THE FAIR PURITAN 
 
 AN 
 
 HISTORICAL ROMANCE 
 
 OF 
 
 THE DAYS OF WITCHCRAFT 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 
 
 ("FRANK FORESTER") 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE WARWICK WOODLANDS," "THE CAVALIERS OF ENGLAND, 
 " MY SHOOTING Box," " CROMWELL," " THE BROTHERS," ETC. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 1875. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
 
 CHARLES C. SAVAGE, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
qs-s 
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE.* 
 
 THIS, the only American Romance of the author, is 
 truly a historical romance ; many of the persons being 
 genuine historical characters, and the facts generally and 
 the spirit of the age carefully preserved. The period is 
 one of the most interesting of the early times of North 
 American history, being that of the subsidence of the 
 terrible excitement of the Salem witchcaft, the tyrannous 
 government of Sir Edmund Andros, and the first organ 
 ized and successful resistance to the authority of the 
 crown. 
 
 The author respectfully submits it to the public witk 
 the hope that it will be found a worthy companion to his 
 other works of historic fiction, whose scenes and charac 
 ters have been gathered in foreign lands. 
 
 *Mr. Herbert prepared this romance for the press in 1856. It 
 hnd been stereotyped, when commercial disaster interfered with its 
 publication. The plates were afterward mislaid, and only recently 
 discovered: Meanwhile, the accomplished scholar and novelist has 
 rested from his literary labors and passed beyond the tomb. 
 
 C. C. S. 
 December, 1S74. 
 
 740 
 
THE FAIR PURITAN 
 
 a IlontflTO nf iljB 33nt[ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE FOREST DWELLING. 
 
 el *<5pa, tf\v8ov, HX&crpa, irori cfav dypoTepav dv\ai>. 
 
 IN the latter part of the seventeenth century, the capital of 
 Massachusetts, or, as it was then usually termed, the Bay 
 Province, was the largest, as it is still the most beautiful, of 
 American cities. 
 
 Already, at that early period, it had done more than laying 
 the foundations of that reputation which she still possesses, as 
 the metropolis of transatlantic letters, if not of wealth or of 
 commerce. 
 
 1^ was a peculiar trait, and one the most redeeming, among 
 much bigotry, much stupid and fanatical intolerance, much 
 hairsplitting and strife of ultra-creeds it was, I say, a pecu 
 liar and most honorable trait in the character of the hard old 
 Puritans, that wheresoever they set foot, they left their track 
 permanently stamped, not as their Dutch contemporaries of 
 
 A* 
 
6 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the Nieu Netherlands in warehouses and factories, but in the 
 nobler work of schools and colleges, adapted to the future 
 wants, not to the present means of their sparse population. 
 
 No part of what are now the United States was peopled from 
 a stock so sound as Massachusetts. 
 
 Virginia, indeed, had to boast a nobler lineage, a race im 
 bued with the noblest sentiments that grace humanity, the high 
 est chivalry, the clearest sense of honor, qualities for which, to 
 this day, her sons are deservedly renowned. 
 
 It may not be denied, however, that soldiers rather than 
 scholars, adventurers rather than statesmen, were her settlers ; 
 while, in addition to the vast advantage she derived from the 
 character of her first governor, the moderate and admirable 
 Winthrop, Massachusetts had among her founders, " many of 
 high endowments, large fortune, and the best education ; 
 scholars well versed in all the learning of the times ; clergy 
 men who ranked among the most eloquent and pious in the 
 realm"* men equally removed from intolerant bigotry and 
 sectarian license men equally averse to arbitrary power and 
 democratic anarchy men, in short, fchan whom none could be 
 found better suited to their great office, as the forefathers of a 
 mighty nation. 
 
 Cambridge was founded almost simultaneously with the city 
 to which it is still the brightest ornament ; and it is worthy of 
 remark that the oldest born is yet the most eminent of Ameri 
 can colleges, and that right consequence of noble causes 
 Boston alone yields as of right to mental power and literary 
 eminence, that social rank which the less elevated spirit of her 
 rivals grants to superior wealth, or to success and enterprise 
 in traffic. 
 
 Nor were the fruits of this higher civilization displayed only 
 in great features, in the grandeur of public institutions. They 
 * Bancroft s History, vol. i., p. 355. 
 
THE FOREST DWELLING. 
 
 were as manifest in the humanities of the domestic circle, as 
 in the morals of the forum. 
 
 And it is not incurious to observe, that, as if to disprove, on 
 the very face of his country, the general though most unjust 
 assertion which would attribute to the Nevv-Englander a geni 
 us peculiarly money-making and gain-loving to observe, I 
 say, as every one must observe who has travelled in the pleas 
 ant places of his land, that the New-Englander alone has 
 spared time from his gainful toils for the adornment of his 
 household gods for planting trees in his village ways, and 
 cultivating flowers in his cottage-gardens, and making his 
 home sure test of a refined and gentle spirit not rich alone 
 in those creature comforts, the taste for which we share with 
 the brutes that perish, but in those nicer charms, which fill 
 the eye with pleasure, the heart with patriotism and with love 
 which last is virtue. 
 
 Nor is the culture, which we now behold, laughing out, un 
 der the brilliant suns and cloudless skies of America, in the 
 sweet villages and glowing fields adjacent to the metropolis of 
 New England, as it laughs nowhere else on this side the At 
 lantic, the tardy growth of progressive centuries. 
 
 The English elms, which lift their heads still green and 
 comely and untouched by age above the roofs of the old city, 
 were planted there before one generation had elapsed, after the 
 pilgrim s foot first trod the rock of Plymouth. 
 
 And the log-cabins of the first settlers displayed, unlike the 
 shanties of the west, the cultivated taste which had been 
 nursed in remote and polished regions, by the red-berried 
 mountain-ash planted before the door, by the sweet-scented 
 creeper trained round the humble casement, and by the rose 
 or pink brought from beyond the sea to bloom in the bleak pre 
 cincts of the New England clime. 
 
 In the year 1688, for it was at that period that the great 
 
8 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 events occurred, with which were interwoven the humbler 
 threads of personal adventure, to which my narrative relates 
 in the year 1688 the province of Massachusetts, which then in 
 cluded Maine as far as the Piscataqua, could boast a popula 
 tion of about forty-four thousand souls ; of which at least a 
 fourth part were inhabitants of Boston, and the beautiful vil- 
 ages about. These latter, at the first landing of Winthrop, 
 having been well described as abounding in " sweet and pleas 
 ant springs, and good land, affording rich cornfields and fer 
 tile gardens,"* had justified the choice of their first settlers, 
 and had already, in the little space of half a century, acquired 
 much of the elegance and yet more of the comforts of an old 
 country. 
 
 And if the population, which filled those pleasant seats, was 
 not sprung from the " high folk of Normandie," neither is it 
 altogether true that they were of the " low men," although they 
 were indeed of Saxon origin. 
 
 Had they been such, they would not have brought with 
 them the love of letters and the intellectual tastes for which, 
 from their first arrival on the shores of the New World, they 
 were conspicuous, howmuchsoever they might have brought 
 the love of regulated freedom, whether in politics or in religion. 
 
 Many, and those the best and the most useful, of the new 
 settlers were of the better class of yeomanry, or of the smaller 
 gentry, with not a few able burghers from the country towns, 
 persons of ample means and sufficient mental cultivation. And 
 a clear proof of this is to be found in the fact that they brought 
 with them a considerable number of bond-servants, to whom, 
 not long after their landing, perfect freedom was granted, not 
 so much from any love of liberty in the abstract, as because 
 their labor was less valuable than the cost of maintaining them. 
 
 It is a great mistake, yet not on that account less general, to 
 * Bancroft s History. 
 
THE FOREST DWELLING. 
 
 imagine that the first inhabitants of the Bay Province were 
 either absolute dissenters from the church of England, or 
 strong opponents of a kingly form of government, however 
 they may have resisted the corruption of the one, or the undue 
 extension of the other. 
 
 Winthroj^the first governor, was a royalist, and an enemy 
 to democracy, a churchman, and a moderate aristocrat. For 
 very many years the church of England was the church of 
 Massachusetts, though in a milder, and, as the colonists 
 averred, a purer form than in the mother-country. The gov 
 ernment, in the first instance, was one of "the least part," 
 though as they fondly believed of " the wisest and the best." 
 
 Between the foundation of the colony, however, and the 
 period concerning which I write, it can not be denied that 
 changes have been in constant progress, tending to absolute 
 independence in the church, anH to republicanism in the polity 
 of the embryo nation. 
 
 It was to check this growing spirit, that the charters of the 
 New England states were abolished ; that, on the succession 
 of the second James, it was proposed to send the notorious 
 Colonel Kirkc, whose infamous renown had not yet been ac 
 quired fully, as a fit person to coerce and crush down the 
 growth of puritanical and democratic principles ; and, to con 
 clude, that in the winter of 1688, Sir Edmond Andros landed 
 at Boston, glittering in gold and scarlet, surrounded by a body 
 guard of flaunting cavaliers, as governor of all New England, 
 and destined to rule with a rod of iron those whom his crea 
 ture Randolph had designated as " a perverse people." 
 
 Those were the evil days of New England. Then there 
 began a series of vexatious and tyrannical oppressions, as vio 
 lent as ever were endured by an English population. 
 
 Nor was it merely under the oppressive system of public 
 measures that the people groaned indignantly. For private in- 
 
 1* 
 
10 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 science, extortion, and licentiousness, were let loose in aid of 
 public tyranny and persecution. 
 
 The vilest men that could be found in all New England, as 
 being the only men who would lend themselves to the measures 
 of the new governor, were those selected to fill the highest 
 office. And, while the tenure of their posts was dependent on 
 their zeal and determination in the extinguishment of every 
 spark of civil or religious freedom, the due performance of this 
 odious duty was a sufficient plea whereby to defend every act 
 of personal revenge, or sensual gratification. 
 
 Liberty was indeed trodden under foot throughout the Bay 
 Province. 
 
 The schools of learning were, as the best foundations of that 
 liberty, with a tact as odious as it was farsighted, discouraged, 
 and allowed to decay. 
 
 The churches were reduced to extremity, by interference 
 with their means of support. 
 
 Vote by ballot was forbidden under penalties. 
 
 Town-meetings for deliberation were proclaimed as an overt 
 act of sedition. 
 
 Domestic rights were scarce less oppressively invaded than 
 public privileges. No man s house in New England was his 
 castle. The right of habeas corpus was denied, and men were 
 calmly told that the laws of England would not be found to fol 
 low them to the world s end. 
 
 fiut widely did they err, who fancied that with liberty itself, 
 the love of liberty could be extinguished in the bosom of the 
 pilgrims. 
 
 The very violence of the means adopted to abolish it was, 
 under Providence, the cause of its establishment ; and in the 
 despotism of Sir Edmund Andros will be found the match 
 which fired the train, that smouldered long, to blaze out in un- 
 
THE FOREST DWELLING. 11 
 
 extinguished brightness, after a century had passed, on the 
 same spot which saw it kindled. 
 
 It was at this period of the history of the Bay Province, \ 
 when the oppression of the English governor was at its height, 
 and the depression of the popular mind at the lowest, that 
 there might be seen at the eastern end of Boston bay, among 
 the rocks, which wall it toward Nahant, a small cottage of 
 singular construction, yet most romantical withal, and indeed 
 beautiful. 
 
 Midway the cliffs, which project so far above it, as to admit 
 of no access from the land-side, there was a small, green 
 ledge or platform, containing about an acre of land, nearly 
 level, though sloping gently to the southward, where it was 
 bounded by a sheer descent of fifty or sixty feet, scarped by 
 the hand of Nature in the living rock. 
 
 On every other side, it was surrounded by dark crags rising 
 abruptly as a rampart from its grassy margins ; for it was then 
 clothed with a carpet of short mossy greensward shadowed by 
 half a dozen giant pines, the sole survivors of a colony, which 
 had occupied all the platform previous to the invasion of the 
 white man. 
 
 In front of this platform, otherwise inaccessible, there rose 
 from the sandy beach a huge, round heavy rock, entirely iso 
 lated at high water, and separated from the cliffs, whence 
 probably in some remote age it had fallen, by a space of fifty feet. 
 
 On the side facing the shaggy shore, this rock was precipi 
 tous and sheer, its head overhanging its base, and its slippery 
 sides unscalable by the most adventurous foot. To the sea 
 ward, however, it was ledgy, and broken into several stages, 
 like a huge flight of steps ; and this had most likely suggested 
 the occupation of the platform above, which was some ten feet 
 higher than the insulated rock, as a place of residence. 
 
12 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 It was on this platform, then, nestled close into the recess, 
 and actually overhung by the cliffs above it, that the romantic 
 cottage stood, wherein not a few of the incidents occurred, 
 which I purpose to secure from oblivion, as types of an age, 
 the memory of which is but too rapidly evanishing. 
 
 Built of rough logs, and but one story high, it resembled 
 somewhat a Swiss chalet ; but yet more an English cottage 
 of the Elizabethan era, allowance being made for the differ 
 ence of material, and the absence of skilful architects. 
 
 Like the former, it was entirely of wood, with eaves far 
 projecting beyond the walls of the building, and with a roof, 
 bark covered, highly peaked, and overgrown with gray lichens. 
 
 Like the latter, it was irregular in shape, having been built 
 without any definite plan in the first instance, and increased, 
 with the increasing exigencies of the family that occupied it, 
 at random. It had, therefore, at least half a dozen stacks of 
 chimneys, and as many gable ends, three doors with a rustic 
 porch over each, and eight or nine windows, opening in the 
 lattice fashion with small diamond panes set in frames of lead, 
 which, by their appearance, must have come evidently from 
 what the colonists were still proud to call HOME. 
 
 The little space, in front of this old English cottage, was 
 laid out as a garden, partly in level turf smooth shaven as a 
 lawn in the old country, partly in flower-beds neatly trimmed, 
 and bright with flowers which never had their birth on this 
 side of the Atlantic. A little walk, firmly compacted of sea- 
 shells beaten into powder, led down from the principal entrance 
 of the cottage to the brink of the cliff, directly opposite to the 
 insulated rock I have described. 
 
 Here a bridge of a single arch spanned the rough chasm, 
 framed like the house itself of unbarked timber, and guarded 
 at the sides by parapets, if they may so be called, of gnarled 
 roots and branches from the forest. 
 
THE FOREST DWELLING. 13 
 
 The lower rock itself had undergone certain improvement*- 
 also, which had rendered it not only more accessible, but mort. 
 picturesque, and pleasing to the eye. 
 
 Rude flights of wooden steps, with balustrades of pine 
 branches, led from one platform to the other; and a bold break 
 water of trunks piled fantastically one upon the other ran out 
 from its eastern end, making a small but secure harbor, be 
 tween the island and the shore, wherein two or three fishing- 
 boats of various sizes, a long, light skiff, and an Indian canoe, 
 lay moored, safe from the wind or tide, when it was up, and 
 snugly beached on the white sand at low water. 
 
 Such was the scene on which the setting sun was casting 
 its last level rays on a lovely summer evening of that disastrous 
 year. The diamond panes glittered like gold in the ruddy 
 beams ; the column of blue smoke, which curled its way 
 slowly upward, relieved by the dark background of the granite 
 rocks, assumed a palpable and solid form, as its edges were 
 gilt, and rounded by the rich light ; the gaudy flowers laughed 
 gorgeously beneath the influence of the time and season ; and 
 even the old weather-beaten pines, which sheltered the low 
 roof, assumed a juvenile and jocund air in that sweet summer s 
 eve. 
 
 The sea, for miles aloof, lay crisped in millions of small 
 laughing ripples, flashing and twinkling to the cloudless skies. 
 The rocky and wood-crested isles, checkered the wide ex 
 panse of gold and azure with their long purple shadows ; the 
 distant shores and the bold headland of Cohasset loomed like 
 a hazy cloud against the western sky, shrouded in the soft 
 mists of the summer sunset. 
 
 Thousands of snow-white gulls were on the wing, soaring 
 and diving through the transparent atmosphere, or plunging 
 down upon their scaly victims among the flashing spray of the 
 mall wavelets. 
 
14 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 But save these, no living form enlivened the bright scene ; 
 until, when the sun was already half sunken in the glowing 
 ocean, there stepped out from the cottage-porch, shading 
 her eyes with one hand against the horizontal rays, a girl so 
 beautiful^.and, to me at least, so interesting in her child-like 
 innocence, and her strange fortunes, that she merits a better 
 introduction than the end of a long if not tedious chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FOREST MAIDEN. 
 
 Aor/nrpih yap eis yvo; ye. Xpjtytarwy SI tit] 
 
 THE girl, who stepped forth from the rustic porch, and gazed 
 out so eagerly, as if expecting some one, over the sunlit sea, 
 was one of those exquisite creations that we sometimes behold, 
 though rarely, on earth, recalling all our thoughts toward 
 heaven. 
 
 She was very young, yet not perhaps so young, as would 
 have been imagined from the expression of her features, and 
 her whole air, which were singularly juvenile and almost 
 child-like. 
 
 Her hair, which was luxuriant, almost beyond the reach of 
 fancy, though the simple mode, on which it was arranged, dis 
 sembled much of its rich redundance, was of that beautiful and 
 unusual hue, so difficult to be described, which the old poets 
 were wont to call golden. Without one shade of red or auburn, 
 it was in fact of that soft, light sunny brown, which, catching 
 as it did now, the last slant sunbeams, glitters indeed like 
 threads of virgin gold. 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 15 
 
 Divided on the brow, and laid smoothly down over each 
 cheek, in a broad, glistening fold, the wavy lines of which 
 showed clearly that, if suffered, it would have wound itself into 
 a maze of natural ringlets, it was collected into a knot at the 
 back of her beautifully-formed head, so dense and massive that 
 it required no practised eye to discover that, unbound, it would 
 have fallen nearly to her feet. 
 
 The girl s complexion was such as might have been anti 
 cipated from the color of her hair ; that is to say, it was fairer 
 and whiter than anything to which it can be well compared, 
 yet with an under-tint of sun that showed how healthfully and 
 warmly the pure blood circulated under that snowy skin. 
 
 Save this faint tinge, her cheeks were nearly colorless, un 
 less it were when some quick thought or transient feeling 
 flooded them with brief crimson. 
 
 As if to make up for this deficiency, however, her lips, ex 
 quisitely arched and wooing, were of the warmest and most 
 vivid carnation. 
 
 What was most singular and striking in her aspect was, that 
 her eyebrows and long, silky lashes were of so deep and well- 
 defined a brown, that, when contrasted with her light hair and 
 lucent skin, they looked almost black. 
 
 Her eyes, which were very large and bright, though softer 
 even than they were brilliant, were also very dark, not black, 
 indeed, but of that full deep hazel so common to the peasant- 
 maids of England. 
 
 There was, however, something in the whole aspect of this 
 girl which denied the inference that might have been drawn 
 thence that she was of lowly birth that indiscribable and 
 nameless something, which certainly is not manner alone, nor 
 the mere effect of mind, by which the eye at once distinguishes 
 the gently, if not nobly, born. 
 
 That the qualities of both the mind and body are in some 
 
16 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 sort hereditary, I can not imagine be disputed. Still less 
 can I conceive when it is perfectly in accordance with the 
 rules of nature that it should be so, why it should be disputed. 
 In animals, we see clearly that blood will tell ; the horse, the 
 hound, nay the inferior brutes, transmit their qualities with 
 absolute precision ; and if, in man, the descent of virtue or 
 vice, strength or debility, deformity or beauty, is less evident at 
 first sight, it is that, in man, education has pow.er to modify 
 that, which it can neither create nor annihilate, the natural 
 bent and bias of both mind and body. 
 
 Be this, however, as it may, no one can have mixed much 
 with the English in their own land, without coming to the con 
 clusion that there is a marked and perceptible physical differ 
 ence between the upper and lower classes of society. (The 
 upper classes, as a whole, being the handsomest race in civil 
 ized Europe, tall, well-formed, delicate, and slender, though at 
 the same time muscular and strong, with small hands, feet, and 
 ears ; while the lower classes, though robust, healthy, and not 
 uncomely, are square, thick set, and coarsely made, with sin 
 gularly large and awkward extremities. 
 
 He constantly will see, among the country lasses, lovely 
 complexions, fine eyes, and fine hair ; but rarely, or never, 
 slender waists, shapely limbs, small feet, or taper ankles. 
 
 Of this the reason, if we look for it, is not obscure. In the 
 first place, the upper classes have a large mixture, when they are 
 not wholly, of the Norman blood : a race famous, in all time, 
 for straightness and height of stature, for symmetry of form 
 and beauty of face, as much as for valor, energy,, and daring. 
 The lower classes, on the contrary, are purely Saxon to this 
 day, and the Saxon race, though stout, robust, and sturdy, have 
 been in all times short, square, sturdy, and ungraceful. 
 
 There was, then, something in her air, which would have 
 indicated in a moment to a practised eye that this English girl 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 17 
 
 for she had all the characteristics of the English blood and 
 indeed at that day there was little, if any other, in New Eng- 
 gland was of a gentle race. Not perhaps of the high no 
 bility, nor of pure old Norman blood, but at least of the gentry. 
 
 It was not in her manner only that this was apparent, 
 although her attitude was very graceful, and every single 
 movement easy, unstudied, and naturally beautiful ; nor was it 
 in her face, though that was indeed heavenly. 
 
 Her features were as regular as those of a Grecian statue, 
 but neither features nor coloring gave the inexpressible charm 
 to that sweet young face. Nor was it intellect or genius, for 
 although these were not wanting, and although a physiogno 
 mist would have told you of latent poetry, and warm imagination, ; 
 and deep thoughts, it was clear that they were as yet all latent 
 that her talents were as yet to her a sealed fountain, wait 
 ing perhaps the touch of passions, equally dormant, to call 
 them into life. 
 
 It was the singular expression of purity, of truth, of artless, 
 unsuspecting, unquestioning innocence, which beamed from 
 every line of that sweet, joyous face, inflaming it with an air 
 of angelic holiness and love, that made it so remarkable. 
 
 And it was this expression which gave to her that appearance 
 of extreme youth which was contradicted by the maturer 
 beauties of her delicate but rounded form ; nor could you look 
 upon her face, without seeing that the mind within must be 
 pure and guileless, as that of a little child, without thinking 
 of that beautiful text, which bids us believe in the Savior s 
 words, " That in heaven their angels do always behold the 
 face of my Father, which is in heaven." 
 
 If her appearance, however, the shapely slenderness of her 
 tall, rounded figure, the fairy smallness of the white hands, the 
 fine setting on of the head, the curvature of the swan-like 
 
 neck, the falling arch of the shoulders if all these, I say, 
 B* 
 
18 . THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 would have betokened her of gentle birth, the simplicity, if not 
 rudeness of her garb, would have gone nearly as far to dis 
 prove the inference. 
 
 She wore no cap or bonnet on her sunny hair, but a broad 
 carsenet riband, of a pale, silvery gray, drawn tight around her 
 temples, and tied in a close knot just above the left ear. 
 
 A handkerchief of spotless muslin covered her shoulders, 
 and veiled,- though it could not conceal the outlines of her 
 beautifully-moulded bosom ; and sleeves of the same material 
 fell loosely down to her elbow in wide plaits, from beneath the 
 shoulder-straps of a tight russet-colored jerkin, or corsage, as 
 it would now be called, laced down the front from the bosom 
 to the point of its long stomacher. A full, loose petticoat, of 
 gray serge, nearly of the same shade with the riband which 
 confined her hair, was not so long but that it displayed a clean 
 ankle, and as pretty a foot as ever flitted noiseless over a Per 
 sian carpet, or dashed the dew-drop from a grassy lawn. 
 
