I, a free-born Englishman, innocent of crime, have a price set on my head, and am hunted by savages bribed for that purpose?"

Before making a reply, the Governor intimated his desire to be left alone with the Knight, whereupon those present retired.

"You inquire by what authority you are arrested," said Winthrop. "I answer, by that authority vested in me by charter, as the ruler of a State; by common law, and by common sense. The question is not asked by one with the endowments of Sir Christopher Gardiner because he is ignorant, but for some other reason."

"Is it in humanity," returned the Knight, "not to be annoyed at the outrage? How bitterly," he added, looking sorrowfully at Winthrop, "is the pain of the wound aggravated by the knowledge from whose quiver flew the arrow!"

"I may not choose between my duty and my inclination," responded the Governor. "I were, otherwise, more unworthy than I am of the awfully responsible station which Providence hath assigned me. It shall never be said that, through favor or other motive, I buried the one talent committed to my keeping."

"I dared not, at my entrance," replied the Knight, who strove to make his tone and demeanor conciliatory, "entertain the thought that a friendly feeling toward me lurked in his bosom, by whose mandate my helpless household has been invaded in the night and made prisoners, and my house turned into a heap of ashes."

"It was by no order of mine," said Winthrop, hastily, "that the house was burned, and I lament its destruction as deeply as yourself. How it caught fire, is to me unknown; but if by the act of our people and not of the savages, ample recompense shall be made."

"How shall that be determined? But I will not waste my words thereupon. The loss of my house and other property is insignificant, compared with the cruel wrong done the Lady Geraldine and the dishonor to my name."

"She, whom you call the Lady Geraldine, has been treated with all courtesy; and, considering what, in the judgment of the Council, has been proved against her, with more than she is entitled to. For yourself, every opportunity shall be granted to clear off the clouds of suspicion hovering over you."

"Only a clear field and no favor do I desire for myself; but for the persecuted lady, my cousin, I pledge you my knightly word that any charges reflecting upon her character as a virtuous and godly lady, are infamous and false. You perceive, right worshipful sir, that I do not pretend to be ignorant of the accusations which inventive malice, hatched out of what cockatrice egg I know not, has brought against my suffering cousin, but I pronounce them, again, alike dastardly and without truth."

"If so, she is, indeed, greatly wronged, though partly responsible herself therefor, as having confessed the same."

"Then have strange means been employed to make her acknowledge a lie," said the Knight, warmly, "for any such confession were utterly untrue. I have heard of wretches, who, upon the rack, in order to escape its intolerable agonies, have accused themselves of all sorts of crimes of which they were innocent. Is this the way you have abused my relative?"