 Such was the girl, who looked forth as the sun was setting 
 with a long, wistful gaze over the beautiful bay which gave its 
 name to the province of Massachusetts. And never was a 
 rarer combination of physical and mental loveliness than that 
 fair girl presented to the eye. And there was something 
 almost strange in the union of a face so artless, innocent, and 
 child-like, with a form so perfectly developed, so ripe in all 
 the charms of young, lovely womanhood. 
 
 Long did she gaze and wearily, and as it seemed in vain. 
 And an expression of gentle melancholy, chastened disappoint 
 ment, came over her young face, as she turned away, convinced 
 apparently that nothing was in sight, which she desired to see. 
 
 " I am afraid," she said to herself, half doubtfully ; " though 
 I know not at what, or wherefore. He said that he should not 
 return until late yet still I am afraid. I will go in, and 
 pray" 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 19 
 
 But she was interrupted here, by a soft, low, sad voice close 
 beside her, though she had not perceived that any one had ap 
 proached her, as she stood there under the declining sunbeams, 
 absorbed in anxious thought. 
 
 " See, Ruth, see !" said the voice with a slightly foreign ac 
 cent ; " see there, under the sun. The master s boat is com 
 ing. You could not see it for the glitter of the waters in the 
 wake." 
 
 The girl looked quickly, whither she was directed, turning 
 with so little surprise as proved that the plaintive voice must 
 be familiar to her ear. 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! I see, Patience," cried the girl eagerly, her 
 cheek flushing slightly as she spoke. " I see, and I thank 
 you. It is my father ; God grant that he bring us good 
 tidings." 
 
 And, with the words, she turned round to the person who 
 had addressed her, stretching out her hand kindly. It was 
 clasped instantly ; but the fingers that clasped it were of the 
 hue of burnished copper, and, as she turned her head, the full 
 dark melancholy eyes of an Indian woman looked wistfully 
 into her own. 
 
 " Why call her Patience, Ruth ?" said the Indian, with an 
 expression, glancing across her dark features, that showed how 
 much the name was indeed misapplied " why not call her 
 own name ? why not say, Tituba ?" 
 
 " Well, then, thanks, Tituba," replied the girl, with a gentle 
 smile. " But I think Patience a far prettier name ; and it is 
 good too. And then it angers my father ; he says Indian 
 names are devices of the evil one." 
 
 " And English names lies /" answered the bond-servant, for 
 such was the condition of this wild, free-born child of nature 
 " Lies, every one ! What for call Patience, when not pa 
 tient ? Just so old father called Merciful ! what that but a 
 
20 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 great lie ? He prays God to show mercy ; shows not, him 
 self, to Tituba. Flog ! flog ! what good in names ! Call Pa 
 tience, when not wish, not hope, not try, to be patient. Titu 
 ba hates patience. Never call her so, good Ruth, when alone." 
 
 The manner of the poor Indian woman was strange and sad 
 to witness. It reminded one of a warhorse, had he ever seen 
 one, debased into a carrier s drudge. 
 
 There was the wild, clear eye, but its free glance was 
 dimmed and humbled. There was the finely-formed head, 
 but it was lowered and depressed, by the accursed stamp of 
 man s servitude on the brow that God made free, in his own 
 image. There were the graceful, lithe, strong limbs, but they 
 were listless and oppressed by the soul s bondage, moving, 
 though loose, as if in fetters. 
 
 Ruth gazed upon her earnestly, and the tears rose unbidden 
 to her soft, calm eyes. The words of the poor servant had 
 performed their errand, straight to the heart. The truth of 
 those words their strong, disgraceful truth smote her; and 
 she could not deny, even to herself, that sternness rather than 
 mercy was the attribute of that father s character, who yet was 
 never stern to her, and whom, she loved, even herself, half 
 fearfully, half fondly. 
 
 "I will I will call you Tituba," she answered quickly; 
 " not when we are alone, however, for that would be deceit, 
 but always ; and when my father is in the milder mood, I will 
 plead for you, poor Tituba, that he be gentle to you, as he is to 
 me ever. But now, go in. It is too likely he comes home 
 bearing sorrow with him ; and his sorrow is dark and wrath 
 ful toward men, though submissive toward Him who sendeth 
 sorrow, as he sendeth joy, for the good of the creatures of his 
 hand. Go thy ways now, poor girl. I hear his foot on the 
 rocks below, and it sounds angrily. Go thy way, and for my 
 sake, try not to hate, try, I would say, to love my father." 
 
THE FANATIC. 21 
 
 " No," answered the woman, sullenly. " How she love 
 when he flogs all the time, and prays, and flogs again ? No 
 not love father, not try to love ! Tituba never try to love 
 master. What made the white man the Indian s master? 
 God made the master, merciful Whalley says ! Did God 
 make the slave, Ruth ? No ! Tituba will not try to love Mer 
 ciful ! Need not try to love Ruth! loves Ruth already, 
 without trying !" 
 
 The steps of the man, who had been seen, some time be 
 fore, approaching from the westward across the fair bay, were 
 now heard distinctly, as he ascended the isolated rock ; and 
 just as his head appeared above its rounded summit, Tituba 
 turned away with a dogged air, and walked off with a slouch 
 ing, listless gait toward the cottage. 
 
 Ruth sprang, with her whole soul anxiously flashing from 
 her eyes, to meet her father. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FANATIC. 
 
 2c TOV aotfxjjTrjV) TOV irncpus iirspiriKpov, 
 
 SCARCE had the poor Indian girl made a few steps toward 
 the cottage, before the man whose head they had seen above 
 the rocks came into full view. 
 
 He was a tall, dark, athletic man, from forty-five to fifty years 
 of age, and might have been termed handsome, both in figure 
 and in face, but for the gauntness and emaciation of the former, 
 which was so great as to convey an idea of monkish macera 
 tion to the mind of the beholder, and for the gloomy, grim, and 
 
22 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 austere expression which distorted features otherwise fine and 
 noble. His eye was keen and piercing, but wild withal, and 
 at times fierce and fiery. His nose was well shaped and 
 aquiline, though too sharp and fleshless toward the extremity. 
 It was the mouth, however, as is generally the case in strong 
 and powerfully-defined characters, that gave the expression to 
 the whole face. 
 
 The lips were thin, and rigidly compressed ; and in them 
 and all the surrounding lines, austerity, pride, dogged resolve, 
 cruelty ; in short, almost every evil passion might be read, with 
 this exception only, that there was nothing sensual or animal 
 to be discovered in their expression. 
 
 Indeed, whether in head, or face, or form, it was impossible 
 to detect anything that was not almost purely spiritual, though 
 it was much to be doubted if that spirit were not so far per 
 verted as to be now almost wholly evil. 
 
 His hair, which had been in his youth as black as a raven s 
 wing, was now thin and grizzled ; and his dark face was 
 marked with many an intricate and deeply furrowed line ; but 
 they were lines of thought and passion, not of age ; nor, in 
 deed, had time left many traces on his erect and iron power, 
 or diminished anything of his hard sinewy strength. 
 
 His hands, though lean and wrinkled, showed cords and 
 sinews that would not have disgraced a Samson ; and his 
 tread, though slow and deliberate, was firm, solid, and un 
 yielding. 
 
 He was dressed in a close-fitting, straight-cut jerkin, of 
 thick black woollen serge, buttoned up from a little way below 
 the hips, where the skirtless and unseemly garment ended, to 
 the throat, where it was relieved by a broad collar of clear, 
 coarse linen turned squarely over it. Loose breeches of the 
 same material, with a pair of huge fisherman s boots reaching 
 to the mid thigh, completed his attire, except that he had a 
 
THE FANATIC. . 23 
 
 tall broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned hat on his head, and a 
 large boat-cloak thrown across his left shoulder. A leather 
 thong buckled about his waist contained a long, buck-handled 
 knife, and in his right hand he carried a very heavy old- 
 fashioned musket, with a barrel of five feet in length, altered 
 from the antique fashion of the match, to the more modern, 
 though scarcely more effective, fire-lock. 
 
 Such was the man who called Ruth Whalley daughter 
 the man for whom she was looking out with anxious expecta 
 tion, with a solicitude so evident, that it would have told much 
 of love, had it not seemed to participate, in some degree, of 
 fear. 
 
 And could it be that this stern, fierce, proud, sneering fanat 
 ic for such he must have been, or his looks wofully belied 
 him could be the father of a being so pure, so gentle, so af 
 fectionate, so lovely, and so artless, as beautiful Ruth Whalley. 
 
 It is an old, and for the most part a true saying, though not 
 so refined as it is practical, that "like breeds like" the wise 
 Roman of old knew it, when he sang, in his deathless verse : 
 
 " Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis ; 
 
 Est in juvenis, est in equis patrum 
 Virtus; nee imbelhun feroces 
 Progenerant aquila columbum." 
 
 The tawny Indian knew it, when he looked with suspicion 
 even on the tried virtue of old chiefs, whose sons proved rec 
 reant in the field. 
 
 Yet, though no man has ever seen the noble racehorse 
 spring from the loins of the coarse cart-drudge, or the saga 
 cious hound from the low-blooded cur ; yet are there cases, 
 where the best and fairest of our race have sprung from rude 
 and unsightly stocks, though not perhaps devoid of ancestral 
 worth or virtue. 
 
24 
 
 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Of this, if it be so, as can, I think, be hardly doubted, Ruth 
 Whalley was a singular example. 
 
 Never a harder sire gave life to a sweeter child. Yet little 
 would it seem that he prized the bright young creature, on 
 whom scarce any eye, save his, could have looked unloving, 
 or undelighted. 
 
 Yet he did look unlovingly at her ay, and unlovingly he 
 spoke as she sprang forward to cast her white arms about 
 his neck, asking him fondly if he had brought good tidings. 
 
 " Minion, what dost thou here ?" he asked harshly, in reply, 
 " wasting the Lord s best gift of daylight in loitering thus, look 
 ing on the sea, which is not half so light or so wanton as thou 
 art ; and tuning, I dare well avouch it, the voice which was 
 given thee for prayer and praise, to idle and lascivious min- 
 strelsey. Tidings ! what tidings should I bring, but of wrath in 
 heaven, and on earth fear, and tyranny, and persecution ? The 
 Lord has hid his face has hid his face, I say, from Israel 
 nor will he turn it on us any more until we have thrust out our 
 sin, and cast away our abomination from us ! Go in ! go in ! 
 I say what do you here ? Go in ! your mother is to blame, 
 minion ! and that brown daughter of perdition with you, too ! 
 Take heed, lest one day she lead you to worship her God 
 which is Satan ! Get thee in-doors, I say. Thou shalt hear 
 more anon, that will, I trow, please thee less, even than this 
 that I have spoken." 
 
 Ruth Whalley looked simply and innocently into the stern 
 man s face, while he spoke ; and, as he finished his harangue, 
 turned quietly away, as she was commanded, and moved to 
 ward the cottage-door. Most girls, addressed, as she was, 
 vith such a volley of unmerited reproof, would have replied 
 either with indignation, or with fear and sorrow. But Ruth 
 was neither vexed nor tearful. Her fair face, it is true, grew 
 somewhat paler, but shed no tear, nor expressed any wonder. 
 
THE FANATIC. 25 
 
 Her father s bearing was a matter too familiar, too much of 
 every-day occurrence, to excite astonishment, or even to call 
 forth active sorrow. He was, indeed, a hard man. One of 
 those cold, bitter, avaricious, selfish natures, which owe it, 
 perhaps, rather to the chilliness of their blood and the lack of 
 temptation or of opportunity, than to anything of principle or 
 of humanity, that they fall not into the commission of great 
 crimes. 
 
 This, Merciful Whalley had, it is true, avoided ; he had 
 kept his hands, it is true, incorrupt from stealth, unstained from 
 blood-guiltiness. But his heart ! his heart ! oh, what a mass 
 was there, of envy, selfishness, uncharitableness, malice, slan 
 der | an d if he set his hands, as he often boasted, to no evil 
 work, assuredly he set neither his lips nor his mind to any 
 good one. 
 
 Self-righteous, self-esteemed, self-arrogant, self-justified, he 
 judged all men, himself excepted, and rarely judged but to con 
 demn them. 
 
 It is probable that, from his childhood up, he had never done 
 an act of charity or kindness, unless it were from selfish mo 
 tives ; or loved a human being, except for his own gratifica 
 tion. 
 
 Loud in the meeting-house or conventicle, loud in posses 
 sions of all virtue, loud in denunciation of all sinners, he was 
 yet louder in his cold domestic tyranny. The very dog arose 
 from the hearth, and shrunk away into the darkest corner, hear 
 ing its master s footstep at the door. Yet, for all this, without 
 his own house, though feared rather than liked, Merciful Whal 
 ley was not ill-esteemed in the neighborhood. 
 
 For Merciful was well to do in the world ; and in the opin 
 ion of the rich, wealth, in a neighbor, is a great coverer of 
 sins. 
 
 Talk not of charity ! Charity may win the poor man s love ; 
 
 2 
 
26 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 but is it not a tacit censure on the rich man, who is less char 
 itable ? 
 
 No ! no ! for the most part there is no saint in the rich man s 
 calendar so worshipful as the richer and more avaricious men 
 and so it was with Whalley. 
 
 His deeds of benevolence and mercy were thorns in no 
 neighbor miser s side his kindness to his servants or depen 
 dants rebuked no man s severity. He was rich ; and therefore 
 most worthy the highest place in the synagogue, and the first 
 seat at feasts. 
 
 It must be said, however, for all the man s cold selfishness, 
 and lack of all milk of human kindness, that he was scrupulous 
 ly just and honest in his dealings. 
 
 He never had oppressed the fatherless, or widows ; he had 
 removed no landmarks. If he assisted no man, he wronged 
 none. If he forgave no failings on the part of others, he asked 
 no forgiveness for his own. Perhaps he thought he had him 
 self no failings. 
 
 He certainly would have been astonished to hear his griping 
 avarice, which he denominated painstaking and God-fearing 
 thrift, denounced as a vice ; and there would have been no 
 end to his marvelling, had it been insinuated to him that his 
 austere and sour port, his disgust at all innocent amusements, 
 his contempt of all gentle affections, his bitter hatred of all 
 whom he chose to designate sinners hatred to which he 
 often gave a personal and persecuting character* were more 
 akin to evil than to virtue. 
 
 Originally, he might perhaps have been a self-tormentor ; he 
 had now degenerated (this at least is certain) into a tormentor 
 of others. With him, all love was lust ; all Christian charity, 
 a weak countenancing of sinners ; all mirth, wantonness ; all 
 humanity, a tampering with the evil one. 
 
 He was one of those, in short, who deem a stern, morose 
 
THE FANATIC. 27 
 
 countenance, a cold and unfeeling heart, the surest signs of 
 grace ; who cherished his worst vices as the most fruitful vir 
 tues ; who deemed himself superior to his fellow-men, for the 
 very lack of those qualities which bring them nearest to the 
 angels, and for the plenteousness of those which most assimi 
 late them to the brutes that perish. 
 
 Merciful Whalley was, in one word, a man such as whom 
 there are, at all times, but too many in the world, but who in 
 that age especially abounded who bring virtue into more dis 
 repute, and work more evil to the cause of righteousness, than 
 the* most scarlet sinners. 
 
 A man, who in all his practice converted the beauty of holi- i 
 ness into deformity -V who would have changed the heart of 
 man, destined by its Creator to be the shrine of all sweet a.nd 
 pure affections, into a temple consecrated to the twin fiends V 
 self and mammon ; and the fair world, with all its beauty and 
 its joy, into a very hell. 
 
 Such was the father, who scowled on his pure and lovely 
 child ; reproached her with rude and angry words ; and half 
 believed her to be a vessel of wrath, because she was, what 
 the good God intended that we all should be, joyous herself, 
 and a minister of joy to others. 
 
 He scowled upon her grimly, as she went her way obedient 
 to his bidding ; and felt more than a partial inclination to call 
 her back, and reprove her for that very obedience and submis 
 sion, as savoring of hypocrisy and scorning. 
 
 But he restrained his spite, to vent it upon other objects, 
 strode after her, gloomy and grim, and entered the door of his 
 own home, to stand before his family, a being dreaded and 
 severed, rather than trusted or beloved, by all around him. 
 
28 THE FAIR PURTTAH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 " quid solutis est beatius curis." 
 
 THERE is no happier scene on earth, none upon which good 
 angels may be supposed to look with more complacency, than 
 the assemblage round the evening fire, of a united, happy, lov 
 ing family : when the overburdened mind throws off its load 
 of cares and anxieties ; when the exhausted body enjoys that 
 respite, which itself is pleasure, from the labors of the day ; 
 when the heart, weary and faint with struggling against the 
 coldness and selfishness of the outer- world, comes back, like a 
 bird to its nest, to repose confidently on the affections and de 
 votion of the tried and trusted few. 
 
 Of all the blessings, for which man should thank God, daily 
 and for ever, and of which, alas ! he is ever too regardless until 
 their loss has taught him their true value, this is the choicest 
 gift. 
 
 And if there be an error, which treads closer on the heel of 
 sin than any other, it is that of the man, who by negligence, or 
 selfishness, or hardness of heart, converts this blessing into a 
 curse, steeps this light of humanity in cold and cheerless gloom. 
 
 There was no lack of comfort around the hearth or in the 
 rustic kitchen of the " Cove cottage." 
 
 A blaze, almost like that of a furnace, went roaring up the 
 wide open chimney ; nor, though it was summer-time, was the 
 warmth unpleasant, so freshly did the moist sea-breeze sweep 
 in through the open lattices, from the broad Atlantic, and so 
 
THE FIRESIDE. 29 
 
 cool did the overhanging rocks, and the sun-proof shelter of 
 the pine-trees render that shady nook. There was no lack of 
 wealth. In the midst of that cheerful blaze, hung a huge cal 
 dron, from which issued an incessant simmering song, and a 
 rich, steamy odor, prophetic of a savory meal. 
 
 The kitchen was a long, low room, floored, roofed, and 
 wainscotted with unpainted pine-wood ; but every part of it was 
 white, almost as snow, and reddent, if I may so express myself, 
 of cleanliness. From the huge rafters overhead hung, in long 
 rows, a goodly show of venison hams, and flitches of bears- 
 meat, interspersed with strings of onions, and bunches of sage, 
 and thyme, and other culinary herbs. 
 
 The ample meal-tub, in one corner of the room, the harness- 
 cask of pork, and the barrel of salted haddock in another, at 
 tested the ample provision made for the creature comforts ; 
 while the bright range of pewter plates, glittering like silver 
 on the shelves above the dresser, and the huge oaken chest, 
 displaying by its open lid, large store of clean, coarse linen, 
 perfumed with lavender, and rosemary, spoke volumes for the 
 thrift and care of the females of the household. 
 
 Was not, then, Merciful Whalley a pre-eminently happy 
 man ? 
 
 The lord had increased his stores. He eat the labor of his 
 hands ; Oh ! well was it to him. 
 
 His wife was as the fruitful vine upon the walls of his house. 
 
 His children like the olive-branches round his table. Where 
 fore, then, was he not blessed among men, and happy ? 
 
 His wife the chosen of his bosom, she who had left friends, 
 home, and country, to follow the enthusiast into the far and 
 fearful wilderness she, who had once shone forth the pride 
 and beauty of a sweet English village what was she now! 
 did she look like one, who was in herself happy, or the parti 
 cipant of another s happiness ? 
 
30 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Wan, faded prematurely, gray-haired, not certainly from the 
 lapse of years, hollow-eyed, with a timid stealthy tread, an 
 anxious glance, like that of a hunted animal, a weak apolo 
 getic smile, that was in itself unutterably sad, and painful ! 
 
 And the children, the olive-branches round the righteous, the 
 rich man s table ! 
 
 Goodly in form and feature, excellent in stature, healthy and 
 strong and handsome, were they as children should be ; as 
 happy children are ! 
 
 Sweet Ruth, thou wert the first-born, and to a parent that 
 appreciated duly that priceless gift of God, a dutiful and loving 
 child, what a treasure wert thou ! 
 
 Four others were assembled, on that evening, in the low 
 kitchen three stout, hearty boys, strong-limbed, ruddy com- 
 plexioned, and not without a certain air of superiority, to the 
 mere drudging rustic. 
 
 The eldest of the three might perhaps be sixteen or seven 
 teen years of age, the youngest twelve ; and all the three, as 
 I have said, were comely to look upon, well clad, well condi 
 tioned. What was it then, that lent so strange and unnatural 
 an aspect to those young faces, those bright eyes that should, 
 to fulfil the ends of their all-kind Creator, have been alive with 
 innocent and artless merriment. 
 
 There was no mirth in those eyes ! no frankness, no ingenu 
 ous gleam of out-bursting native truth in those youthful features ! 
 no sunshine of the innocent and fearless soul on those faces ! 
 
 There was no thought in those smooth, patient brows. 
 
 Instead of thinking, active, energetic, and impulsive crea 
 tures, obedient to the fresh, noble impulses of heart and nature 
 they we^e mere passive, listless, senseless, almost soulless, 
 agents of a will to which they bowed, not in the least that they 
 understood or loved it, but that it was stern and superior, and 
 enforced absolute submission. 
 
THE FIRESIDE. 31 
 
 Is such the stuff whereof to make free men, good citizens, 
 and Christians, or slaves, rogues, and hypocrites ? 
 
 The fifth was a little, little girl not above four years old 
 two intermediate children had died infants and this was now 
 the youngest, and would have been the pet of any other family. 
 A lovely babe she was, with large, soft, hazel eyes, like her 
 sister s, and a profusion of light-brown silky hair, falling in 
 natural curls over her neck and shoulders. But even she, this 
 tiny, prattling babe, that should thus far at least have been pre 
 served aloof from fear which to weak natures is so often the 
 first cause of sin that should have been all glee, and merri 
 ment, and love, she like the rest was grave and silent in her 
 little plays, with an air of unnatural constraint pervading her 
 whole manner, and a shy, sidelong look that seemed to be con 
 tinually expectant of a chiding. 
 
 This little one sat on the sanded floor, between the table, 
 which was spread for the evening meal, and the glowing hearth, 
 holding in her lap a favorite kitten, and playing with it gently, 
 but neither laughing aloud, nor crowing and shouting, as most 
 children of her age would have done. 
 
 The boys lounged idly on the rude wooden chairs and bench 
 es, which surrounded the walls of the room ; the day s work 
 was finished ; their hands were unoccupied. It would seem 
 that their minds were as much so. Conversation they had 
 none ; books they had none ; with the exception of the Bible 
 which, alas the day ! had been rendered distasteful to them, 
 by being forced upon them as a penance and a task, at an ago 
 when the intellect is too feeble to grasp its consolations, or 
 comprehend its glorious promises and a few tracts, so stern, so 
 savage, and so unrelenting in their morality, so utterly unchar 
 itable in their tendency, and so disgusting, not to say blasphe 
 mous, in their language, that it required no adventitious cause 
 
32 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 of dislike to deter the young men from opening their denunci 
 atory pages. 
 
 The mother of this sad-eyed and gloomy family went to and 
 fro, from one room to another, intent upon her household du 
 ties ; but she performed them, as it were, mechanically, and 
 with nothing of that joyous interest, that hope of pleasing, that 
 certainty of meriting and meeting approbation, which renders 
 even the most ungrateful toils in some sort agreeable, when 
 undertaken in behalf of those whom we love. 
 
 There was one other person present in the room ; and that one 
 so remarkable, that he must not be lightly passed over, although 
 he sat mute and motionless in the chimney corner, never turn 
 ing his eyes toward any of the family of his family, which 
 was collected about him, or appearing to take the smallest no 
 tice of anything that was passing. 
 
 He was a tall, dark, stern old man, apparently near eighty 
 years of age. But those years, though they had been spent in 
 hardship, in warfare, in toil, and in exile, left many traces, on 
 his marked face, and sinewy though lean and emaciated frame. 
 He sat perfectly erect in his chair, with his arms resting 
 squarely on its elbows, and his dark clear eyes fixed on va 
 cancy. The muscles of his mouth, which were as hard as 
 iron, and showed a will as indomitable, never relaxed into a 
 smile. He seemed to live on memory only, and on the past; 
 so little heed did he take of any sublunary matters. 
 
 Sometimes, if any of the children spoke louder than their 
 custom, much more if they laughed aloud, or if the babe set up, 
 as it would do at rare intervals forgetful, a shrill, childish laugh, 
 he would look quickly at the offender, with an expression of 
 eye that would alone have sufficed to awe him into silence, 
 without the harshly intonated " Peace !" which was sure to 
 follow that dark glance, in accents which were anything rath 
 er than pacific. 
 
THE FIRESIDE. 33 
 
 Sometimes, when no one spoke or moved, when not a sound 
 was to be heard save the low whisper of the sea breeze in the 
 pinetops, or the deep monotonous inrolling of the surf* he would 
 start, as if at some fearful voice in his ear, and gaze around 
 him wildly, almost fearfully, and clutch at the left side of his 
 girdle, with his thin, bony hands, as if to find a weapon. 
 
 Then, in a moment, as if recovering from his trance, he 
 would shake his head with a sort of angry and impatient sor 
 row, and relapse into his day-long musings. 
 
 Yet singular as was his manner, and dark as was the cloud 
 which, it would seem, had settled down not only on his fea 
 tures, but on his secret soul, there was nothing morose, or 
 mean, or cruel about the old man s features. 
 
 Stern indeed he was, but with the sternness that is severer 
 upon himself than human nature. Hard, self-denying, and 
 ascetical, yet full withal of high and noble purposes, enthusi 
 astic, and a dreamer of great things, fanatical perhaps and 
 wild, but zealous and sincere, and an appreciator of sincerity 
 in others. 
 
 Such had that old man been, in his days of eminence and 
 power for he had been both eminent and powerful before 
 exile and persecution had thoroughly distorted a mind, perhaps 
 erratic in its natural tendency, and almost quenched its wild 
 and penetrating radiance in silent gloom and torpor. 
 
 His hair was as white as snow, as were his shaggy eye 
 brows, and the heavy mustache, and pointed beard, which still 
 clothed his upper lip and chin. 
 
 His dress was a long-waisted and close-fitting jerkin of black 
 serge, with a white linen band, loose, black trunk-hose, and 
 coarse, gray, woollen stockings. He wore a broad, buff belt 
 about his waist, and it might well be that the long basket-hilted 
 tuck, or broadsword, which hung in its steel scabbard, besides 
 a morion and horseman s inusquetoon over the mantlepiece, had 
 
34 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 once swung from it on his thigh, and clashed on spur and stir 
 rup amid the stormy rush of squadrons. 
 
 No weapon graced it now, however, but an oak staff with 
 a brass ferrule leaned against the elbow-chair in which he sat 
 unconscious, and a tall, steeple-crowned hat, lay with a large, 
 black cloak, near at hand, in case of his choosing to go abroad. 
 
 Such was the aspect of the room, and such the looks and 
 occupation of the company, when lifting the latch gently, and 
 entering without any smile or greeting, Ruth Whalley joined, 
 after her short conversation with the master of the house. 
 
 " Father is coming," she said quietly, " and I much fear he 
 brings evil tidings ; for he seems anxious and disquieted." 
 
 At the word father, instead of rising with alacrity and joy 
 to meet him, the three boys moved in their chairs uneasily, and 
 drew themselves up into erect and rigid attitudes, and then the 
 elder reached the Bible from a desk, whereon it lay, and open 
 ing it at random, began to study it with diligence. 
 
 The child that was playing on the hearth, jumped up, and 
 dropped her kitten, which took refuge, as soon as the heavy 
 step of Merciful became audible without, under the chair where 
 on the old man was sitting. 
 
 A vague expression of distrust, almost of fear, crossed the 
 babe s face ; and running to her mother s side, she clutched her 
 grogram gown with both hands, as if she were flying from an 
 enemy. 
 
 The mother spoke not, but looked up and interchanged a 
 speaking glance with Ruth, lifted the little one in her arms, 
 and pressed it to her bosom.; then heaving a long, painful sigh, 
 pursued her household occupations. 
 
 The door opened abruptly ; and, uttering no kindly word, 
 unloving, and unwelcomed, the austere man crossed the thresh 
 old of that, to gracious hearts, the sweetest sanctuary, his own 
 home. 
 
THE EVENING MEAL. 35 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE EVENING MEAL. 
 " Desideratoque tandem acquiescere lecto." 
 
 WITH a deliberate and searching glance, Merciful Whalley 
 noted all that was passing, as he entered, ere he spoke ; and 
 when he did speak, it was with the cold authoritative manner 
 which long habit had made now a part almost, of his nature. 
 
 " Gideon," he said, addressing the eldest of the boys, " take 
 down the boat-locks, and the keys, and make all fast for the 
 night. And, mark me, whose duty was it to see to the drying 
 of the Seine?" 
 
 " Abner s, to-day, sir," answered the second, growing very red 
 in the face. " I calked the seams of the Good Hope, this 
 morning " 
 
 " And in the afternoon ?" inquired his father, with a piercing 
 glance. 
 
 " I was out on the reef with Gideon catching tautaugs," re 
 plied the boy timidly. 
 
 " Ha ! couldst thou find naught to do, more pressing ? Ab- 
 ner, thou wilt go supperless to bed ; and think thyself dealt but too 
 leniently withal, that I do not chastise thee soundly the wind 
 hath blown the new seine on the stakes, and torn a rent in it, 
 of a yard long, and upward. Go fetch it up, and secure it on 
 the upper railings. Enoch, go help thy brother." 
 
 Never did eastern slaves obey their master, with more prompt 
 obedience ; but it was all mechanical, eye-service all, done 
 grudgingly, for fear, and not for love. 
 
 When they had left the room, he took off the high-crowned 
 
36 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 hat, which he had not removed before, wiped his brow with 
 the back of his broad hand, and setting his long musket down 
 in the chimney-corner, threw himself into the chair, which 
 Enoch had lately vacated, opposite to the old man, who had 
 not altered his position, or seemed to be aware of his son s 
 entran.ce. 
 
 And now, for the first time, did anything resembling a hu 
 man expression cross the dark features of the Puritan. As he 
 gazed on the old man, who sat there, all unconscious of the 
 wild storrn that was brewing, buried in his own wilder recol 
 lections, the muscles of the austere man s mouth worked visi 
 bly, and something like a drop of passing moisture twinkled 
 upon the lashes of his cold, hard eye. 
 
 His beautiful child had been watching him with tender and 
 almost compassionate solicitude. She alone pitied and loved, 
 more than she feared, her father. 
 
 The wife of that stern man s bosom, who once would have 
 laid down her life to soothe his slightest sorrow, was now so 
 shy, so timid, and so spirit-broken, that she no longer dared so 
 much as to intrude her consolation on one whose afflictions 
 were for the most part of his own creating, and far beyond the 
 sphere of any mortal comforter. 
 
 To his boys he was only the oppressive taskmaster, the 
 rigid and unbending tyrant. 
 
 But to Ruth, exquisite Ruth, he was not only the revered 
 father, but the unhappy, self-tormented man. She never asked, 
 never considered, whence his sorrows ; she saw that they were 
 sorrows, and, whether real or imaginary, it was enough for her 
 to know that they did pierce his hard heart to the core, and 
 wring from him groans of agony, which she had heard in the 
 dead of night, when all save she were sleeping, and she watching 
 in fear and sadness at the door of the conscience-stricken sufferer. 
 
 Perhaps, had he been milder in his mood, more human in 
 
THE EVENING MEAL. 37 
 
 his affections, more accessible in his sorrow perhaps, I say, 
 she had then loved him less. 
 
 Now, as she saw him alienating all around him by his black 
 mood, till she alone of all his family had any sympathy with 
 him ; compassion, the true woman s instinct, the tenderness 
 which flows but the more abundantly the more exactingly it is 
 demanded, attracted her to him irresistibly. And ere long she 
 felt that, in some sort, he reposed on her, and rested the frailty 
 of his disordered manhood on the immovable strength of her 
 feminine affections. 
 
 From that day forth from the hour and the minute in 
 which she felt herself to be the staff and support of that un 
 happy and wrong-minded parent no coldness could have 
 frozen, no violence turned back, the warm tide of her sympa 
 thies, the depth of her devotion. 
 
 And, to do justice to the man, although he rarely smiled on 
 her for smiles were strangers to his gloomy nature al 
 though to her, as to all the rest, he was indifferent, severe, and 
 cold, yet to her, and to her alone, he was never violent, and 
 rarely harsh or bitter. 
 
 He would gaze at her often with a softened eye, and as that 
 eye would dwell on her pure face, right index of her spotless 
 mind, his heart would expand, as far as it was capable of ex 
 pansion ; and he would smite his breast, and mourn over what 
 he deemed her perilous and lost condition ; even, he would 
 himself have said, " as Rachel weeping for her children, and 
 would not be comforted." 
 
 Sometimes, he would even listen to her voice, and give him 
 self for a while to softer feelings, as her low, silvery tones 
 warbled the precious songs of David ; and he would liken her 
 strains to the prophet-king s inspired minstrelsey, " when he 
 took a harp and played with his hand, so Saul was refreshed, 
 and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him." 
 
38 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 And therefore she loved him ; and if her love was mixed 
 with fear, it was not lessened by it. And what mortal feeling 
 is there so pure, that it has not some touch of evil in it, when 
 ever the true Christian s love for his Lord and teacher can not 
 divest itself entirely of some sordid thoughts of self? 
 
 As pure, however, as any human sentiment can be, was 
 sweet Ruth Whalley s tenderness toward that cold-hearted and 
 uninteresting man. And now, as she observed the anguish of 
 his soul, while he gazed silently in his own father s face, she 
 was the more convinced, of what she had been led to suspect 
 by his unusual sharpness to herself, that some deep, real sor 
 row, some actual affliction, was at hand, which had disturbed 
 him, almost beyond endurance. 
 
 Her heart yearned to him. Her beautiful brown eyes were 
 filled to overflowing with tears, which it cost her a mighty 
 effort to repress, as she crossed the room gently, and seating 
 herself on a low stool by his side, took one of his large weather- 
 beaten hands, and pressed it lovingly in her soft, slender fingers. 
 
 It almost seemed to burn her, as she took it ; so hotly did 
 the fever of his distempered spirit drive the blood through his 
 veins, swollen well nigh to bursting. 
 
 " Father," she said in a soft, tremulous whisper, so low that 
 it reached no ear but his, " dear, dearest father !" 
 
 The Puritan looked down upon her for a moment ; and it 
 may be that his spirit smote him for his unkindness. For the 
 moisture, that had scarce gemmed his eyelash, swelled into a 
 full tear, slid down his wrinkled cheek, and fell heavily upon 
 his daughter s hand. Still he was not ashamed, but laid his 
 broad palm on the soft, glossy curls that covered her fair head, 
 and replied to her caress, saying, like her, in a low voice 
 
 " Thou art a good child, Ruth ; so far as one of us misera 
 ble sinners may be called good ; and I believe thou lovest me. 
 Would, my child, would God ! thou didst so love thy 
 
THE EVENING MEAL. 39 
 
 Lord, and hatedst me, who am but as a worm, as a vile potsherd, 
 to be trodden under foot, or dashed piecemeal in his day of 
 indignation! While HE, wouldst thou but turn thy love to 
 him, can save thy soul alive !" 
 
 " I can not prove how fervently I love HIM better, than by 
 obedience to his word, by honoring, I mean, my father, and 
 ministering, if he will permit me, to his sorrows." 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! for the false doctrine !" groaned the enthu 
 siast aloud. <; Knowest thou not, wretched child, that he 
 taught, if any man come to me, and hate not his father and 
 his mother, he can not be my disciple ?" 
 
 " And yet, my father," returned the gentle girl, nothing 
 abashed or disconcerted by his perverse and blind adherence 
 to the letter of one single text, " the Lord blessed Ruth, my 
 namesake; who hated not her mother Naomi, but loved 
 her, above all earthly things, and cherished her, and left for 
 her, home, kindred, friends, and country ; and went for her 
 to glean in a far land, even in the fields of Boaz. And yet, 
 my father, the Lord blessed Ruth, and gave to her prosperity, 
 and peace, and happiness exceeding, upon earth. May he do 
 so to this his servant likewise, and more also ; not in this per 
 ishable world, but in his holy heavens !" 
 
 "Amen! Amen!" replied the hard man, for the moment, 
 wholly subdued and conquered by the pure faith and humility 
 of his fair child. 
 
 A momentary silence followed, for Merciful, as often hap 
 pens with men of his moody temperament, was more ashamed 
 of the bitter feelings he had displayed, than he had ever been, 
 of the worst acts of his lifetime. 
 
 Ruth was too timid and too inexperienced to follow up the 
 advantage she had gained : and the same cold and heart-chil 
 ling reserve, which had prevailed before her gentle effort, was 
 again falling on the domestic circle, when the door opened, 
 
40 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 and the boys returned, their tasks performed, to the fireside, 
 creating a momentary bustle by their entrance. 
 
 Almost at the same instant the mother came in from a dif 
 ferent direction, followed by Tituba, the Indian girl, bringing 
 with them, hot cakes, and bowls of milk, and butter, such as 
 was set before Sisera of old, and all the preparations for an 
 abundant evening meal. 
 
 The caldron was removed from the iron hook on which it 
 hung, and its contents, which proved to be that standing dain 
 ty of New England, a rich chowder, were poured into a large 
 tureen of Delft ware. 
 
 Then the pale mother stepped up to her lord, and announced 
 to him, with bated breath and a downcast eye, that supper was 
 ready, if he would please to partake of it. 
 
 Heaving a deep sigh, that was almost a groan, the Puritan 
 rose from his seat reluctantly, as if he considered it the most 
 unpleasant and sinful thing in the world to taste the bread for 
 which we are taught to pray daily. 
 
 When he had risen to his feet, however, his conduct showed 
 one of those strong redeeming points, the existence of which 
 prevented his character from being altogether, and intolerably 
 odious his deep affection, namely, and respect for his old, 
 impotent, and dreaming father. 
 
 It seemed as if in that one feeling toward that one person 
 were absorbed all his capabilities of loving. As if the passion 
 which he once had felt for the partner of his lot. whether it 
 should be good or evil, the paternal tenderness with which all 
 men regard the offspring of their bed, the very patriotism 
 which had once burned so fiercely in his bosom, were all 
 merged and concentred in his devotion to his aged father. 
 
 To him, as Hector to Andromache, that old man stood in 
 lieu of all other ties, all other kindred. He was to him as 
 wife, and children, brethren, and home, and country. 
 
THE EVENING MEAL. 41 
 
 And now, as timidly as a short time before his wife had 
 stood before him, inviting him to the well-provided table, he 
 stood before the white-haired elder, and begged him, with a 
 voice as humble, to rise and come to supper. 
 
 Thrice was he compelled to renew his bidding, before his 
 father comprehended him. 
 
 When he first spoke, the old man started as if aroused from 
 sleep, and gazed with unmeaning eyes into his son s face. 
 At the second invitation he drew his hand across his brow, as 
 if to clear away the mists which time and powerful memories 
 had gathered round him, and then shook his head half-wist- 
 fully, half-sorrowfully, as if conscious of his own infirmity. 
 
 Then, with a mighty effort, he seemed to collect his mind ; 
 and, at the third summons, arose calm and quiet, with the 
 graceful ease of a gentleman, and simply saying 
 
 " I crave your pardon, son Merciful ; I was busy with old 
 times," he moved steadily across the floor without assistance, 
 and took his place in a high-backed arm-chair, at the head of 
 the board. 
 
 Then Merciful drew near the table, and clasping his hands, 
 uttered a long and vehement prayer, full of denunciations of 
 that sinful and headstrong generation, of dark anticipations of 
 the wrath to come, and of expostulatory and familiar arguments 
 with the Almighty, such as to better-regulated minds would 
 appear almost blasphemous. This strange grace ended, he 
 took his seat, distributed the plenteous viands in silence to the 
 members of his family ; and that done, fed in silence, with 
 an immoderate and wolfish appetite. 
 
 Scarcely a word was spoken during that gloomy and un 
 social meal, unless it were a passing request to be helped to 
 the contents of this or that dish, until toward the end of the 
 repast, when a strange scene occurred, which led in the end 
 to strange and fearful consequences. 
 
42 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE INDIAN. 
 
 " With whom revenge is virtue." 
 
 DURING the progress of supper which was by no means 
 hurried for, although they divested their meals of all intellec 
 tual or social character by the austere silence in which they 
 partook them, the Puritans were far from being averse to the 
 pleasures of the table during the progress of supper the In 
 dian girl stood, with a sullen cloud overshadowing her comely 
 features, through which there flashed at times a gleam of un 
 governable hatred and ferocity, behind the chair of her master, 
 Merciful. It seemed to be only by a great effort that she re 
 frained from some display of violent temper, when she was called 
 upon to assist him to any of the condiments or eatables which 
 he required. And it was, perhaps, well for her that his mind 
 was absorbed so completely in the consideration of the tidings 
 that he had, that day, received in Boston, that he took no note 
 of the Indian girl s changed and disrespectful demeanor. 
 
 It was not, however, destined that the evening should pass 
 over, without an explosion ; and, singular as it might seem, 
 sweet Ruth was the immediate, though most involuntarily, 
 cause of the outbreak. 
 
 She had, that very evening, promised the poor drudge that 
 she would never address her by the name of Patience ; rightly 
 attaching small importance to a mere word, and deeming it of 
 far greater consequence to conciliate the mind of the poor 
 heathen, by kindness and judicious teaching, than to irritate 
 and revolt her feelings by the continued application of a term, 
 which she abhorred, and probably esteemed degrading. 
 
THE INDIAN. 43 
 
 It is true, when she made that promise, Ruth had not fully 
 envisaged the anger, which her rejection of the Christian ap 
 pellation he had chosen for the bondwoman, was likely to 
 arouse in her father. 
 
 Perhaps she overrated her influence over his evil mood, and 
 fancied that the milder temper he had exhibited for a little 
 space that evening, would be of more endurance than it indeed 
 was. 
 
 However this might be, when the supper was nearly at an 
 end, she raised her eyes with a gentle smile to the bondwo 
 man s face, and said in her musical and winning tones, 
 
 " Will you not give me a glass of fair, spring water, Ti- 
 tuba ?" 
 
 At the sound of the forbidden word, Enoch, the second of her 
 brotbers, started and let fall his knife upon the pewter platter, 
 calling thereby his father s indignation on himself, no less than 
 his attention to his sister s dereliction. 
 
 " Leave the board, Enoch," said the deep voice of Merciful, 
 "since thou canst not behave decorously. And thou, Ruth, 
 what meaneth this, that thou callest yon dark-skinned daughter 
 of the evil race by the foul name which marks her out unto 
 perdition ?" 
 
 " It is her own name, father," replied the gentle girl, " the 
 name that recalls to her the wild home of her childhood, the 
 mother who lulled her infancy, the little brethren who played 
 around her. She loves her own name, father. It speaks to 
 her of the days when she was free ; when her people were a 
 great nation. Oh ! suffer her, I pray you, to be called Tituba. 
 She hates the name of Patience. I do not think that there 
 can be so much in a mere name." 
 
 " Thou dost not think !" exclaimed the Puritan, his cold, 
 black eyes dilating with astonishment, and his iron mouth dis 
 torted into a grim, sarcastic smile. " And who taught thee to 
 
44 
 
 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 think ? Who made thee, if I be not overbold to ask it, a teach 
 er in Israel ? Wo ! wo ! rebellion and perversity of heart ! 
 Wo ! wo ! and alas ! that, on this night of tribulation, when it 
 has pleased the Lord to try this house in a hot furnace of af 
 fliction, alas ! I say, that on this night, I should hear from the 
 lips of child of mine, such blasphemy against the Lord s most 
 holy ordinance of baptism, with water and the Spirit. Go ! go ! 
 my wretched and misbelieving child, go to thy chamber, mor 
 tify thy soul with prayer and humiliation, and this pride of thy 
 soul with fasting. And thou, swart child of sin, see what the 
 evil of thy heart hath wrought of sorrow to thy young mistress. 
 Beware, that I hear no more of this, or thou shalt rue it long 
 and sorely. Pray to the Christian s God, pray that thou may- 
 est believe ; Patience thou art, and Patience " 
 
 " Patience, I am not!" replied the Indian girl, haughtily, but 
 not angrily ; and it was remarkable, that, under the influence 
 of pride and excited feeling, she no longer spoke in broken 
 English, or expressed her thoughts with difficulty. " White 
 man, my name is Tituba my mother s brother was great 
 Miantonomah, the war-chief of the mighty, the free, Narra- 
 gansets ! 
 
 " White man, my tribe were lords of all the land thy greedy 
 eyes have looked upon, ages before thy big canoes crossed the 
 great lake, to make them slaves, and wretched. 
 
 " White man, my people were the chiefs of that great tribe. 
 
 " And what is the white man that he should rob the Indian, 
 not of the land only and the liberty, which the Great Spirit 
 gave him, but of his very name and nature ? 
 
 " The white man is a tyrant to his slave, a dog to his ene 
 my ! The white man s God is a devil, if white men do his 
 bidding ! 
 
 " Hear my words, white man, Tituba will die when the 
 Great Spirit wants her, but she will not be Patience, she will 
 
THE INDIAN. 45 
 
 not bow down to the white man s God. No, white man! she 
 will pray to the Indian s devil, rather ! 
 
 " White man, my words are spoken." 
 
 It is, perhaps, surprising that the Puritan should have allow 
 ed the child of nature to conclude her powerful harangue un 
 interrupted ; but, though he was a stern and at times a cruel 
 man, he was not passionate, or quick to anger. 
 
 His errors, great or small, were those, not of impulse, but 
 of deliberate and resolute opinion, 
 
 He rarely broke in upon the speech, or prevented the action 
 of any one ; but, the speech or action committed, he judged it 
 uncharitably, and punished it unmercifully. 
 
 Moreover, in the present instance, he was surprised ; first, 
 that his daughter, the, .maek^ gentle, humble-spirited Ruth, 
 should have presumed to think at all, and more, to think inde 
 pendently, and differently from himself; and lastly, that the 
 Indian, the heathen, the slave, the poor, soulless, helpless, 
 broken-hearted outcast, who, for the most part, scarcely could 
 find words to express her submission, should break out into 
 such a torrent of strong, fiery, and well-chosen language. 
 
 Balaam stood not more utterly aghast, for a moment, when 
 his ass turned and rebuked him with a human utterance. 
 
 Not long, however, did the Puritan s astonishment endure ; 
 he arose to his feet with his brow black as night. 
 
 " The masters have eaten sour grapes," he said, " and the 
 teeth of the slaves are set on edge ! The Lord is angry with 
 his people ! Lo ! we will seek the Lord in prayer. Per 
 chance, he will vouchsafe to point us out a way to escape his 
 wrath peradventure, he will bear it in upon our spirits, with 
 what chastisement we shall chastise this daughter of perdition. 
 And thou," be added, turning with an unchanged brow to the 
 Indian girl, " and thou, begone to the workshed, until I come 
 to conjure this rebellious and accursed spirit out of thee." 
 
46 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 But she moved not at all to go, nor quailed before his scowl 
 ing eye ; but stood, with her arms folded on her breast, as if 
 defying him. 
 
 " Will the white man flog Tituba ?" she said, in tones of the 
 most tranquil resolution. 
 
 "Ay! peradventure. If so the Lord" 
 
 But ere he could utter another word, she interrupted him, in 
 a shrill, high-pitched cry, tremulous with passion 
 
 " Never again ! never again, white man, shall you lay lash 
 on Tituba ! Scourge your own base white flesh ! Lash your 
 own children, like dogs, and yet viler brutes ! Shed your own 
 coward English blood ! But never again ! never, never, strike 
 an Indian, and a woman !" 
 
 And, with the last word of her rapid and broken exclamation, 
 she bounded upon him, her eyes flashing fire, like the panther 
 of her own native wilderness upon her prey.. 
 
 A Ions two-edged and sharp-pointed cook s knife, which 
 she had snatched unperceived from the dresser, gleamed ia 
 her lifted hand, as she sprang upon her tyrant. 
 
 Down ! down it came, flashing in the sunbeams, swift as the 
 lightning s thought executing fire ! 
 
 Aimed full and surely at his neck, above the collar-bone, 
 had that blow fallen undiverted, Merciful Whalley had indeed, 
 as she said, never struck blow again, nor moved hand or foot, 
 in this world. 
 
 And so completely was he taken by surprise, that he made 
 no effort to avoid or parry it. 
 
 His miserable wife sank down into her chair, clasping her 
 hands over her eyes, that she might not at least see the death 
 blow. 
 
 The old man had withdrawn from the table, during the loud 
 discussion, entirely unconscious of all that was passing ; and 
 coiled up, as before, in the chimney-corner, was watching the 
 
THE INDIAN. 47 
 
 smoke, as it rolled up the chimney in thick wreaths, with an 
 eye that scarce knew what it noted. 
 
 Gideon, the eldest son, bounded forward, but too late ; the 
 other boys had been banished the room almost an hour before. 
 
 But Ruth, brave Ruth, who had arisen at her father s com 
 mand, and was retreating to her own chamber, emboldened by 
 the peril of that ruthless parent, leaped in between them, with 
 a loud piercing cry 
 
 " Tituba ! Tituba ! he is my father !" 
 
 The eyes of the Indian girl glared fearfully, but it was all 
 too late. She could not check the blow. 
 
 It fell ! 
 
 But the cry, and the attempt Ruth had made to arrest her 
 arm, diverted the aim ; and striking on the clavicle, the point 
 of the knife was turned against the bone, and glanced off, in 
 flicting only a superficial wound in the muscles of the shoulder. 
 
 In the next moment Gideon had seized and disarmed her ; 
 for, the brief passion over, she subsided instantly into the 
 crest-fallen, spirit-broken drudge, she had been before her un 
 premeditated effort. 
 
 The Puritan staggered beneath the weight of the blow, so 
 vigorously was it dealt; but in an instant he rallied, as calm, 
 as inscrutable, as dark, and impassive, as his wont. 
 
 " The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be 
 afraid ? But thou, child of iniquity, murderess, devil-worship 
 per, surely of thee, and such as thee, it was written, * Thou 
 shall not suffer, one of them to live ! no ; not one !" cried the 
 Puritan. 
 
 " Father, dear father, thou art wounded ; but, the Lord s 
 name be praised, for ever and for ever, I have preserved 
 thee !" 
 
 " Not thou, my daughter, but the Lord, even the Lord of 
 Hosts !" replied the enthusiast, with his eye glaring wildly ; 
 
48 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 for he was under the excitement of that fierce, overmastering 
 spirit, which he believed to be inspiration. He put her aside 
 gently, as she threw herself into his arms 
 
 " The wound," he said, " is nothing ; thou, Ruth, shall see 
 to it anon, when I have taken order with this witch? 
 
 He turned to the Indian girl, who stood now motionless as a 
 statue, her head bowed, her arms listlessly hanging by her 
 side, expectant, as it seemed, and careless of her doom. 
 
 " Go !" he said " Go ! I have spoken ! Pray to your God, 
 if you believe in any ! Go ! I follow !" 
 
 Without a word, a glance, a gesture, in that calm dignity of 
 submission, so characteristic of the Indian who never resists, 
 when resistance is evidently unavailing, she passed with noise 
 less steps out of the kitchen. 
 
 And heedless of the tears, the sobs, the supplications of his 
 daughter, who had so lately saved his life, at imminent peril 
 of her own, he strode out doggedly behind the Indian. 
 
 He closed the door locked double-locked it after him. 
 
 There was a long pause breathless, frightful ! 
 
 Then came a thrilling, quavering scream a scream that 
 made the blood curdle in the veins of all who heard it. 
 
 And then silence. 
 
49 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE VETERAN. 
 " Quse fuerint juvenili incorpore vires." 
 
 SEVERAL seconds elapsed after that frightful cry had arisen 
 and subsided, before any of those present could collect their 
 faculties sufficiently to take any action. 
 
 The wife of Merciful, a delicate and tender-hearted creature, 
 never from her youth upward endowed with much energy or 
 spirit, had long ago been so utterly subdued and crushed by 
 the commanding will and rigid authority of her husband, that 
 she would scarcely have ventured a remonstrance, had she 
 seen him applying the brand to the house in which she was 
 dwelling. 
 
 The tears, it is true, flowed in streams down her pale, mea 
 ger cheeks, and trickled through her thin fingers, and her 
 words were half lost amid convulsive sobs, as she cried 
 
 " Oh ! he will slay her ! he will slay her ! Merciful God, 
 spare him the burthen of blood-guiltiness !" 
 
 But she did riot arise from her chair, or make any effort at 
 interference. 
 
 Gideon, than whom a hardier or braver boy never spread 
 canvass to the wind, so far as natural perils were concerned, 
 was so unfortunately impressed by his father s tyranny for 
 by no milder name can the domestic despot s iron rule be 
 characterized that he would rather have faced a hunted bear, 
 naked-handed, than stood between that parent and the victim 
 of his wrath. 
 
 E 3 
 
50 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 It seemed, for a moment, that the stern Puritan would be 
 permitted to work his vengeful will on the unhappy girl, 
 without a single effort in her favor. 
 
 The face of Ruth was as white, and almost as cold, as statu 
 ary marble ; her beautiful eyes were fixed and dilated so un 
 naturally, that a circle of white was visible around each 
 glaring iris ; her hands were clasped in an agony of suspense ; 
 her lips apart ; and her whole frame motionless and rigid. 
 
 She stood, arrested by that awful sound that yet more 
 awful silence in the very act of springing forward. A 
 breathing, living statue, petrified, as it were, in the very 
 ecstacy of terror. 
 
 Again that fearful scream rose clear and piercing ; again, 
 again, filling every corner and cranny of the house with its 
 terrific volume. 
 
 And through it, and over it, were heard a succession of 
 heavy, sullen sounds, the reverberation of the accursed thong 
 plied on a helpless woman. Then was the spell broken in 
 stantly that had held Ruth Whalley motionless. 
 
 She had believed that all was over that the fell deed of 
 vengeance was completed that the wild scream of agony, 
 which had so frozen up her heart s blood, proclaimed that mis 
 erable man a murderer. 
 
 Tremendous as it was, the second scream fell on her ear 
 like tidings of joy and hope. 
 
 The blood rushed to her face, her fixed eye flashed lightly. 
 At one spring she reached the door, beat violently with her 
 delicate hands on the hard pannels, and cried in accents that 
 spoke, as clearly as her words, her unstained and holy pur 
 pose. 
 
 " Hear what the Lord sayeth, * Thou shalt do no murder ! " 
 
 But her weak mother, terrified rather by the wrath of her 
 husband than by the sufferings of the slave, and abject in the 
 
THE VETERAN. 51 
 
 selfishness of that most selfish of all feelings, personal appre 
 hension, said, 
 
 "Peace, oh! peace, Ruth Whalley, you will but irritate 
 him." 
 
 " Irritate him !" exclaimed the noble girl ; " Listen ! do you 
 hear that? Irritate him! jGfideon, brother, if you have one 
 spark in your soul of manhood or of courage, bring yon axe 
 hither; strike one blow, and save your father s soul from the 
 guilt of murder." 
 
 But the boy stirred not ; so utterly had the tyrannous do 
 mestic sway, and the heart-chilling puritanic rule quelled and 
 subdued the nobler portions of his nature. 
 
 Still the wild shrieks pealed heavenward imploring ; still 
 the atrocious scourge clanged in the hands of the tormentor. 
 
 But now at every blow the long-drawn screams were feebler, 
 hoarser, fuller of agony than of fear or indignation. They 
 sunk gradually into low, shivering moans. 
 
 " Great God !" cried Ruth, " will you hear these things, and 
 stand cowardly inactive ? Give me the axe !" 
 
 And, as she spoke, she seized the ponderous implement, 
 which at another time she scarcely could have lifted, and, 
 moved by the tremendous excitement, wielded it like a feather. 
 
 One heavy blow fell on the lock, and half drove it from its 
 fastenings, and the stout, oaken panels groaned and quivered. 
 
 Again she was upheaving it ; and the next moment would 
 have beheld the door battered from its hinges, when from the 
 farther end of the room a voice was heard, that arrested her 
 on the instant. 
 
 That which it has occupied pages to relate, had occurred 
 almost in as many seconds. A minute certainly had not 
 elapsed between the utterance of Tituba s first cry of anguish, 
 and Ruth s assault upon the door. 
 
 And during that minute, which seemed almost a lifetime to 
 
52 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the actors, every one had been occupied so completely by the 
 terrors of the scene, that not a thought, not an eye was directed 
 to the old man, who, had he entered their minds at all, they would 
 have supposed to be dozing, as usual, unmoved and abstracted 
 in his chimney-corner. 
 
 Far from it. When the first cry fell upon his ear, whether 
 it acted as the key to some treasured hoard of memories, 
 which it unlocked and poured out upon his darkened spirit, or 
 merely caused his nerves to thrill with a keener sensibility, 
 his aspect changed upon the moment. 
 
 It was like the uplifting of a heavy curtain from a fine pic 
 ture. The scattering of a thick mist from a sunny land 
 scape. 
 
 His eye which, a moment before, had no " speculation in t, n 
 was now filled with a strange, deep meaning. His features, 
 which had been blank and rayless, as those of an idiot, betray 
 ing no play of the intellect, no working of the godlike mind, 
 were in an instant preternaturally sharpened alive and quick 
 with a keen, eager, vigorous expression. 
 
 Yet was neither the light and meaning of the eye that of 
 calm, evenly-balanced reason, nor the sharp expression of the 
 features such a one as is often seen, where the intellect is 
 clear, and its operation regular and healthful. 
 
 Still, it was not the wild glare of insanity that flashed from 
 the speaking eye. 
 
 It was not the unnatural shrewdness of the crafty lunatic 
 that informed those high features. 
 
 He arose to his feet instantly, drew his hand once across his 
 brow with an air of uncertainty, perhaps of weakness. Then, as 
 the second shriek smote his ear, he looked abroad keenly with 
 an inquisitive and eager gaze, which yet seemed to be at a loss, 
 and hardly to recognise the objects around him. 
 
 On one thing, however, it fell with a quick glance of recog 
 
THE VETERAN. 53 
 
 nition the long, steel-hilted tuck, which hung in its steel 
 scabbard, above the mantelpiece. 
 
 He grasped it without a moment s hesitation ; unsheathed it 
 with a steady hand, gazed on its clear and polished blade with 
 an air of exultation, tried its point and edge with his finger, 
 proved the elastic temper of the steel by bending it against 
 the floor and suffering it to spring back to its length, and then 
 fitting its chain about his wrist, strode forward with a firm step 
 and an erect and steady bearing, as if to confront a foeman ! 
 
 " What, ho !" he cried aloud, in tones trumpet-like and spir 
 it-stirring tones that displayed nothing of the tremulous de 
 bility of years. "To arms! to arms! Ring out the city- 
 bells! Strike drums! sound trumpets! The bloody Gir- 
 gashites are upon us. The savage Rupert and his rake-hell 
 cavaliers ! To arms ! to arms ! They are within the walls 
 already !" 
 
 Ruth dropped the axe, which she had lifted for another blow, 
 at those strange words. Her mother, startled by this new ter 
 ror, rose with a faint cry from her chair and staggered forward 
 to meet the veteran Roundhead ; as, feebly vigorous, he strode 
 on bearing aloft the bright rapier, which had done service in 
 its day, whether for good or evil, toward the fated door. 
 
 Gideon himself, aroused to something like spirit, by this 
 strange resurrection of his grandfather s mind from the dull 
 and deathlike sleep in which it had so long lain dormant, ap 
 peared to nerve himself by a struggle for action. 
 
 But nothing did the old man heed them. He shook back 
 the long, thin, silvery locks from his brow, and with a flushed, 
 hectic cheek, and fire in his eye, rushed forward, his whole 
 mind evidently full of some painful and vivid recollections. 
 
 " Are ye men ?" he cried aloud once again. " Are ye men, 
 that ye" suffer them to deal thus with your wives, your chil 
 dren ? Ho ! Rallv ! rally ! Hear ye not how the women 
 E* 
 
54 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 shriek, and will ye not make in ? Lo ! where yon love-locked 
 cavalier hales the fair maiden in his licentious arms ! Lo ! 
 where yon fierce Alsatian tosses the infant on his pike! 
 Make in, I say, make in ! Strike for your children s safety 
 strike for the honor of your women! Tarry not, but make 
 in!" 
 
 As he spoke, he attained the door, which Ruth had already 
 half-beaten from its hinges ; but, ere this, the long shrieks had 
 subsided into those deep and shuddering moans, which were 
 if possible more awful and appalling. His hand was on the 
 latch, and he had shaken it once stoutly, when roused again 
 to ecstacy by some more cruel stripe the miserable girl set up 
 another cry, more terrible than any she had uttered. 
 
 " God of my fathers !" shouted the old man, turning ashy 
 pale, the transitory flush passing from his wan cheek like the 
 last sunset hue. " God of my fathers ! it is she ! Ho ! 
 Rachel, Rachel ! wife of my soul, I come ! I ! I ! it is not, 
 it can not, shall not be it is not, too late !" . 
 
 And, with the words, raising his foot with all the energetic 
 strength of young and robust manhood, he put his whole force 
 into one crashing blow, and split the heavy door asunder. 
 
 The room was already growing very dark, for the lustre of 
 day had died out from the western sky ; and the wood-fire 
 upon the hearth threw wavering and uncertain gleams over the 
 strange and agitating scene. 
 
 At the loud crash of the broken door, the cries ceased, and 
 the clang of the scourge ; and the harsh, stern voice of the 
 Puritan, deepened by the echoes of the vaulted cellar and 
 staircase, into a sort of hollow roar, was heard, asking angrily, 
 
 " Who dares intrude upon me ? Hence ! begone, or fear 
 mine heaviest indignation!" 
 
 " Tush ! tell me not of fear !" returned the old man. " Come 
 forth, I say, if you be est prince, or peer, or base and merce- 
 
THE VETERAN. 55 
 
 nary slabber; come forth, I say, and Uiou shalt meet a man ! 
 A man \vliQjias braved thy betters, who has not held his hand 
 nor refrained from the shedding of high blood even the blood 
 of crowned and anointed kings ! Come forth, I say, leave tor 
 turing, helpless women, and meet a man, indeed meet me, 
 even Edward Whalley !" 
 
 " My father !" exclaimed the Puritan, in a voice now tinc 
 tured somewhat by superstitious awe ; and leaving his barbar 
 ous occupation, he hurried up the steps from the cellar, to 
 ascertain what was passing. 
 
 The fire-light was rising and falling ; now flashing out for a 
 few seconds and filling the whole room with clear lustre ; now 
 fading utterly away, and leaving the place steeped in glimmer 
 ing and uncertain twilight. 
 
 But just as Merciful Whalley reached the head of the stair 
 case, pallid, and grim, and suffering under the effects of that 
 exhaustion, whicji not unfrequently succeeds to the indulgence 
 of any overmastering passion, one of the brightest of those 
 flickering gleams rose from the hearth, and fell directly on his 
 haggard face and features. 
 
 There was a gory spot upon his forehead ; his hands were 
 dyed with the same odious hue, and in his right he held a 
 knotted cord, whence there fell gouts of blood upon the clean 
 washed floor. 
 
 As the figure of the Puritan became visible ascending, the 
 old man rushed at first to meet him with his sword uplifted, 
 almost, in act to strike. 
 
 But as his eyes fell upon the bloody brow, the bloody hands, 
 the bloody cord which they grasped, old recollection seemed 
 again to overpower him. 
 
 He dropped the rapier, clanging upon the ground, staggered 
 two or three paces backward, clasping his white, emaciated 
 hands over his eyes, and uttering with a doleful cry the words: 
 
56 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 "Too late! too late! Rachel, Rachel, Rachel!" He 
 would have fallen to the ground but that Ruth and her brother 
 caught him in their arms, and supported him to a chair ; where 
 on he fell back, for the moment, completely exhausted and over 
 powered by that strong excitement. 
 
 " What is all this ado ?" said the hard father, looking around 
 him very gloomily, but yet more angrily. " What have you 
 done with him ?" 
 
 " Nay !" replied Ruth, meeting his eye, as she had never 
 done before, calmly, but firmly, inspired by womanly resolu 
 tion, womanly indignation. " Nay ! rather, what have you 
 done, father ?" 
 
 " Punished a murderess and a witch !" he answered almost 
 fiercely, " and so robbed the gallows of its due. 
 
 And his angry eye glared upon his own fair child, as if yet 
 but half satiated with revenge, he would have wreaked his 
 fury on her likewise. 
 
 But to Ruth Whalley his frown had lost all its terrors ; and 
 she gazed on him with a sort of abhorrent compassion. 
 
 " Speak, father," she said, in a voice full of deep feeling. 
 " For your soul s sake, I conjure you, speak ! Have you, an elder, 
 and judge of your people, broken God s sixth commandment?" 
 
 " See thou to that," he answered her, moodily, going in great 
 perturbation toward the chair of his father, on whom it would 
 appear that all his thoughts were centred, even in that dread 
 moment. 
 
 " By the Lord s grace, I will," she replied steadily, although 
 she turned deathly pale, for she supposed from his manner that 
 all was indeed over. " And may he, of his infinite mercy, 
 grant, that you be not called to answer it, beyond all hope, all 
 endurance ! 
 
 And lighting a lamp, she went down stairs, horror-stricken, 
 but fearless, alone to the place of torture. 
 
THE CHANGE. 
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 "My heart is in the coffin, there, with Cresar, 
 And I must pause till it come back to me." 
 
 As soon as Ruth left the kitchen, in search of the poor vic 
 tim of her father s anger, Merciful Whalley occupied himself 
 actively and efficiently about the old man, who had fainted, 
 after the violent agitation of his mind. 
 
 Directing his wife to apply cloths steeped in cold water to 
 his temples, he produced himself, from a cupboard of which 
 he kept the key, a flask of some powerful cordial, which evi 
 dently had not been disturbed for many a year, since it was 
 mantled over with thick cobwebs. 
 
 A few drops of this applied to the old man s lips resuscitated 
 him almost immediately. He heaved a deep sigh, opened his 
 eyes, and again closed them, and then, after a sort of tremulous 
 struggle, sat up erect, and looked around him. 
 
 But his mind still wandered, nor did he seem to recognise 
 any of those by whom he was surrounded. Yet it was riot the 
 apathetic dullness of his usual mood that was now apparent in 
 his manner, but an uncertain wavering, as it were, of his mind 
 between the past and present. 
 
 "Where am I?" he exclaimed. "Where is Rachel? I 
 thought I heard her voice but now ; and yet," he continued, 
 gazing around him with a bewildered eye, "and yet this looks 
 not like the townhall of Bristol nor hear I any longer the 
 
 3* 
 
58 
 
 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 cries of our women in extremity, the shouts and the trumpets 
 of the terrible malignants !" 
 
 " Peace, father ! peace !" said Merciful, in tones as gentle 
 as he could shape his mouth to utter "This is not Bristol; 
 nor are we any more at all in England. The days of the war 
 are long since ended ; the son of the * man of blood sits once 
 more eminent upon the throne, from which his father fell ; and 
 we are here, leagues aloof, in New England, whither our peo 
 ple came to seek that liberty of conscience they might not 
 have at home." 
 
 " Wherefore tellest thou this me, son Merciful 1" said the 
 old man recovering his memory at once, arid not relapsing any 
 more into the mental lethargy which had so long possessed 
 him. "Dost thou believe me so. old already, so frail-witted, 
 that I know not this ? Am I not in thy house, within the limits 
 of the good Bay Province, and are not these thy wife, and thy 
 children, whom I see around me? But but "and again 
 his eye assumed a troubled aspect, " I see not where is my 
 wife where is my Rachel ! Ah ! I remember, I remember !" 
 and, as the full illumination of memory and reason returned to 
 his shaken intellect, he bowed his head between his knees, 
 and wept as bitterly as if long years had not elapsed since she 
 whom he deplored fell in her innocence and youthful love a 
 sacrifice to the accursed fiend of civil discord. . " Alas !" he 
 repeated, as he raised his head, after a long and silent pause, 
 " I remember. But what were those cries, son Merciful 
 those cries which aroused me from my meditations ? Surely 
 they were not fancy they were not the mere coinage of dis 
 tempered memory. No, no ! I did hear a woman s pitiful 
 scream, and that it was which awakened me. How long 
 how long have I been a dreamer in the life-long day ?" 
 
 And he shook his head not doubtfully any longer, but in a 
 sort of sorrowful compassion at his own frailty. It was strange, 
 
THE CHANGE. 59 
 
 but it seemed that the shock, which those screams of Tituba 
 had given to his nervous system, had aroused and renewed his 
 intellect altogether. 
 
 He spoke calmly, pertinently ; the fickle and unstable fire 
 had died from his eye, the hectic flush had faded from his 
 cheek. There was no symptom now of undue excitement 
 in his air or manner, no sign of weakness in his firm and 
 serene countenance, in his erect, unbending posture. 
 
 Merciful Whalley paused, ere he replied. Almost he hoped 
 that his father s mind would again wander, so he might be 
 spared the disgrace of confessing what he had done fur now 
 that the deed was over that the stern heat of cruelty, which 
 prompted it, had passed in some sort away he felt that his 
 conduct had indeed been both sinful and disgraceful. 
 
 Yet it was not shame that he felt, but bitter, burning morti 
 fication ; it was not sorrow or repentance, much less compas 
 sion for his victim, but a hatred toward her ten times more 
 deeply seated than before, for that she was the involuntary and 
 unhappy cause of his degradation. 
 
 But the mind of the old regicide did not again wander ; and, 
 seeing that his son replied not, he inquired again, and this 
 time not without some sterness in his manner. 
 
 " What were those woman s screams, son Merciful ?" 
 
 " Nothing a trifle a vile Indian squaw, a slave, whom I 
 had need to correct," answered the Puritan, greatly embarrassed. 
 " Let us not speak of her at present. I have tidings to give you 
 of far deeper importance " 
 
 " Nothing ! a trifle !" interrupted the old man, repeating his 
 words indignantly ; " the outcries of a woman nothing ! the 
 sufferings of a woman a trifle ! Go to, go to, sir ! I know 
 nothing of deeper importance! I must hear more of this 
 an Indian and a slave ! Who art thou, and what God made 
 thee, that thou shouldst hold thy fellow-worms, the work of 
 
60 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 that same God s right hand, in bondage ? Was that the lash 
 I heard? Art thou, as the Egyptian.,* taskmaster, a perse 
 cutor ?" 
 
 " A bond-servant, I should have said," replied his son, " and 
 not a slave. Assigned to me was Patience by the selectmen 
 of the town, for her advancement in the culture of the Chris 
 tians, her indoctrination in the pure faith of the " 
 
 "And thou hast beaten her beaten her like a dog?" 
 asked the old man reproachfully. 
 
 " She would have slain me with the knife on mine own 
 hearth," returned the son. " See ; the blood is yet wet on my 
 doublet, where she smote !" 
 
 " There is blood likewise on thy brow ! on thy cruel hands ! 
 on that twisted and knotted cord ! Is that thy blood, Merci 
 ful ?" 
 
 Convicted, writhing with smothered rage, the dusk man was 
 silent. 
 
 " And thou thou a Whalley, and my son, hast scourged the 
 image of thy Maker, a weak miserable, wailing woman, until 
 the blood rushed out of her tortured limbs to bear witness of 
 thy brutal fury !" 
 
 Still he was silent ; but that speechless mood was more elo 
 quent than all the words an orator could utter. 
 
 "Ichabod! Ichabod! cried the old man, in accents of the 
 deepest, the most agonizing grief, " now, indeed, hath the 
 glory of my house departed ! Son Merciful, be no more son 
 of mine. Begone ! riay, answer me nothing now ! Go to thy 
 chamber; go, commune with the Lord in prayer; go, com 
 mune with thine own soul in silence ! It may be, when thou 
 hast repented thee of this dread crime, that I will hear thee 
 farther." 
 
 " Hear me, at least, to-night," replied the hard and ruthless 
 man, bowing at the same time to his father s will, with the 
 
THE CHANGE. 61 
 
 same absolute obedience which he exacted of his children 
 "or your own life will be the sacrifice." 
 
 " When have I valued my own life at all," answered the 
 regicide, "save as a trust which Thou," he added, turning his 
 eyes reverently upward, " hast committed to my keeping, and 
 which it behooves me, therefore, not to resign, save at thy bid 
 ding ? Go, my son ; seek the Lord in prayer ; sin no more in 
 this wise ; and it may be, peradventure, he shall forgive thy 
 sin ! Go ! I will speak with thee anon." 
 
 Crestfallen and humiliated, the cold, iron-hearted Puritan 
 departed, gnawing his heart with deep and secret spite. 
 
 In a sweet mood for prayer, verily. When his whole soul 
 was hardened and rebellious, and in arms against all merciful 
 and tender feelings. When so far was he from repenting of 
 his cruelty to the hapless Indian, that the sentiment which was 
 uppermost in his mind was rage and resentment against her. 
 When he was almost pondering, even as he knelt down him 
 self to ask for mercy, how he could best avenge himself on 
 that innocent and hapless being. 
 
 For a moment or two after he quitted the room, the veteran 
 walked to and fro buried in deep thought, and at times heav 
 ing long and painful sighs. 
 
 No member of the family had seen him for years display 
 so much intelligence or activity. 
 
 Arid in the midst of their wonder they expected every mo 
 ment to see him relapse into his accustomed stupor. 
 
 But he did not relapse. On the contrary, it seemed as if the 
 exertion of his faculties called forth fresh powers ; for he 
 paused suddenly in his walk, and said, addressing himself to 
 the pale and agitated wife of Merciful 
 
 " My daughter, this is very terrible, very disgraceful. Thou 
 shouldst have hindered this !" 
 
 She hinder it ? As well might a weak mortal undertake to 
 I* 
 
62 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 control Heaven s thunder, as she to withstand her husband s 
 energetic and domineering will. 
 
 It may be, that after he had spoken, something to this effect 
 crossed his mind, for he looked at her mildly, and a smile, 
 half-sorrowful, half-pitiful, fleeted across his high features ; 
 and he spoke again without waiting her reply 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! thou wouldst, if an thou couldst ; I will avouch 
 it. But, come we must see to amend the evil he hath done. 
 Light me a lamp, boy. Where is this Indian girl. Heaven 
 forefend, he hath slain her." 
 
 " No ! no ! It is not so bad as that," cried Ruth, who came 
 bounding up the stairs, and who seemed less surprised than 
 any of the others at this resuscitation of her grandfather. 
 " Though it is very bad, indeed, and terrible ! She had faint 
 ed ; but she is better now, and I want help ; to carry her to 
 her bed only but I must have help." 
 
 " And shall" replied the veteran. " Gideon shall help you, 
 my good Ruth ; and I will go likewise. I had of yore some 
 skill in the art of healing, and, it may be, it shall be yet not 
 all unprofitable. Bring the light, boy, and the flask of cor 
 dial," and he waved his hand toward the bottle which Merci 
 ful had left upon the table. 
 
 But his wife fearful yet, and more apprehensive of her hus 
 band s anger, than desirous of ministering to the poor house 
 hold drudge, cried anxiously 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, no ! Do not take that ; Merciful prizes it 
 beyond its weight in gold. He never will forgive me." 
 
 " And if he valued it beyond his heart s best life-blood, he 
 should do well to lavish it now freely, if so he may repair his 
 cruelty his crime!" 
 
 " But what shall shelter me," cried the weak, selfish wo 
 man, " from his anger ?" 
 
 " And what shall shelter thee, I fain would ask," returned 
 
THE CHANGE. 63 
 
 the independent, scornfully, " from HIS wrath, which is as a 
 consuming fire, who brooks not that his creatures should be 
 feared and obeyed, to the neglect of his most holy law ? Wo 
 man, go to ! your weakness is akin to thine husband s wicked 
 ness, and scarce, if anything, less sinful. Wouldst thou, for 
 fear of a passing gust of passion, suffer a mortal life, perhaps 
 an immortal soul, to perish ; and suffer, too, the guilt of that 
 perdition to rest upon your husband ? For shame ! for shame ! 
 Is this charity? But mark me, I will shield yon from his 
 anger, should it be roused against you ; which, I believe and 
 trust it will not. !" and, without any farther words, followed by 
 the boy bearing the light, and conducted by the sweet maiden, 
 the old man descended the stairs to the scene of that cruel 
 punishment. 
 
 That scene was too terrible, too disgusting, for description ; 
 nor will I harrow up the feelings of my readers, as I perchance 
 might do, by a picture so horrible and odious. 
 
 It is enough that the wretched girl had fainted under the 
 merciless castigation of her enraged master ; and, though she 
 had already recovered some degree of animation under the 
 tender cares of Ruth, the shock which her nervous system had 
 sustained was still clearly perceptible in the strong convulsive 
 rigors which shook her dusky limbs. 
 
 The sovereign cordial was given to her freely by the old 
 man, whose sternness seemed all to have melted away into the 
 genuine charity of the good Samaritan ; and this, with other 
 remedies, speedily brought her so far to herself, that it was no 
 longer difficult to remove her to the small closet in which she 
 slept. 
 
 Her wild eyes glared with a savage expression of astonish 
 ment, almost of awe, as she beheld that strange old man, whom 
 she had ever regarded with that superstitious veneration which 
 the North American tribes extend ever to those whose intel- 
 
64 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 lects are alienated busied so actively, so practically, and so 
 skilfully, about her treatment. 
 
 It was plain to see that she marvelled mightily ; but with 
 the usual self-control of an Indian, she restrained her wonder, 
 as she did also her fierce indignation, at the brutality of which 
 she had been the victim. 
 
 She spoke no word, even in reply to her favorite Ruth ; and, 
 when she had been made as comfortable as circumstances 
 would admit, they left her to her own swelling and passionate 
 thoughts. 
 
 When the old man returned to the kitchen, he resumed his 
 place in the chimney-corner silently, and sat for a few moments 
 buried in deep thought. 
 
 Then looking up, he said abruptly to the others, " Leave me 
 awhile. I would speak with Ruth alone. You, woman, go to 
 your hushand, and essay if you may not soften his hard mood ; 
 you, boy, to bed I will talk with you to-morrow." 
 
 " Now, Ruth," he said, when the others had left the room, 
 " tell me how this befell ; and if there be many scenes like 
 unto this, in this household, the Lord forgive me, for I too 
 have much to answer, in that I have so given up my soul to 
 memories of the past so suffered my heart to dwell with her 
 who hath no more any home on earth, save in this bosom that 
 all my sense hath been benumbed and paralyzed these many 
 days these many years, I should say rather for I have 
 taken little note of time. Tell me, my gentle daughter, all, 
 and fear nothing." 
 
 And she did tell him all, and fearlessly and freely ; and they 
 conversed long together, nor had Ruth ever cause to repent 
 that she dealt honestly and openly with the old regicide. 
 
 The night was far spent when they parted ; and when they 
 did so, as she arose from her seat, the old man opened his 
 arms slowly, and clasped her to his aged heart, and kissed her 
 
THE PERIL. 65 
 
 forehead tenderly ; a bright tear twinkled for a moment in his 
 eyes, long unused to soft emotions ; and he whispered, in 
 husky and interrupted accents 
 
 " Bless thee ! bless thee, my daughter. Thou art a sweet, 
 and gentle woman, and affectionate and artless. Be stead 
 fast in the right ; and it may well be that thy true and loving 
 virtues shall reconcile this sinful house to its offended Lord 
 and Savior. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE PERIL. 
 " The sheriff, with a monstrous watch, is at the door." 
 
 THE night was far advanced ere /the old man, who had for 
 hours been debating with his son hard points of knotty doctrine, 
 and gravely reprobating the course and conduct of his life, 
 which had, it would seem, been suddenly revealed to him by 
 the events of that night, would suffer Merciful to speak on any 
 other topic. 
 
 At last, however, when it was nearly midnight after the 
 younger Puritan had made confession of his error ; and, after 
 they had prayed together long and solemnly, the regicide with 
 genuine and enthusiastic fervor, his son with a strange mix 
 ture of sincerity and hypocritic canting the father expressed 
 his willingness to hear the tidings, to which Merciful had so 
 many times, and so anxiously, alluded. 
 
 " You should have known them sooner," he said eagerly, as 
 soon as he received license to speak, " for truly they are pres 
 sing ; and there is no time to spare. My father, loath as I am 
 F* 
 
66 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 to say it, even this very night thou must quit this dwelling, 
 which can no longer shield thee from the persecutor." 
 
 The old man looked him steadfastly in the face, with a 
 piercing and penetrating glance ; as if he would have read, in 
 his soul, whether this were not a mere excuse for removing 
 him from the superintendence of family matters, now that he 
 had discovered the tyrannous conduct of the master. 
 
 It would seem, however, that he was convinced of his son s 
 sincerity, at least in the present instance, for without removing 
 his eagle eye from his face, he asked 
 
 " Wherefore, and whither, must I go ?" 
 
 " The wherefore can not be answered in a word," replied 
 his son. 
 
 " Answer it, then, in ten, or in fifty." 
 
 " I need not tell you," he replied, " that the son of the Man 
 of Blood sits once more on the throne of England, nor that all 
 parties humble themselves in the dust at the tyrant s feet." 
 
 " Alas, for the good cause ! I know it." 
 
 " But this you know not yet ; that, after you escaped from 
 England hither, and so shunned the fate of Hugh Peters, Cooke, 
 and the rest, noble victims who perished on the scaffold, so 
 bitter has waxed the vengeance of the malignant king, that not 
 death itself has availed to shelter our friends from his brute fury. 
 The corpses of Cromwell, Bradshaw, Ireton, have been torn 
 from their violated tombs, dragged through the streets of Lon 
 don upon hurdles, yea, gibbctted at Tyburn, and beheaded amid 
 the ribald exultation of Alsatian bravoes, pages, and pandars 
 of Whitehall !" 
 
 " God of my fathers !" cried the old man, in tones that spoke 
 more than horror, " and didst thou witness these things, and 
 was thy thunder silent? Verily, verily, thy people have 
 sinned deeply in thy sight, that thou hast turned thus thy face 
 away from us !" 
 
THE PERIL. 67 
 
 " Sir Harry Vane, moreover, honest and true Sir Harry 
 Vane, hath shed his blood likewise on the block ; and his soul 
 lies among the saints and martyrs, who, like him, died rejoicing 
 for the sake of their conscience and their God." 
 
 " Inscrutable are thy ways, O thou most Highest !" returned 
 the regicide. " Yet are thy judgments true and righteous al 
 together/ 
 
 " Now hear me, father, how instantly and urgently these 
 things touch you. I have feared long, and with me many of 
 our people, since we have got this new and furious governor, 
 this painted scarlet kingsman, this persecutor of the saints, and 
 scoffer at the word of God, even this petty tyrant, of a great 
 tyrant s making, Sir Edmund Andross, to rule over us we 
 have feared, I say, long, that the judges of the man, even the 
 late man Charles, who have fled hitherward, as David fled 
 from Saul into the wilderness En-gedi, would not be suffered 
 to dwell quietly even beyond the sea. And therefore have we 
 kept watch narrowly. A while ago, it was made kuown to us 
 how three, who had escaped to Holland, and were abiding, as 
 they believed, peaceful and secure under the rule, and within 
 the limits of a free, independent nation, were seized there, sur 
 rendered by the states, and have since died on the gallows- 
 tree in England. Therefore, we had our spies more closely 
 on the watch than before ; especially when, three days since, 
 the Rose frigate entered the port from England, and cast 
 anchor nigh the fortress. Yesterday, I got word that there 
 was peril in the wind, and straight I set forth to the city. 
 This morning, it was avouched to me by a true hand, one who 
 is near the governor in place, but his heart yet is with us, that 
 warrants have come over in the Rose for your apprehension, 
 as well as for that of Goffe and Dixwell. They two fled in 
 stantly across the country to New Haven. For thee, there is 
 no time to do so, seeing that now the passes are all guarded ; 
 
68 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 and with to-morrow s sun the governor and his satellites come 
 hither to arrest thee !" 
 
 " My race, then, is run," said the old man calmly. " I fan 
 cied that when so long a time had passed, I should have been 
 permitted to linger out my days, until their natural ending. 
 But the Lord he determineth all things, and all things for the 
 best. Let them come, Merciful, let them come with their 
 swords and staves ; they shall not find the old man fearful, or 
 unready ; and for the small drop of thin blood, which they 
 shall find in these frail veins, verily they are welcome to it." 
 
 " No ! father, no !" cried his son eagerly, and in truth much 
 affected ; " this must not, need not, be ; 1 can conceal thee 
 nigh this place, where thou mayest lie hid in safety, until this 
 tyranny be overpast." 
 
 " Verily, if thou canst, be it so. Our lives are not our own, 
 to do with them as we list, but His who gave them to us for 
 good ends. Where is it thou proposest to bestow me ?" 
 
 " We must steal forth like thieves by night," replied the son, 
 not suffering one of these to suspect, even, whither we are 
 going. Should that dark-skinned child of perdition discover 
 it, she would betray us straightway." 
 
 " And wherefore, Merciful ?" asked the old man, severely. 
 " Wherefore ? She has eaten of thy bread, and drunken of 
 thy cup ; wherefore, then, shouldst. thou say she will betray 
 us" straightway, but that thou knowest she has grievances so 
 bitter, wrongs so intolerable, that she were justified in betray 
 ing her tormentor? See, my son, see how our own sins are 
 turned in against our own bosoms, and become scourges to 
 afflict us. But say on." 
 
 " We must steal forth, I say, this very night. Here is a 
 cave, or cranny, rather, in the rocks midway between this 
 ledge, whereon the house standeth, arid the summit of the 
 cliffs. Many years since I climbed to it by chance seeking 
 
THE PERIL. 69 
 
 to rob a fish-hawk s eyry ; and, wherefore I know not, I have 
 told no man of its whereabout, nor can the eyes of any man 
 discern it from below. The head of one of our tall pine-trees, 
 which I have spared therefore, leans over and conceals its 
 mouth. It is by the tree that I climbed up thither." 
 
 "You forget, Merciful," replied the old man with a faint, 
 sad smile, " the limbs that could have borne me once to the 
 crags, where the wild-goat pastures her tameless young secure 
 from man s intrusion, are now bent, and weak, and well-nigh 
 useless ; your plan is naught, my son. My climbing days are 
 ended. And if the Lord, in his infinite and wondrous wis 
 dom, has given back to me this night the mind which has for 
 years been sunk in feebleness and stupor, he has not given 
 back, nor will give back the elastic tread, and the vigorous 
 grasp of manhood." 
 
 " For all that I have taken thought," replied the other. 
 " Night after night, since I foresaw the coming of this peril, 
 have I climbed to the cave, and stored it with whatever I 
 deemed needful for your safety and well-being. Good store 
 of carpeting and blankets have I piled there already ; and 
 hoards of dried fish, and salted meats, and biscuit; and matches 
 and charcoal, likewise, have I placed there ; and in the cave 
 itself there is a source of bright and never-failing water. I 
 have rigged, too, a block and pulley at the entrance, with a 
 strong rope, by means of which I can raise you up thither 
 easily. As often, as I can do so safely, I will visit you. 
 Meanwhile, you must tarry there, with as much patience as 
 you can exert. Truly it will be tedious, and a most lamenta 
 ble sojourning ; but we must pray that the Lord in his good 
 time will shorten it, and, when the strictness of the watch 
 shall have overpast a little, I will convey you hence by sea 
 unto New Haven, where you may be in safety." 
 
 " We will go !" said the old man, firmly. " Give me my 
 
70 THE FAIR PURITAN-. 
 
 cloak and hat my Bible and my broadsword defence against 
 the foes of both the spiritual and the carnal world We will 
 go! I am ready." 
 
 These things were soon collected, and Merciful s hand was 
 on the latch of the door already, when he paused in the act 
 of opening it, turned to his father, and said, " Tarry yet awhile. 
 I will go see, lest they are peradventure waking." 
 
 He drew off his fisherman s boots carefully, and stole with 
 a silent step, and a heart the throbbings of which appeared to 
 him to sound audiby from door to door of his house, listening 
 long and earnestly to hear some stir or breath which should 
 indicate whether the inmates slept, or were yet waking, after 
 the agitation and excitement of the evening. 
 
 He did not listen long, ere the regular and heavy aspirations, 
 which came to his ear from every door but one, assured him 
 that the inmates were buried in the deepest and most quiet 
 slumber. 
 
 But the one door, of all the number, was that which the 
 most disturbed him. 
 
 It was that of the little closet, wherein lay Tituba. There 
 he paused long, stilling the very beatings of his heart, to col 
 lect the slightest sound, the faintest murmur, which might be 
 token the presence of any living creature. 
 
 But no sound or murmur rewarded his assiduous watch 
 no breath, no whisper. After he had stood there, not less 
 than half an hour, he was compelled to retire, unsatisfied ; cer 
 tain indeed that the girl was within the cell, for how should 
 she have escaped thence unseen, but doubtful, very doubtful, 
 whether she was awake or sleeping. 
 
 That any one should sleep so breathlessly, so silently, ap 
 peared indeed scarce credible ; yet it was hardly possible that 
 awake, any one should retain one posture, so immoveably, so 
 
THE PERIL. 71 
 
 pertinaciously, that nothing should occur to produce even the 
 rustling of a garment. 
 
 Frustrated, he stole back at length to his father, and whis 
 pered to him the result of his observation. 
 
 " I fear she may again have swooned," said the old man, 
 forgetful of himself and his own peril ; " let us go see to her." 
 
 " I had not thought of that," replied the son. " It may be 
 so, indeed. I will look to it when I have bestowed you 
 safely ! Come, father, come ; there is no time to tarry." 
 
 And snatching up his own gun and cloak, and carrying his 
 heavy boots in his hand, he stole out into the dark and moon 
 less midnight, supporting the aged man with solicitous and 
 tender care. 
 
 He closed the door after they were without, and again stood 
 awhile to listen. Not a breath, not a stir within. It was clear 
 that his purpose was effected ; that their exit had been effect 
 ed, thus far at least, unheard and unsuspected. 
 
72 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CAVERN. 
 
 "In that dark chasm, where even sound 
 Seemed dark so sullenly around 
 The goblin echoes of the cave, 
 Muttered it o er the long black wave." 
 
 THE night was as dark, as a cloudless night can be, in 
 which there are millions of bright, twinkling stars, and steady 
 burning planets, gemming the deep expanse of azure. 
 
 The moon had not yet risen, although there was a faint 
 glimmer on the verge of the horizon which showed where she 
 might be expected. 
 
 The overhanging rocks, the black shadow of the giant pines, 
 the dun coloring of all surrounding objects, even to the ever 
 lasting sea, which uncurled and unruffled showed no white 
 crests of angry foam, but rose and fell in long monotonous 
 cerulean ridges, contributed to render everything indistinct to 
 the eye, and almost invisible at ten paces distance. 
 
 The silence, in so far at least as human sounds are concern 
 ed, was absolute ; the dull, low moaning of the sea as it rolled 
 in unbroken to the shore ; the whispering sigh of the west 
 wind among the vocal branches of the pines ; the slight rust 
 ling of the herbage wet with the heavy dews of summer ; and 
 the continuous chirrip of the cricket ; such were the only 
 things that spoke to the ear, in that tranquil midnight. 
 
 " All is safe," whispered Merciful. " Tread on the grass, 
 father ; it will give no sound under your footsteps. Steadily ; 
 that is well. We shall reach the spot instantly." 
 
THE CAVERN. 73 
 
 And indeed many seconds had not elapsed, before they 
 stood under the canopy of two of those huge pines, which 
 grew close to the seaward front of the platform, yet so near to 
 the crags, which walled it on all sides, that their evergreen 
 boughs covered their gray and rifted faces ; while their heads 
 towered to within a few feet of their summit. 
 
 " The cavern s mouth is directly over us," said Merciful, 
 " some eighty feet above the spot whereon we are now stand 
 ing. It is so mere a crevice in the cliffs face, though it ex 
 pands within, that, even were the pine boughs not so thick-set 
 before it, no human eye could discover what it is. As they 
 now shroud it, the tower of London is not a safer fortress. 
 Tarry you here. I will go up, and lower down the rope by 
 which to raise you ; but move not, I beseech you, till such 
 time as I return." 
 
 Without waiting a reply, he threw down his cloak upon the 
 grass, and placed his gun against the trunk of the tree. Then 
 grasping the bolt firmly with his arms and knees, he swarmed 
 up it easily, until he reached the fork of the first branch, to 
 which he swung himself with a vigorous effort, and was lost 
 to sight utterly in the dense umbrage. He had not been ab 
 sent many seconds, before the rustling of the boughs, as they 
 were displaced by some weight descending from above, an 
 nounced the hook and rope which the Puritan sent down ; and 
 scarcely had it touched the greensward before Merciful fol 
 lowed it, and again stood beside his father. 
 
 " You have heard nothing ?" he whispered, as he drew near 
 to the old man "nothing that should excite suspicion?" 
 
 " I know not," answered his father, whose senses, purblind 
 and dim before, appeared to have been almost supernaturally 
 sharpened. " I am not very sure that I did not hear a foot 
 step here, close beside me. But I can see nothing." 
 
 " A lynx could see nothing, nor an owl even, in this black 
 
74 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 hole," returned his son. " The ears are the only sure guide ; 
 let us listen !" 
 
 And they did listen, as men will do, whose lives are depen 
 dent on the clearness of their senses. But if there had been 
 any sound before, it was not repeated ; and Merciful said, after 
 a pause, 
 
 " There is nothing. It must have been fancy only. Come, 
 father, let me make you ready ; there is no danger." 
 
 " And if there be," said the old man firmly, " this will not 
 be, I think, the first time I have faced it." 
 
 His son then secured about his waist, over his cloak which 
 he belted close about his limbs, a broad belt of stout buff leather 
 fastened in front by three buckles, and having at the back 
 a stout iron ring into which he inserted the hook, which he 
 had lowered from above ; two loops were next passed over 
 the veteran s arms, and made fast to the rope, and his flapped 
 hat bound down with a kerchief to protect his face against the 
 branches, through which he must be drawn up. Then, hav 
 ing proved the strength of the whole apparatus by a strong 
 jerk, Merciful climbed the tree a second time, entered the 
 cavern s mouth, and in a moment swayed away upon the line, 
 and raised the old man without material difficulty to the en 
 trance of the narrow crevice. 
 
 Another moment, and he was safely landed upon the ledgo 
 of the rock, after his swift ascent. 
 
 Another yet, and he was disentangled from the ropes and 
 bandages, which were coiled away instantly in readiness for 
 the next occasion. 
 
 " Give me your hand now, father," said the Puritan : " the 
 cave grows wider, in a moment, and loftier ; here you must 
 stoop your head low, and move carefully and slowly." 
 
 He led him forward a few yards ; then paused. " We are 
 
THE CAVERN. 75 
 
 arrived," he said, " at our journey s end. Stand still an instant, 
 and I will strike a light/ 
 
 Then after groping about for a few moments, in the interior 
 of the place, with which he was so well acquainted, that he 
 required no light to find what he wanted, he produced a tin 
 der-box and matches ; dropped a thick curtain of carpeting, 
 which he had provided, over the low and narrow entrance ; 
 and then, secured against any prying eye, lighted a large, 
 thick candle made from the wax of the wild bee. 
 
 The clear lustre filled the small space with a radiance, 
 which in another place would have been cheerful, even here 
 it went far to dispel the gloom of that melancholy and wild 
 asylum. 
 
 The cavern was a small, nearly circular apartment, about 
 twelve feet in diameter, and as many in height ; its floor was 
 dry white sand, and its walls were naturally free from any 
 kind of humidity ; which was the more remarkable, that in the 
 inmost corner there was a small, round basin, about three feet 
 in circumference, full to the brim of bright, sparkling water, 
 with a fountain of silvery bubbles gushing perpetually up from 
 the bottom, and showing how lively and strongly aerated must 
 be the limpid spring which fed it. 
 
 A crevice in the rock just below the brink of the basin car 
 ried off the superfluous waters, by some hidden outlet; and 
 never one drop overflowed the lip, or moistened the white 
 sandy carpet. 
 
 As much as could be done, secretly and by watches, to ren 
 der such an abode comfortable, Merciful had indeed done al 
 ready, foreseeing the contingency which had arrived. 
 
 A good bed was strewn in one corner, with warm coverlets, 
 and good store of English blankets, purloined from his wife s 
 hoards ; and around this the rocky walls had been tapestried 
 
76 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 with pieces of rag-carpet, nailed by strong pegs of wood to their 
 rude crevices. 
 
 " A shelf or two, secured in the same fashion, displayed a 
 few pewter plates, a knife or two, and similar utensils, tin cups 
 and bowls, and a pile of coarse linen towels. A small furnace, 
 with a little caldron over it, two or three kegs containing bis 
 cuit and provisions, a very rude table and yet ruder stool of un- 
 
 planed timber, with two or three books, a flask of brandy, and 
 a brass candlestick, completed the furniture of this strange 
 habitation. 
 
 " And now, my father," asked Merciful, tenderly, as soon as 
 he had seen him seated on the stool, " think you that you can 
 exist awhile, in this wretched hole, until I can provide for your 
 escape ?" 
 
 " Wherefore not, Merciful ? Wherefore not, I beseech you ?" 
 replied the veteran cheerfully. " I shall be well fed, and well 
 warmed ; I shall be safe from foes without ; and I have here 
 my bible what else doth man require ?" 
 
 " And yet," answered his son " and yet I fear me much " 
 and he hesitated, fearful of offending. 
 
 But the old man took up the word 
 
 " Thou fearest," he said, " lest my mind should again wan 
 der. Believe it not, rny son. It was not the infirmity so much 
 of nature, as the indulgence of a morbid melancholy trick of 
 musing, that so dethroned my reason. It hath pleased the 
 Lord to arouse me from this stupor, perchance that I might be 
 the better fitted to endure this trial. Now, therefore, I en 
 treat thee, think no more of that, for I am strong in mind, as I 
 have ever been since my boyhood, and stronger in my body 
 than thou thinkest. Good faith ! he should be a bold man that 
 would essay to scale this citadel in my despite, with this good 
 rapier in my hand, that did its work at Naseby." 
 
 " To-morrow night," added Merciful, " I will bring up your 
 
THE CAVERN. 77 
 
 petronels ; I have them in the large oak chest, clean, oiled, 
 and fit for service. I ran some bullets for them, too, the other 
 day, when I was casting balls for my own boat-gun ; and I 
 will fetch up hither the small horn of powder. And if there be 
 aught else that you require, you can tell me when I return, and 
 I will have it here as soon as may be. Remember only, never 
 to strike a light, save with the carpet lowered before the en 
 trance, else might the glare betray you. Now, I will light the 
 charcoal in the furnace. There is enough draft through the 
 door, if we so may call it, and yon cleft in the roof, that there 
 shall be no danger from its fumes." 
 
 It was not long before this was accomplished, and the warm, 
 ruddy glow, which arose from the little furnace, rendered the 
 cavern s aspect almost pleasant. 
 
 This done, the stern, grim Puritan approached his father, 
 and it was strange to mark the play of tender and affectionate 
 anxiety on those dark, iron lineaments, as he bowed his head 
 humbly before the regicide, and said in an eager, interrupted 
 voice 
 
 " Bless me, my father. Bless me before I leave you." 
 
 Verily, man is a strange mass of contradictions none so 
 good or so pure, in whom there is not much of evil none so de 
 graded or so evil, in whom there is not much of good. 
 
 " Bless thee, my son my own son, Merciful ! I do bless 
 thee ! For thou hast been to me a good son, ever, and an 
 affectionate and dutiful. I do bless thee ! and may God bless 
 thee likewise ! the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob ; 
 may he bless thee, my son, with an exceeding blessing ! May 
 he cover thy head in the day of peril, and prosper thy incom 
 ings, and thy outgoings ! Yea, may he give thee, in this life, 
 happiness and peace ; and, in the world to come, life everlast 
 ing But be thou Merciful, my son, as in name, so in deed 
 
 also. Be charitable, and long-suffering, and slow to anger, 
 G* 
 
78 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 and not over hot as thou wert this last evening ; eaten up with 
 distempered zeal, pitiless and cruel ! Do so, my son, and God 
 shall bless thee, even as I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed, 
 now and for evermore. Amen! Amen! Selah !" 
 
 And as he spoke, he fell on his son s neck, and clasped him 
 to his withered breast, and wept warm tears of affection over 
 him. 
 
 And Merciful was moved also, for the moment moved even 
 to tears ; and it may be, that, for the first time then, his heart 
 smote him, for he replied in the beautiful words of Holy 
 Writ 
 
 " I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am no 
 more worthy to be called thy son." 
 
 And it is probable that this once he spoke sincerely. The 
 old man answered 
 
 " Go, then, my son, and sin no more." 
 
 And with those exquisite and touching words they parted. 
 
 Merciful carefully raised a little portion of the carpet that 
 concealed the entrance, and stole out so warily that no stray 
 gleam of light flashed forth into the darkness to betray his 
 treasured secret. 
 
 Then, throwing himself with a bold vault into the centre of 
 the dense mass of evergreen foliage which feathered the cliffs 
 face, he gained, by a slight exertion, the trunk of the huge 
 tree ; and lowered himself rapidly along it, until he stood, un- 
 perceived, as he trusted, by any mortal eye, under the leafy 
 canopy. 
 
 After standing a moment or two there, silently listening, 
 he raised his cloak from the ground whereon he had cast it, 
 and felt about in the darkness for his gun, where he had left it 
 propped against the pine-tree. 
 
 It was gone ! 
 
 He started aghast, as if he had received a blow surely it 
 
THE CAVERN. 79 
 
 was here he had left it he could not be mistaken. He felt 
 for it again and again, but there it was not ; he groped along 
 the grass under the tree, in case it might have fallen, still he 
 found it not. It was gone. It must have been removed ; and 
 by whom ? 
 
 Madness was in the thought, and utter ruin. 
 
 He struck his hand upon his brow, and groaned aloud in the 
 silence of the night ; and straightway it seemed to him that a 
 low, guttural, mocking laugh responded, exulting to his stifled 
 cry of anguish. 
 
 " Ha ! who is there ?" he cried aloud, and sprang forward in 
 the direction of the fancied sound ; but no voice answered him, 
 nor any rustling noise of garments, or flight of quickening foot 
 steps on the greensward. 
 
 His rapid movement, however, brought him in contact with 
 the stem of the second pine-tree ; and, as he brushed it, some 
 thing fell to the ground with a sharp metallic clatter. 
 
 It was the gun, for which he had been searching. 
 
 He stooped and raised it from the wet grass yet more dis 
 turbed, if possible, than he had been before. 
 
 He paused, reflected, harassed his memory with circum 
 stantial questions. 
 
 No ! he was certain, the longer he reflected the more cer 
 tain, that it was leaning on the other tree, when he left it. 
 What then could have removed it ? 
 
 He listened long and vainly ; he stole round and round, 
 among the trees, to and fro, over the whole platform, but could 
 descry no trace of any human being. 
 
 At length he made up his mind that he had been mistaken, 
 and took his way to the rustic bridge which led seaward ; for 
 it was his plan to break one of the boat-chains, and put off to 
 sea during the night, in order to mislead the members of his 
 own family into the belief that he had carried the old man off 
 
80 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 by water, and so to divert all search from the neighborhood of 
 this homestead. 
 
 This was soon done ; a heavy stone afforded him the means 
 of shattering a weak link in the chain which moored his pin 
 nace, fast-locked, as he had directed, not unadvisedly, by his 
 son before supper-time. 
 
 The tide was up, and it cost him but a small effort to launch 
 her ; he sprang in, shoved her twenty yards or better through 
 the surf, stepped her mast, spread her canvass to the light 
 western gale ; and, leading the sheets aft, seated himself at the 
 tiller, just as the broad disk of the moon raised its upper limb 
 above the line of the sea horizon, and poured a long sheet of 
 tremulous lustre over the ridgy waves, a broad flood of glory 
 over the starry heavens. 
 
 In order to gain an offing, he was compelled to tack once or 
 twice, for the wind headed him ; and, in the first, he stood 
 directly across the front of the platform and the bridge. 
 
 Just as he did so, a sudden splash in the water, as if a stone 
 had fallen from the cliff, attracted his eyes upward. 
 
 Did they see truly? was there a dusky form watching his 
 motions from the isolated rock ? 
 
 The light was quivering and uncertain ; yet was his eye 
 true and almost unerring. 
 
 He saw it, as he thought, palpably distinctly. 
 
 He stooped, caught up his long gun, from the thwarts on 
 which it lay. 
 
 The form, or what his fancy shaped into a human form, still 
 stood there ; he could not be so much in error. 
 
 He raised the gun coolly to his face levelled it steadily 
 his finger was already on the trigger, when a cloud obscured 
 the moon for an instant. It passed, and again she shone forth 
 resplendent, far brighter than before, for she had now entirely 
 emerged above the undulations of the ocean. 
 
THE CAVERN. 
 
 81 
 
 His eye was still riveted upon the spot, which it had never 
 quitted. 
 But there <was nothing there ! 
 
 Could he could he, indeed, twice in one night, be so 
 strangely mistaken ? 
 
 It might be so, truly ; for his spirit was disturbed, and he 
 was both anxious and full of vague imaginations. 
 
 He put about, and steered the boat twice, three times, to 
 and fro, before his sleeping home, but nothing more did he 
 hear or see to awaken his distrust. 
 
 The breeze freshened, and filled his sail, and drove his boat, 
 with a hoarse rippling laughter, through the long swelling 
 waves, as they began to roll in heavier, and longer, and more 
 ridgy, from the wide Atlantic. 
 
 But he seemed to enjoy the quickening motion, and the fast 
 rising breeze ; for he spread yet more, yet more, canvass, and 
 steered his little boat as near the wind as she could lay her 
 course ; and had there been, indeed, an eye watching him, it 
 would not have been long ere its espial would be useless, so 
 rapidly did he run seaward, and so soon was his white sail lost 
 in the silver wake of the moonbeams. 
 
 4* 
 
82 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DAYBREAK AT SEA. 
 " Here s the smell of blood still." 
 
 THE hours of the summer night fleeted away. The stars 
 rose, ran their courses, arid set in their appointed places. The 
 moon poured her soft splendor over the smiling waves, and in 
 her turn waxed dim and pale before the advent of a greater 
 and more glorious luminary. 
 
 And, dancing over the silver-crested ridges of the deep, with 
 the gay wind singing in the cordage, and the divided waters 
 laughing around his prow, Merciful Whalley passed that night 
 alone, alone on the azure ocean, alone under the starry sky. 
 
 But as in mightiest revolutions, when they occur in their 
 own days, men perceive little that is new, or wonderful, or 
 strange, but labor at their daily toil, and eat their daily food, and 
 sleep their nightly slumbers, careless and unconcerned, amid 
 the shock of nations arid the fall of dynasties. So in the cen 
 tre of those grandest and most sublime phenomena of nature, 
 those everlasting witnesses of order, of design, of providence, 
 of an eternal, infinite, and all-wise God, Merciful Whalley sat 
 in the stern of his pinnace, seeing indeed the silver moonlight, 
 and rejoicing in its lustre ; riding the waves and exulting in 
 their tumultuous music ; yet scarcely conscious of their agency, 
 and altogether careless of their deep meaning. 
 
 His mind was, in truth, too much absorbed by his own in 
 terests, his own earthly fears and hopes, to give much heed to 
 the vastness, the sublimity, the truth of nature s teachings. 
 
DAYBREAK AT SEA. 83 
 
 He was disturbed and anxious about the welfare and the 
 safety of his father, and this was the least selfish and most 
 generous point, to which his thoughts were turned. 
 
 He was disturbed and anxious about his conduct to the poor 
 Indian girl ; not, indeed, that he repented his cruelty, but that 
 he feared its consequences not that his heart was penetrated 
 with sorrow, and shame, and grief, at his ownjall from man 
 hood, virtue, honor, and humanity ; but that his pride was 
 jralled at the scorn manifested by his sweet daughter, at the 
 open reproof of his father. 
 
 He was disturbed and anxious about the state of affairs in 
 the province generally ; about the tyranny and oppression of 
 the new governor; the destruction of individual freedom and 
 ~bt" theTpnvileges of the community ; not indeed from any sense 
 of patriotism, not from any broad principle, or any noble im 
 pulse, but from feelings the most personal and narrow. 
 
 He feared, in fact, for his wealth for mammon, his soul s 
 idol! He dreaded sequestration, perhaps confiscation; he 
 dreaded, in truth, everything, except direct danger to his person. 
 
 For he was, at least, physically brave ; free from that lowest 
 and most degrading baseness, the fear of bodily pain perhaps 
 the only baseness from which he was free. 
 
 During that whole night, he sat still and pensive at the helm 
 of his boat. He was in deep, abstracted thought all the time ; 
 and yet it would have been difficult, perhaps impossible, for 
 him to say of what he was thinking. 
 
 Continually flitting from one small, narrow topic to another ; 
 at no time, pausing long on any one at no time, grasping any 
 wide or general view ; at no time, blazing up with any high or 
 godlike aspiration at no time, soaring above the mists of 
 time and place, or envisaging the infinite and eternal ; the ac 
 tion of his intellect was, like all else of the man s character, 
 earthy and earthward. 
 
84 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 It would appear strange to any one, who had not studied 
 character, who did not know something of the human heart, 
 beyond the mere surface, to assert that this man, whose whole 
 life was apparently devoted to religion, who had forsaken his 
 native land, with all its ties and endearments, to seek in the 
 wilderness " freedom to worship God," had yet no true sense 
 of religion at all no appreciation of its truths, no hold on its 
 comforts. Yet such was the truth he had some devotion, 
 but no piety. Some feeling of the necessity of worship ; 
 some faith, or at least what stood in lieu of it ; some fervor 
 and excitement of imagination ; and yet, in truth, no religion. 
 
 He believed, as he had heard that other men of his own 
 caste and sect believed. He prayed, as he had been taught to 
 pray, in his childhood, and as he had seen his father pray be 
 fore him. And this belief, such as it was ; this prayer 
 not gushing from the soul nor warm with gratitude and 
 love, but cold yet at the same time fierce, barren of works, 
 fruitless unto amendment, stood with him in the place of all 
 essentials. 
 
 And all who believed not, prayed not, as he believed and 
 prayed, were consigned, by his obstinate and narrow prejudices, 
 to the wrath to come. 
 
 He was one of that class of whom, alas ! that they should 
 be so numerous, a sweet poetess has written in these latter 
 days, and oh, how truly 
 
 " Their lips say, God be pitiful, 
 That ne er said, God be praised ! " 
 
 of that class, who call upon the name of the Lord, nightly 
 and in the morning, yet never strive to do his bidding, never 
 think of him, save when they would ask something, never up 
 lift their souls in gratitude from the created unto the Creator. 
 The whole of this night, while he bounded onward, faster 
 
DAYBREAK AT SEA. 85 
 
 and faster, on the wings of the freshening hreeze, he thought 
 of almost everything, save of Him who is all in all. 
 
 And the night waned ; and the far east was dappled with 
 gray streaks, that heralded the coming dawn ; and he started 
 as he perceived that another day was at hand ; yet he thought 
 of no thanksgiving, no penitence, for the past. During the 
 hours of darkness, he had run far across the bay, eating con 
 tinually into the wind, which had hauled gradually round from 
 the west southwardly ; had passed the harbor of Cohasset, and 
 was fast heading down toward Plymouth, and Barnstaple bay, 
 when the daylight began to glimmer in the east. 
 
 Then, arousing himself from his vague and unprofitable 
 meditations, he looked around him earnestly, and noted every 
 headland and indenture of the iron-bound coast, until at length 
 he was completely satisfied of his whereabout. 
 
 Then he looked to the sky, and was engaged for a few sec 
 onds in calculation, by which to ascertain what hour it might 
 be of the morning, and how long he had been afloat. 
 
 Just as he had settled this point to his satisfaction, he be 
 came aware that he was very cold and chilly ; for, to say the 
 truth, he had been too much excited before that moment by his 
 own musings to give much attention to his personal comforts 
 or ailments. 
 
 But now he shivered ; and as he did so, he stooped down, 
 and gathering up his boat-cloak from the bench upon which he 
 had thrown it, wrapped himself in it warmly. 
 
 Then, lashing the tiller fast, so that the boat should still 
 hold its course, he went forward ; opened the hatch of a small 
 forecastle ; and, after rummaging among its contents foi\a few 
 seconds, produced a large, stone jug, or graybeard, as it was 
 then called, such as was ordinarily used to contain distilled 
 waters. 
 
 Extracting with his teeth the broken corn-cob, which wrap- 
 
86 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ped in a hank of tow, had served as a stopper, he raised it to 
 his nostrils, as if to make sure of its contents before suffering 
 his lips to encounter them, smiled a grim smile of satisfaction, 
 and, after a very sufficient draught, recorked it, returned it to 
 the hatch, and stalked back, greatly refreshed, as he would 
 have said, in spirit to his seat at the helm. 
 
 Meanwhile, it was rapidly growing light. A rosy flush had 
 usurped the place of the dappled gray on the horizon ; and the 
 fleecy clouds, hundreds of which were hanging suspended 
 in the calm, clear atmosphere, assumed the same tell-tale 
 coloring. 
 
 Then a broad amber glow shot upward, and streamed longi 
 tudinally, over the flickering wavelets ; and then, as it were 
 with a bound, the great sun leaped forth, indeed like a bride 
 groom from his chamber, to run his course of glory. 
 
 And it was broad, rejoicing day. 
 
 Then, then, did the dark man s soul awake ! Then did his 
 spirit arise yearning, as will do that at such a sight of the 
 merest worlding, to make its morning sacrifice to burst forth 
 into praise and rapturous thanksgiving ! 
 
 He saw that it was light ; he knew that the sun had risen, 
 because it was light not because his eye, much less his 
 breathless heart, had turned to contemplate that most immortal 
 and divine of this world s perishable splendors. 
 
 He saw that it was light, I say ; he knew that the sun had 
 risen, and, it is probable, had any one expressed wonder at his 
 apathy in presence of that sublime wonder, that he would have 
 replied, that he " had very often seen it grow light before, and 
 that the sun rose every morning." 
 
 How many are there not, now around us, who feel in the 
 like manner, who would, perhaps, make answer in words of 
 like indifference ! 
 
DAYBREAK AT SEA. 87 
 
 But was that all he felt all he saw in the brightening day 
 light ? 
 
 Reader, it was not all ! 
 
 He saw that, as the day-star to which he had not deemed it 
 worth while to turn eye or thought, dispersed the glooming twi 
 light, he saw that which made him feel made him shudder 
 to the heart s core. 
 
 Since he had wrapped his cloak about him, and resumed 
 his seat at the tiller, his eye had been riveted on his own knee, 
 on a strange spot, which he could perceive indistinctly on 
 the black frieze mantle. 
 
 He could not tear his eye away from it, and if he closed 
 the lids, striving to banish the idea, the spot was there, palpa 
 bly, more palpably before him, and now sanguine-hued. 
 
 The sun rushed up, and it was clear, broad day ; and in the 
 daylight there was now no room for fantasy or error clear 
 and distinct that fatal spot assumed its true proportions its 
 true color. 
 
 It was the plain print of a human foot a small, slender, 
 shapely, human foot the foot evidently of a female. 
 
 That print was stamped upon the cloak in clotted blood. 
 
 The truth, the whole truth, dawned on his soul in an in 
 stant. All his precautions had been taken vainly. 
 
 The Indian girl had heard him quit the house ; had risen 
 from her bed of torture ; had hung upon his track ; followed 
 him to the shadow of the pine-trees beneath which he had 
 dropped his mantle ; had trodden on it casually, and left her 
 accusing mark, in the clotted gore, which had been liquefied 
 again by contact with the dewy herbage. 
 
 He did not think of this. It arrived in his mind by no slow 
 process. It flashed on him like lightning. It was true. At 
 once he knew it. 
 
 " Devil ! devil !" he muttered savagely. " She has seen 
 
88 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 all ! she will betray all !" He paused, and broke forth again, 
 " No, no, though hell itself yawned for me ! I say no ! she 
 she shall not !" 
 
 And he put up his helm, the sail shivered, the lively boat 
 fell off, and was full on the other tack in an instant. 
 
 Away ! before the wind bellying the broad canvass, away ! 
 homeward ! 
 
 Within an hour he was abreast of the city and the fort, 
 when a fresh sound and a fresh sight again turned him from 
 his track. 
 
 It was the clear and piercing danger of a well-blown trum 
 pet. 
 
 It was a gallant sloop, the tender of the Rose frigate, with 
 the cross-pennant of St. George flaring out from her topmast, 
 with bright cuirasses and rich scarlet doublets flashing along 
 her decks, as she stood full across his course, from the mouth 
 of Boston harbor. 
 
 Again he went about again with a gloomy, bitter maledic 
 tion and, taking in at once three fourths or more of his wide 
 spread canvass, he stood sullenly and slowy seaward. 
 
DAYBRFAK AT HOME. RQ 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DAYBREAK AT HOME. 
 "The morn is up again, the laughing morn." 
 
 THF commencement of a new day generally is, and it seems 
 as if it should be always, a new source of joy and content 
 ment. 
 
 And it is very sad when this beneficent order of nature is 
 so far altered and reversed, that each " new morn" but brings 
 to the poor sufferer " new sorrows." 
 
 Yet it is thus but too often. Many, many are those, who, 
 after wearing out sad nights on sleepless pillows, or, at the 
 best, sinking at last into that painful and unrefreshing slumber, 
 which is not sleep, but worn-out nature s trance, find nothing 
 in the coming of another day, but the return of thoughts too 
 painful to be borne, of memories of that irrevocable past, 
 
 which, in its time, most blissful, is now the arch-anguish 
 
 remorse, regret, repentance, but no hope no hope for any 
 thing in this world, save its last gift the grave. 
 
 And if there are as indeed there are many of the free, 
 the rich, the great, those whom the foolish crowd envy as if 
 pre-eminently blessed who feel thus, what must it be with the 
 poor, the low, the starving pauper what must it be with the 
 slave ? 
 
 The same gorgeous daybreak, which aroused the dark Puri 
 tan from his unquiet and unholy musings, aroused the hapless 
 Tituba from her painful and restless slumber. For, after she 
 had espied all with the keen eye, treasured all in the unforgetful 
 
 mind, of wakeful vengeance, she had crept back to her misera- 
 H * 
 
90 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ble pallet ; and, after wrestling long and tossing to and fro, in 
 the anguish of her lacerated body, in the fever of her burning 
 mind, she had fallen into a heavy, dreamless stupor. 
 
 Now she arose, and looked forth upon the morning. The 
 same glittering sea was outspread before her eyes, the same 
 gorgeous heaven o erhung her, with the same golden orb, 
 charioting light, and life, and glory upward, on which Merciful 
 Whalley was looking unconcerned and careless. 
 
 And she, the poor, half-instructed savage she, who had 
 heard of God, only to find his worshippers her tyrants and 
 tormentors she, who had learned servitude, and anguish, and 
 Christianity, as at one and the same lesson she, to whom, 
 indeed, a new day was but another word for a new period of 
 toil and torture how did she gaze upon the miracle of light, 
 and in what spirit ? 
 
 There was there was, more of the true, the lowly, and 
 the grateful spirit of the Christian, in that poor, overtasked, 
 despised, scourged heathen, than in her haughty master, who 
 like the pharisee blessed God that he was not as other men 
 are. 
 
 Poor creature ! she distinguished, and how few of mankind 
 do so, between the falsehood of a creed, and the error of its 
 would-be believers. 
 
 She could see that all Christians were not evil, austere, bit 
 ter, gloomy, cruel ; although the most of her experience had 
 lain among those who were so. She knew Ruth Whalley, as 
 well as her father, misstyled Merciful. 
 
 She loved the one, as much as she loathed the other. 
 
 Loathed ? Ay! loathed, and despised for she could read 
 his paltry soul even more than she hated. 
 
 For she was born an Indian ; and if, in some things, she 
 had learned to be almost a Christian, she had not yet learned 
 the Christian s last and hardest lesson the lesson to forgive 
 
DAYBREAK AT HOME. 91 
 
 Hers had been once a high, proud, daring soul a soul 
 worthy of her lineage ! But suffering had broken the auda 
 cious pride weakness had tamed the elastic, haughty heart 
 
 sorrow had fitted her to the meek Christian s creed. 
 
 And she had listened to the sweet voice of Ruth, bringing 
 her heavenly tidings. And, with the native poetry of a free, 
 wild imagination, nursed in the beautiful and boundless wilder 
 ness, she met half-way the teachings which declared to her 
 the God whom she had ignorantly worshipped in the roar 
 of the cataract, in the music of the treetops, in the still majesty 
 of solemn night, in the exulting splendor of the happy day. 
 
 And now, as she gazed out over the sea, and into the un 
 fathomable sky, her soul expanded with great vague indescri 
 bable imaginings. Her heart was softened with poetry and 
 love ; imbued with a sense of dim, undefined religion, that 
 made her breath come thick, and fluttering, and faint that 
 filled her eyes with tears, but not of sorrow. 
 
 At this moment, there was a stir in the cottage behind her 
 
 a hurrying of feet to and fro a flapping of doors a hum 
 of eager and anxious voices. 
 
 Then a quick light came up into her dark eye, and the tear 
 drop was dried, in a second, as if that fiery light had been 
 pregnant with fierce heat. And a red burning flush mounted 
 into her dusky cheeks, and sat there permanent a glaring 
 spot, telling of terrible excitement. 
 
 She clasped her small hand tight, so tight that the nails 
 pierced the palm. 
 
 She drew \ long, sonorous breath, which sounded almost 
 like a sigh, but was none a wild inspiration, full of revenge 
 ful triumph. 
 
 " 1 have them !" she cried aloud, casting her eloquent eyes 
 up to heaven. " I have them ! They are mine ! mine ! mine ! 
 Tituba s soul shall bleed no more with the white man s torture 
 
THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 his tears, his groans shall comfort it! Tituba s back shall 
 burn no more with the stripes of the white man s scourge, his 
 father s blood shall heal it." 
 
 " Tituba, Tituba," cried the soft voice of Ruth, from within ; 
 " are you abroad, poor Tituba ? Have you seen the old man ? 
 Have you seen my father ?" 
 
 Her fiery glance sank, instantly subdued. 
 
 " He is her father," she said gently. " Her heart would 
 bleed likewise Tituba is athirst ; her heart is very hot with 
 in her ! She loves Ruth she hates Merciful! well! she 
 will wait she will see ! * 
 
 And then, raising her voice, she replied, without answering 
 directly to the question 
 
 " Merciful is gone old man gone." 
 
 "Gone, whither? whither have they gone? good God! 
 tell me ; tell me ; what new misery is this ?" 
 
 " Merciful is gone," she replied, waving her hand seaward. 
 " Ruth, come with Tituba, and she will show her." 
 
 And taking her young mistress by the hand, she led her 
 swiftly down the little path toward the bridge, the three boys 
 following eagerly behind her. When they reached the fence 
 of gnarled roots arid branches which guarded the platform s 
 brink, she pointed downward, and all saw at once that the pin 
 nace was absent. 
 
 Gideon thrust his hand instantly into the pocket of his doub 
 let, to ascertain if the keys were gone, with which his father 
 had intrusted him at supper-time. They were still there. 
 He drew them forth, and said doubtfully 
 
 " I locked them all fast, with my own hand, last night ; this 
 is strange, Sister Ruth." 
 
 " White man no eyes !" said the Indian girl, scornfully. 
 " See, there, chain broken ; there, large stone chipped and 
 cracked that broke chain! Boat gone, too. Merciful gone, 
 
DAYBREAK AT HOME. 93 
 
 old man gone ! That speaks clear as so many words. Mer 
 ciful in a hurry, broke chain, took boat why white boy ask? 
 why not look, see, understand?" 
 
 " But, good Heaven ! Tituba, did he take grandfather along ?" 
 cried Ruth, anxiously and much alarmed. 
 
 " Tituba not see anything not say anything about grand 
 father," was the reply. " Merciful took gun, powder, shot- 
 pouch, fishing-lines, net, too they are all gone no one else 
 taken them ! Old grandfather has got legs, arms, of his own 
 hits, too, when he like to use them ! Why he not go away 
 himself?" 
 
 But as she spoke, there was a glance in her eye that told 
 Ruth that she knew more than she chose to say. She soon 
 dismissed the boys, on some pretence or other, and when they 
 were gone, turned to the Indian girl, and said, "Now tell me." 
 
 But Tituba shook her head only, and then in her turn asked 
 
 " Tell, Tituba ? why old grandfather, old Edward Whalley, 
 not use his wits ? Tituba thought he had no wits. But he 
 has many; great, quick, wise, very wise. Why he not use 
 them ?" 
 
 " I can not tell you, Tituba, for I know not," replied Ruth. 
 
 " Tituba will not tell you where old Edward gone," was the 
 answer. " Better for you to say, when any one come to ask, 
 when soldier come to ask where Edward Whalley better for 
 you to say, I can not tell you, for I know not. Tituba knows 
 but will not." 
 
 " And will you not tell any one will you not tell the sol 
 dier, Tituba ?" asked Ruth, beginning now to understand or 
 suspect something of the matter. 
 
 " Don t know," said the girl, very doggedly. " Merciful 
 love old Edward Tituba loves not Merciful hates Merci 
 ful ! Merciful made Tituba s back bleed ! How he like it, if 
 
94 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Tituba make old Edward s head bleed Merciful s heart 
 bleed ! Don t know now know better some time." 
 
 " See ! see ! Ruth, Ruth !" cried the the three boys, rushing 
 hastily down from the house, Gideon carrying a telescope in 
 his hand " See, there is a sloop, with the royal flag, steering 
 straight hitherward. She is full of men, too! soldiers in 
 scarlet cassocks, and bright armor !" 
 
 Ruth looked up hastily ; and there, almost within a pistol- 
 shot, lay the Rose s tender, her head veering slowly to the 
 wind, and her white sails coming down with a run, as she 
 dropped her anchor. 
 
 " Perhaps, know better soon /" said Tituba, with emphasis. 
 " Know all, why he not use his wits ; why he gone perhaps 
 where." 
 
 11 But do you know why he did not use his senses why he 
 has gone ?" exclaimed Ruth, in amazement. 
 
 " Perhaps !" answered the quick-witted girl "perhaps he 
 lose his wits, so to save his head perhaps gone for the same 
 reason ! Perhaps, soldier come to take it." 
 
 " Do you love me, Tituba ?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! she replied eagerly : " much, very much ! 
 why ask, Ruth, when you know I love you ?" 
 
 " If you do love me, Tituba ; you will not tell these men." 
 
 " Don t know," she again answered doggedly; "hate Mer 
 ciful, love Ruth ! Love revenge, too ! Revenge very sweet, 
 perhaps love revenge better." 
 
 And, with the words, she turned away, and walked off, with 
 a dogged and angry air, that showed it would be useless to ad 
 dress her farther. 
 
 Then there came from the ship the clear, sharp clangor of 
 the trumpet, and a hoarse voice 
 
 " What, ho ! there ; house, ahoy !" 
 
 " Ahoy !" replied the elder of the sons. 
 
THE ROYAL GOVERNOR. 95 
 
 " Send a boat instantly," answered the voice. 
 
 " Ay ! ay !" cried Gideon ; and sprang hastily down the 
 steps, calling his second brother to accompany him, prompt to 
 obey the unfriendly summons. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ROYAL GOVERNOR. 
 
 " Come guard the door without ; let him not pass, 
 But kill him rather." 
 
 BUT a few minutes had elapsed, since Gideon had crossed 
 the gangway of the English pinnace, when the alarmed spec 
 tators, who numbered by this time all the household of the 
 Cove cottage, beheld a larger boat lowered from the stern of 
 the man-of-war. A dozen persons entered her ; four of them 
 ordinary sailors, two men, as it appeared of superior rank, and 
 five armed soldiers, having Gideon, now seemingly a prisoner, 
 in the midst of them. 
 
 No long time was, however, given them for speculation or 
 surmise. Six or eight strokes of the oars brought the boat to 
 the little dock, at which she was made fast ; and then, leaving 
 one man as boat-keeper, and posting another as a sentinel with 
 his match lighted on the round-headed rock, the party landed. 
 
 The first who crossed the bridge was a tall, dark-complex 
 ioned man, of a fine figure and stately bearing, who might, per 
 haps, have numbered some forty-six or forty-seven years. He 
 was attired magnificently in the costume worn at the court of 
 the second James, a loose coat of crimson velvet, splendidly 
 laced with gold above a glittering steel breast-plate which 
 shone like silver in the dazzling sunbeams. Full breeches of 
 
90 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the same material with his coat, and heavy horseman s boots, 
 adorned with the gilt spurs of knighthood, a huge black wig, 
 falling quite down to his shoulders, and reeking with the most 
 exquisite perfumes, and a low-crowned beaver decorated by a 
 hat-band of white feathers, completed the attire of this proud 
 dignitary. The only weapon which he carried, was the ordi 
 nary walking rapier of the day, suspended by a broad, blue 
 silk scarf, crossing his cuirass under the velvet coat ; but he 
 held in his hand a handsome clouded cane with a crutch head 
 of solid gold. 
 
 The demeanor of this gentleman was stately, perhaps even 
 haughty ; and, although he was by no means void of that quie 
 tude and easy grace which arise from a consciousness of 
 high station and gentle birth, his carriage and the supercilious 
 ness of his glance seemed to betoken both arrogance and pre 
 sumption. 
 
 His face was such as many persons would term handsome, 
 for the features were all well formed and regular, the eye was 
 clear and piercing, and the coloring fine and harmonious. Nor 
 was there wanting a strong intellectual expression on the brow, 
 an air of indomitable resolution about the mouth. Yet was 
 the whole expression of the face of Sir Edmund Andross 
 for the unwelcome visiter was no other than the new governor 
 of the Bay Province unpleading, nay almost repulsive. 
 
 It was impossible to look twice at that countenance, with 
 out reading in its strong lines a dark tale of indulged and pan 
 dered passions, of fierce licentiousness, unbridled insolence, 
 and all the evil habits of the mind, which are so apt to be the 
 fruits of an unchecked career, whether of public or of private 
 despotism. 
 
 Never, perhaps, were two men more alike, and at the same 
 moment more different, than Sir Edmund Andross, the royal 
 governor, and Merciful Whalley, the rebellious Puritan. 
 
THE ROVAL GOVERNOR. 97 
 
 Both of these men were fanatics Andross of loyalty and 
 aristocracy Whalley of bigotry and independence. 
 
 In both did the fanaticism, which was visible in every action 
 of their lives, subserve to one end self-glory, self-gratification. 
 
 Both men were self-deceivers ; the one served Mammon 
 only, believing that he served his God the other, while pro 
 fessing to be the creature only of his king, was the slave of his 
 own power, pleasure, and lust. 
 
 Neither would have paused one moment to consider how 
 many tears or how much agony his own gratification would 
 cost any man ; or hesitated, at all risks, to obey his own im 
 pulses. But Andross would have trampled under foot openly 
 the law which restrained him. Whalley would have violated 
 it as readily, professing all the while his veneration for its au 
 thority, and proving by hypocritic cant that to violate was to 
 obey it. 
 
 Such were the two men, whom the policy of others, no less 
 lhan their own passions, were soon about to bring into collis 
 ion. They were both keen-witted, bold, daring, and unscru 
 pulous ; both equally subservient to self-interest ; equally 
 reckless of the rights of others. 
 
 But, although Andross was armed with all the authority 
 which a despotic king can delegate to his most trusted minis 
 ter, the Puritan was the stronger the more dangerous. The 
 stronger, because, while in truth, scorning utterly all the opin 
 ions of all men, he professed to obey the public voice implicit 
 ly because, while acting wholly in obedience to the basest 
 of earthly passions, he successfully presented an exterior of 
 austere and self-denying virtue because, in one word, he 
 concentrated all his energies upon one point, and led the peo 
 ple with him, as surely as by chains of iron, through their own 
 flattered prejudices. 
 
 Sir Edmund, on the contrary, sought for no golden opinions 
 1 5 
 
98 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 from any sort of people he bore his vices on as bold a front 
 as if they had been virtues ; and cared not a rush which they 
 were esteemed. He was continually shocking the scruples 
 and wounding the prejudices of men, on matters of no moment, 
 offending to no purpose when, with a little management, he 
 might as well have been conciliated ; arid thus laying up 
 against himself hoards of enmity and resistance to be brought 
 forth, and perhaps to turn the struggle, in times of real emer 
 gency, efforts of real moment. 
 
 Such was the man, who now, for the first time in his life, 
 set foot upon the green sward of that secluded cove set his 
 foot there, unconscious that in so doing, he was taking the 
 step, which of all others involved most deeply the fortunes, the 
 fate of his whole career. 
 
 Yet so it is, but too often, with us all the wisest as the 
 weakest ! 
 
 We strive with ceaseless toil, with multifarious turmoil, to 
 rear some mighty scheme, which is to build our fortune as 
 high as the rash edifice on Shinar s plain ! The bubble bursts 
 and lo, thin wind, and an unsavory odor! 
 
 We go about some trivial thing, some careless task, perhaps 
 some lightsome pleasure, thinking of no result beyond the 
 present ; and thence, by no effort, no thought even of your 
 own advancement, greatness, glory. 
 
 The combination, which we most strenuously guard against, 
 as the most ruinous, will work together in the despite of all 
 our efforts, and works at last not ruin but unheard-of pros 
 perity. 
 
 The plan, which we have laid most craftily to win us glory, 
 succeeds beyond our wishes, and we are crushed by its suc 
 cess. 
 
 What is this ? Fortune ? Accident ? Fate ? 
 
 Fortune is nothing, save in the chances of a die ! Accidents, 
 
THE ROYAL GOVERNOR. 
 
 99 
 
 there are none in this vast universe, from the fall of the spar 
 row to the death of the hero ! 
 
 Fate is What ? a weak I had nearly said wicked 
 
 word to express the ways of God, which are in themselves 
 all wise, though in our small, presumptuous blindness we dis 
 cern not, and miscall their wisdom. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andross landed that morning from his gay pin 
 nace upon the wild and lonely coast, thinking to find a regi 
 cide, a captive he found instead his fate ! 
 
 To him, that morning was the beginning of the end. 
 
 And in his train there was another, who, very different in 
 all respects from his chief, had cause, for many a day, to call 
 to mind that fruitless mission, that rude cottage and its tenants. 
 
 To Henry Cecil, also, that morning was the unsuspected 
 cause of many and strange things. The captain of Sir Ed 
 mund s body-gUard, the scion of one, among the noblest of Eng 
 land s old patrician houses, he had applied for the appointment, 
 more in a gay and romantic spirit of adventure, more in the 
 heat of a young poetical imagination, prompting him with the 
 wish to see the marvels of the great Western World, than in 
 any desire of gaining advancement, or of achieving glory. 
 
 Too young, and, to speak the truth, too gay and thoughtless, 
 to have reflected much or deeply on politics, or on the art of 
 government, he was, in the true spirit of the fearless, faithful 
 cavalier, a firm believer in the church, a stanch supporter of 
 the king. His whole soul full of the high aristocratic creed, 
 the high aristocratic virtues, he could no more imagine a true 
 religion, apart from the one, than a consistent or sound liberty, 
 without the other. 
 
 Yet never did a young heart thrill more quickly to th* re 
 publican renown of a Brutus, a Timoleon, or a Cato, than did 
 that enthusiastic royalist s. Never did tenderest heart of wo 
 man sympathize more compassionately with the sufferings, or 
 
100 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 fieriest heart of the patriot blaze more indignantly at the 
 wrongs, of the poor or unprotected. 
 
 And yet this youth was linked as a comrade and supporter, 
 nay, in some sort connected as a friend to the contemner of 
 all virtue, the scorner of all glory, the grinder of the poor, the 
 oppressor of the weak the despot Andross. 
 
 In form and appearance also, Sir Henry Cecil was as strong 
 ly contrasted with his superior, as in the qualities of intellect 
 and heart. 
 
 Not above six-and-twenty years of age, he at this time pre 
 sented as perfect a model as can well be imagined of complete 
 youthful manhood. Somewhat above the middle stature, his 
 slender yet symmetrical frame gave promise of great strength 
 in future, while it was evident even now that it possessed that 
 springy, vigorous, and active elasticity, which in the young 
 supplies admirably the want of that tempered and hard robust 
 ness, which comes only with maturer manhood. 
 
 His face was eminently handsome, not regular indeed or 
 perfect in feature, but what is much better, full of fine feeling, 
 deeply fraught with social, alive with the flashing light of, 
 intellect. A broad fair forehead, not very high, but singularly 
 firm and thoughtful ; large gray eyes clear as steel, and quick 
 as the ray that flashes from its polished surface when sudden 
 light enkindles it ; dark eyebrows, and long lashes ; a nose 
 somewhat too prominent perhaps for beauty ; and a mouth, the 
 lines of which were rich with every good and gentle expres 
 sion, at times arch and humorous, yet lacking not their share 
 of firmness and even pride, and a well-cut, bold chin, com 
 pleted the contour of his singularly winning and attractive 
 countenance. 
 
 His hair of a light sunny brown, for he was both too hand 
 some and too high-born, and yet more too free of spirit, to be 
 trammelled by the hideous fashions of the day, fell in a profusion 
 
THE ROYAL GOVERNOR. 101 
 
 of long wavy curls over the collar of his doublet, like those of 
 the gallant cavaliers of the first King Charles, unpolluted by 
 the disfigurement of hair-powder, and undistorted by the bar 
 ber s irons. 
 
 His mustaches, and the long-pointed beard which he wo^e 
 on his chin, were many shades darker than his hair, and gave 
 a military and manly expression to a face, which its fair com 
 plexion and air of extreme youth would otherwise have ren 
 dered somewhat effeminate for one who had, for years already, 
 commanded veteran soldiers. 
 
 He wore the scarlet uniform which had already been adopt 
 ed as the uniform of England though not at all, as some wri 
 ters have asserted falsely as the livery of the king ; it being 
 Cromwell who first brought it into use but of a widely differ 
 ent fashion from that of the present day. There was the 
 scarlet indeed and the glittering lace ; but the long shoulder- 
 knots of riband with aiguilettes of bullion were as different 
 from the modern epaulette, as the long cambric cravat trimmed 
 with rich Valenciennes from the black stock, or the bright plates 
 of polished steel guarding the neck and shoulders from the 
 small moon-shaped gorget, which bears its name, with neither 
 its utility nor its splendor. Ruffles of Brussels lace at the 
 wrists of the coat, and at the knees of the breeches, a flutter 
 ing scarf of silk and gold crossing the left breast and wound 
 afterward about the waist, supporting the long horseman s 
 sword, huge boots, and the hat, with its cincture of snowy 
 plumes, made a gay show, indeed ; and the free line and grace 
 ful flow of all the decorations formed a picture far more at 
 tractive, though scarce so practical or soldierly a display, as 
 the closer and more angular lines of the modern costume. 
 
 The rest of the party consisted of a lancepersade or corpor 
 al, with four private troopers of Andross body-guard, all splen 
 didly equipped and heavily armed, with long broad-swords 
 
102 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 clanking on their heels, pistols in their girdles, and carabines 
 or musquetoons, with lighted matches, in their hands. 
 
 Behind these men, came Gideon, in charge, as it seemed; 
 of the two sailors, who had landed ; and one of whom walked 
 on each side of him, with a cocked pistol in his hand. 
 
 Deep consternation fell on the hearts of all the tenants of 
 the little cottage, as that proud pomp ascended the rugged 
 staircase and crossed the rustic bridge. They knew not, in 
 deed, nor could they in any wise imagine, the object of this 
 visit. They were unconscious even of the persons, who thus 
 broke in upon their privacy. 
 
 But they perceived at once they were men high in authority ; 
 and that they came thither, as the soldiers proved, with no in 
 tent of peace or friendship. 
 
 Ruth s eye fell first upon the pleasant face and gentle linea 
 ments of Cecil ; but ere it dwelt there a moment, or gained 
 confidence from what it read therein, the baleful features and 
 sinister expression of Sir Edmund flashed upon her, and she 
 beheld Cecil no longer. 
 
 It was strange with how stern a fascination that evil visage 
 and dark lurid eye riveted the glance of the fair girl in anxious 
 agony. 
 
 The sight gave her pain, exquisite pain. Yet, had it been 
 to preserve her life, she could not have withdrawn her eyes. 
 
 She shuddered, and a wild terror crept into her soul was 
 it a prescient sense of that which was to come ? 
 
 She struggled with that vague, dismal terror but she could 
 not dispel it ; and, while she was yet gazing, he caught her as 
 it were in the fact, and smiled with a fierce and almost fiend 
 ish glee, rejoicing in the mastery which he felt that his mere 
 aspect had exerted over her. 
 
 Andross had met his fate ! 
 
THE SEARCH. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 "Dressed in a little brief authority." 
 
 ALTHOUGH no person of those present suspected the ohject 
 of this strange arrival, all were alarmed and apprehensive of 
 some evil. 
 
 Nor were theii fears diminished by the h rst words of the 
 leader of the party 
 
 " Hah !" he said, in harsh and haughty tone, that corre 
 sponded well with his port and the expression of his features, 
 "ha! what is this what is this he tells me? Merciful 
 Whalley absent where is he? Ha! when went he forth? 
 Whither hath he gone ? Speak out, I say, or by St. George, 
 ye shall rue it." 
 
 His words were addressed apparently to the mother of the 
 family, although his licentious gaze never left the fair features 
 of the daughter. 
 
 " Nay, noble sir," faltered the timid woman, " we know not 
 when he went, nor whither, nor can we tell you where he is ; 
 for " 
 
 " God s life !" returned the other, " dost think I am a fool to 
 be put off with such lies as this ; or one of your drivelling 
 beggars of town elders, to lack the means to extort truth. 
 Know, woman, that your husband is accused, under heavy cir 
 cumstances, of high treason, in harboring and helping an ex- 
 jommunicate and outlawed knave and felon, one Edward 
 Whalley ; truly a parricide ; one of the bloody and accursed 
 murderers of that most holy martyr, King Charles I., of " 
 
104 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " My grandfather !" exclaimed Ruth, clasping her hands, in 
 an ecstacy of terror, and for a moment losing her wonted self- 
 control " this, then, is the fearful secret !" 
 
 " Ha ! didst thou know it, too 1 Wert thou, too, aiding and 
 abetting in this crime ?" said the governor, turning with a tri 
 umphant smile toward the maiden. 
 
 " If crime it be to cherish a weak, old, distraught and help 
 less man yes !" replied Ruth, firmly. 
 
 "If it be a crime to shelter the king s traitor! If into a 
 pestilent nest of rebels we seem to have fallen ! Now, mark 
 me, little one, were I disposed to severity, I might arrest thee 
 instantly, as guilty on thine own confession of misprision of 
 this heinous treason the forfeiture of which is death!* 
 Knowest thou that, ha ?" 
 
 " I knew it not," she answered mournfully, but steadily. 
 " I only know that the law of God commands us to honor our 
 father and our mother that our days may be long in the land. 
 Other law know I none, nor have heard of it. Nevertheless, 
 God s will be done !" 
 
 " Oh ! noble sir, dear sir," exclaimed her mother, casting 
 herself at his feet, " she knew it not she knew it not! So 
 surely as the Lord liveth, she knew not that her grandsire was 
 one of the appointed judges of the late man !" 
 
 And in the extremity of her terror for her daughter s safety, 
 she used the words, which, often heard on the lips of the fierce 
 Puritan, were in themselves almost enough to have convicted 
 her, in those days, of treason. 
 
 " Appointed judges of THE LATE MAN ! Ha! by the spirit 
 of rebellion !" shouted Sir Edmund furiously, and no longer 
 
 * The punishment for misprision of treason was not death by the law, 
 but this period of English history is peculiar for the subjection of the law 
 to the royal will ; and the crime for which Lord "William Russell suffered 
 was, at the worst, but misprision of treason. 
 
THE SEARCH. 105 
 
 with feigned anger, for, in despite of all his inconsistencies 
 and vices, he had at least this merit, that he was faithful and 
 sincere in his creed of loyalty, however ultra it might be. 
 " Appointed judges ! Mark that, Sir Henry Cecil, the godless, 
 hypocritical, blood-thirsty, low-born butchers of his most sa 
 cred majesty, she dares to designate appointed judges ! The 
 king by right divine, the Lord s anointed, she blasphemously 
 terms the late man. I know not wherefore we should tarry 
 for any further proof. I know not wherefore I should not or 
 der all these into instant custody, to be dealt with thereafter as 
 the law directs, and this den of thieves and traitors to be level 
 led forthwith to the ground !" 
 
 Cecil, thus called upon, approached the governor, not with 
 out some expression of dissatisfaction upon his noble features, 
 and spoke to him for a few seconds in a low voice, so that no 
 words of his reached the ears of any other than Sir Edmund. 
 Yet was it plain enough, that they were unpalatable to the 
 great man. His brows were contracted into so dark a frown 
 that they almost met. His eyes flashed with a lurid and fierce 
 light. His nether lip quivered with impatience, and he re 
 peatedly clutched the hilt of his sword with a rapid gesture, 
 while his lieutenant was speaking. At length, however, his 
 quick temper mastered him, and he broke out with a fierce 
 oath, 
 
 "Ignorant! ignorant! No! by the life of Him that made 
 me ! here is no ignorance, but most rank rebellion, as I shall 
 show you presently ! Hark you, girl, answer me what I shall 
 ask of you ; and see that you answer truly." 
 
 " If at all of a surety," replied Ruth, " I shall answer truly." 
 
 "If mark me that if, Sir Henry! Well, mistress, you 
 did not know, you tell me, that this grandfather of yours was 
 one of the king s murderers ; is this so ?" 
 
 5* 
 
106 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " I profess, as the Lord liveth, that she knew not the king 
 was slain at all !" replied her mother. 
 
 But taking no heed of the interruption, and keeping his eyes 
 fixed on the girl s ingenuous features, Andross excjaimed 
 sharply, 
 
 " Answer me, mistress, yea or nay !" 
 
 " I knew not that he was one of the king s judges !" answered 
 the maiden ; " but my mother errs, I did know that the king 
 was judged to death and slain by his people !" 
 
 " Ha ! thou didst know that of a truth thou art learned, 
 lass, already ; and yet, I trow, thou shalt be taught a thing or 
 two thou knowest not, ere I have done with thee. Now, tell 
 me, beautiful precision that thou art, didst thou not know that 
 this grandfather of thine was a proscribed and outlawed 
 traitor ?" 
 
 " I knew it not !" she replied firmly. 
 
 " Nor that, by the king s proclamation it was made treason, 
 under penalty of death, to rest or harbor him." 
 
 "Nor that, sir, either; but, natheless " She was about 
 to add something further ; but, as she was on the point of 
 speaking, a quick glance from Sir Henry Cecil, who stood a 
 little way behind the governor, and his finger laid on his lip, 
 gave her timely warning, and she stopped short and was 
 silent. 
 
 " But, natheless/ repeated the governor, mocking her, 
 " natheless what, sweet one ?" 
 
 " I have already replied, noble sir," she made answer, 
 calmly, " that I knew not, nor had ever heard of the procla 
 mation which you named." 
 
 "But you began to say something more what was it? 
 Palter not with me, minion ?" 
 
 " I believe, sir, that you have not the right to ask me that," 
 replied the young girl. 
 
THE SEARCH. 107 
 
 " I think not, indeed," said Sir Henry Cecil, gravely, although 
 his face was somewhat flushed, and his eye keen and angry. 
 
 The governor, irritated already by the demeanor of Ruth, 
 turned furiously on the young baronet, whose well-intended in 
 terruption, perhaps, did no real service to the maiden. 
 
 " I believe, sir," he said in accents of the most imperious and 
 galling scorn, " that you hold a commission as captain in the 
 king s horse regiment, maintained as my body-guard ; but I am 
 yet to be informed that you are associated with me either as an 
 expounder of hard points of law, or as the keeper of my con 
 science. For you, minion, if you answer riot, and that in 
 stantly, you shall know, ere you are six hours older, that I 
 have the right to do whatever I think proper in this stiff-neck 
 ed and insolent Bay-Province. It were a fine thing, truly, if 
 the immunities and privileges which belong to the free-born 
 Englishman alone should follow such a sort of runagates as 
 ye are to the world s end, and pass down to generations. 
 Speak, I say, wench, or we will take means that shall make 
 you find your tongue !" 
 
 " Natheless, had I heard the king s proclamation, or any 
 other human law, commanding me to do that which God s law 
 prohibits, or prohibiting that which God s law commands, I 
 should have surely disregarded it." 
 
 " I thought so," answered the governor, with a sneer. " Now, 
 are you satisfied, Sir Henry. Proper wise heads are yours 
 to judge the legality of laws. Any excuse for rebellion is 
 enough, it seems. So, I suppose, as a corollary from this loyal 
 axiom, you have hid the old traitor from us likewise." 
 
 " It needeth not," answered Ruth. " For he, too, is gone, 
 and we know not whither." 
 
 " Gone ! Jade, thou liest !" cried the despot in a furious 
 rage, grasping her by the slender wrist and shaking her vio 
 lently. " Gone ! whither ? when ? but, surely I am mad 
 
108 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 to ask, for this is palpably a lie ! Take two of the men, Sir 
 Henry, and search every nook and corner of the hut, and 
 arrest the old knave and dotard who is concealed doubtless 
 in some cunning place. He is too old and feeble to be 
 removed far." 
 
 The brave and generous-minded young man obeyed silently, 
 not perhaps displeased at being sent from the immediate spot, 
 where he was likely to witness so much that made his blood 
 boil, which yet he dared not as a soldier under his legitimate 
 superior object to, or resist. 
 
 As Cecil moved away, however, with the men, taking one 
 of the younger boys along with them to open the doors, Sir 
 Edmund, who was no mean judge of character, no unskilled 
 reader of the human heart, was pretty well convinced that the 
 woman had spoken the truth, and that his victims had, indeed, 
 escaped him ; for their demeanor was so quiet and fearless, 
 that it betokened their consciousness, that there was little or 
 no danger to be apprehended from the search. 
 
 " You say that they are both gone, and that you know not 
 whither ? How is this, or how can it be ? Woman, didst 
 thou not ask thy husband, nor thou, girl, thy father, whither 
 he was bound, when he would return ?" 
 
 " We knew not," they both answered in a breath, " that he 
 was going hence at all. When we retired to bed last night, 
 they were together communing and praying in the kitchen, nor 
 till we fell asleep, did we lose the sound of their voices. When 
 we arose this morning early, the chain of the boat was broken, 
 and they were both gone hence." 
 
 " Ha ! that may be indeed. Is it your husband s wont thus 
 to go often forth by night ?" 
 
 " Well-nigh nightly," answered the woman, either to fish or 
 10 fowl, which are a part of his occupation ; nor does he ever 
 tell us what he intends to do, or whither he is going. He is a 
 
THE SEARCH. 109 
 
 silent man and very secret. Nor do I dare to ask him what 
 he tells me not of his own free will." 
 
 " And goes the old man with him oftentimes ?" 
 
 " Never before since we have dwelt here." 
 
 " Nor has he gone hence now, I fancy," said the tyrant 
 coldly, " but we will soon see. Ha ! how now, Cecil," he 
 continued, as his officer reappeared from the cottage "have 
 you found him ?" 
 
 ** We have searched thoroughly from the roof to the cel 
 lar, and there is no one in the place," answered the young 
 soldier. " It must be as they say ; they must have escaped by 
 sea." 
 
 " I fancy not. There is no cause to make it likely. They 
 could not have heard aught of our intentions. No, no ! they 
 are hidden somewhere. Some secret closet in the walls ! 
 Some cunning hole, I doubt not ; but we will have them out 
 ere long, I warrant me. Here, lance-pesade, take two of your 
 men and set fire to the house in a dozen places, with the 
 matches of your pieces. The rats shall be smoked out, or 
 roasted in their holes !" 
 
 " No ! no ! you will not, you can not, you dare riot be so 
 cruel!" exclaimed the mother of the family, half frantic from 
 terror and despair. But Ruth spoke not, for she judged, and 
 judged rightly, that to speak were but a waste of words. 
 
 " Will I not ? dare I not ?" answered the tyrant, looking her 
 full in the eye, with cold insolence, " that you shall soon see. 
 And you, sirrah !" he added, turning short to the subaltern, 
 who was hesitating, scarcely able to believe that the governor 
 was in earnest, " to your duty ! Set it on fire !" 
 
 The man moved away, reluctantly, to do the bidding of his 
 commander, with that stern obedience to discipline, which has 
 in all ages been so especially characteristic of the English 
 soldier. But, as he did so, Sir Henry Cecil took two steps 
 
 IV. 
 
110 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 forward, and addressed Andross firmly, but at the same time 
 respectfully. 
 
 " May I ask you, Sir Edmund, have you commission to do 
 this ? Martial law has not been proclaimed, I think, in the 
 province." 
 
 " You may ask, Sir Henry Cecil, any absurd and useless 
 question you may think fit ; but it does not follow that I will 
 answer them. To this, however, I will reply thus ample 
 commission !" 
 
 " And may I ask to see it ?" 
 
 " It is this" replied the governor, striking his hand on the 
 hilt of his sword, " will you question it, Sir Henry ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied Cecil, " but I will no longer wear this" 
 and, as he spoke, he unsheathed his own sword, kissed the 
 bright blade, and then snapping it across his knee, flung the 
 fragments over the cliff into the rolling surf. Then, without a 
 moment s hesitation, he unbuckled the bright scarf, which dis 
 tinguished the governor s guardrnen, and, before Sir Edmund 
 had time to speak, flung it with the empty scabbard on the 
 green sward at his feet, saying, " I resign my commission, sir 
 the king has lost a soldier." 
 
 " And gained, I suppose, a rebel !" retorted the other, with 
 a sneer. " Your resignation is accepted, sir. The privy coun 
 cil shall be informed of this." 
 
 " They shall, upon my honor !" answered the gallant young 
 man. " And now, Sir Edmund, I will request you to remem 
 ber that I am no longer your inferior ; but your equal, as an 
 English gentleman, of rank higher than your own." 
 
 The governor doffed his plumed hat and bowed with ironi 
 cal humility. 
 
 " I bow," he said, " to the higher rank ! which, however, I 
 suspect will be abridged a little, when the king hears of this. 
 But enough ! I will brook no insolence, hear no remonstrance, 
 
THE WRONG. Ill 
 
 Now, sirrah, lance-pesade, bestir yourself. That hut is not 
 afire, and by the God who made me ! 1 stir not one step 
 hence until its roof-tree lie upon its hearth-stone in one heap 
 of ashes. Bestir yourselves, knaves, or you shall taste the 
 pickets, or take a ride upon the wooden-horse ! Fire it, I say, 
 fire it, at each of the four corners ! It shall house no more 
 rebels." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE WRONG. 
 
 " Why flames the far summit ?" 
 
 AUTHORITY is a strange touch-stone whereby to test man s 
 equanimity ; a marvellous changer of man s heart. Many a 
 one, who in an humble sphere has earned and merited opinions, 
 has given promise of great things in future, has proved himself 
 kind, noble, equal minded, when tried in the furnace of acquired 
 rank, and power over his fellows, has turned out in the end to 
 be but of base metal after all. Many a nobler, deeper spirit, 
 which, for a while depressed by low circumstances, may have 
 caught some stain from the base things around it, have conde 
 scended to some acts unworthy of its natural tendencies, when 
 suddenly uplifted to its proper sphere, has cast away all the 
 toils on the instant, has emerged from all the unworthiness, 
 and shown the intrinsic difference between the " dust that is a 
 little gilt," and the true " gilt o erdusted." 
 
 But this, the latter change is, as I said, peculiar to the great 
 er, the nobler, and the purer minds of men ; and is perhaps as 
 rare, as the former alteration is of frequent occurrence. It 
 would seem very wonderful, could anything seem wonderful 
 
112 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 which we see almost, daily, that the possession of power to 
 afflict, to oppress, to torment others, should beget the desire to 
 do so. Yet, from the petty pelting Dogberry of some small 
 village, to the mighty Kaisar on his imperial throne, how 
 often do we see this truth, how seldom the converse exem 
 plified. 
 
 Again it would seem strange, did not its commonness make 
 it familiar, that greatness should sit more lightly upon him who 
 has inherited it all untoiled for, and should by him be wielded 
 with far less oppressiveness toward the inferior ; than by the 
 lowly born, who has struggled upward painfully, and at length 
 won unwonted power. The task-master, who was a slave of 
 old himself, is the most merciless oppressor of the class from 
 which he was emancipated yesterday. The plebeian magistrate 
 is he, who has the least compassion for the sorrows, the least 
 indulgence for the offences of the poor plebeian. The rich 
 burgher, who once raked the kennels for a base meal, is he 
 who least frequently unbuckles his fat purse to aid his starving 
 neighbor. The baseness, that is native to their souls, is but 
 the more apparent in the altered circumstances. It is not that 
 the soul is changed for the worse within, but that the shell 
 without is unduly elevated. 
 
 The heart and nature of the beggar is there still ; clad in the 
 garb of the noble it is true, yet still beggarly and base. And 
 it may be regarded as almost a universal rule, that he who 
 tramples the most heavily on his inferior, crouches the most 
 abjectly before the superior. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andross had achieved greatness. 
 
 Sir Henry Cecil was born wealthy, powerful, and noble. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andross had known want, scorn, suffering, hu 
 miliation. By dint of some great qualities, assisted alas! 
 that I should say, assisted by some very base ones, he had 
 emerged from the slough to glitter in the sunshine. But he 
 
THE WRONG. 113 
 
 had carried up with him the rank odor of the mire, to fester 
 and become more offensive in the noonday lustre. 
 
 Sir Henry Cecil had been lapped in luxury from his cradle 
 upward ; he had known from his infancy nothing but care and 
 kindness, pleasure, and wealth, and prosperity. Nothing mean 
 had come near to him ; no small degrading wants, no spirit- 
 galling scorn, no soul-degrading humiliations. All his associ 
 ations had been with the good, the beautiful, the noble, and the 
 true. And of these two men the weak world would judge, 
 that he who had suffered most, would most sympathize with 
 the suffering ; that he whose lot had been ever raised above 
 the storms of adversity, would pitilessly see these storms burst 
 on the heads of others ; that he who had known humiliation 
 would be humble he who had known power and pride only, 
 would by his very power be made proud. 
 
 The world would assert that this is truth and nature. I say 
 that it is neither natural nor true ! 
 
 The humblest man, who ever trod the earth, was he who 
 had laid aside the infinite might, and majesty, and glory of the 
 godhead in order to become "the man of sorrows." Is there 
 in that brief recollection, no strong lesson ? I can conceive 
 no spectacle more pleasing to the eyes of angels, those blessed 
 ministers who watch ever fondly over man s changeful course, 
 hailing his least good deed with smiles of heavenly radiance, 
 washing his darkest acts with tears of celestial sorrow I can 
 conceive, I say, no spectacle so pleasing to the eyes of those 
 pure beings, as the great man bearing his greatness meekly ; 
 using his delegated powers only to mitigate the sorrows which 
 he has never known ; spreading his wealth about him, only to 
 bless the poor and needy ; and yet cheering their hearts more 
 by his kindly voice and gentle air, than by the bounty of his 
 hand. 
 
 I can conceive none more detestable than that of the self- 
 K* 
 
114 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 made, low-born magnate, revelling in his brief authority, using 
 his greatness only to wound, his wealth only to tantalize, his 
 power only to trample under foot the wretched worms, of whom 
 but yesterday he was the brother. And such, in many re 
 spects, as the latter picture, was Sir Edmund Andross. In 
 almost all, such as the former, Sir Henry Cecil. 
 
 And yet, alas ! for poor human nature that it is ever so, the 
 virtues of the one were no more without their alloy of selfish 
 ness, than the vices of the other without their palliation. A 
 gentle nature, and the pleasure which it gave him to do good, 
 were perhaps greater inducements to the virtues of Henry Cecil, 
 than any settled principle, or determined sense of duty. And 
 a quick temper, and a rebellious pride toward his superiors, 
 marred something of the loveliness of his demeanor toward 
 those below him. 
 
 Of Andross too it must be said, that his oppressive temper, 
 his crushing and tyrannic pride, were not so much the results 
 of a malicious or unfeeling heart, still less of any deliberate in 
 tention to be cruel, as of a nature hardened and embittered by 
 wrongs endured early, when the soul is as plastic to evil as to 
 good ; and of a false black estimate of the lower classes, drawn 
 from the baseness of the tools whom he had found occasion to 
 employ, and the base uses to which he had stooped himself, in 
 winning his way to eminence. Bad as he was therefore, and 
 cruel as he showed himself in this instance, neither the base 
 ness nor the cruelty was deliberate or committed from the 
 love of cruelty ; though it would be too much to say that either 
 was accidental. 
 
 A stanch and thorough-going loyalist, both from sincere 
 opinion and from gratitude to the king his patron, a bitter hater 
 from conviction, of that independent democratic spirit, which 
 having burned itself out in England during the great civil war 
 of 1642, had taken firm root in the soil of America; and as 
 
THE WRONG. 115 
 
 bitter a hater of the canting puritanical spirit, which accompa 
 nied it, Andross believed it really to be his duty to spare no 
 means of crushing and eradicating both the latter wherever he 
 should find them. 
 
 The character and principles of the man, whom he had that 
 day gone out to arrest, were well known to him ; and he looked 
 upon Merciful Whalley, and looked upon him justly, as a dark 
 bad man, and a dangerous subject. His object in striking at 
 this man was not merely the seizure of a regicide, and the 
 punishment of those who resetted him. Had it been nothing 
 more, he would have left the execution of the task to the ordi 
 nary servants of justice. 
 
 But the truth is, that he was well-informed of the existence, 
 in the Bay Province, of a strong and growing party opposed 
 to the extension of the royal prerogatives, and devoted to the 
 propagation and establishment of civil liberty that he sus 
 pected a direct conspiracy to be in progress, for the overthrow 
 of the constituted government ; and more than suspected Mer 
 ciful Whalley to be at the bottom of it. In this view of the 
 subject, he had determined, by seizing the father and the son, 
 to strike a deep blow at the roots of the conspiracy, to make 
 a terrible example ; to deprive the plot of its most formidable 
 leader ; and to spread terror far and wide through the hearts 
 of the disaffected. 
 
 Frustrated utterly in this intention by the flight of the Puri 
 tans, perceiving that there must be treason at his own council 
 board, and that his designs were made known to the conspira 
 tors, and anticipated by them, his anger knew no bounds. But 
 .it was a cool, calculating, and politic anger, aiming as much at 
 future ends, as at the gratification of present vengeance. 
 While this feeling was at work in his brain, instigating him to 
 the perpetration of some great act of cruelty, which he would 
 have called a great example, two other furious passions were 
 
116 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 added to that which was already strong within him unto evil. 
 An ardent admirer of beauty in the other sex, a fierce disso 
 lute licentious man, accustomed to gratify every taste how illicit 
 soever, and owing to his position, having been hitherto seldom 
 thwarted, he had cast almost instantly the eyes of unholy and 
 impure admiration, on the beautiful face and voluptuous form 
 of Ruth Whalley. The very calmness of her unaffected mod 
 esty, the unquestionable innocence of the fair young girl, joined 
 to the freedom of her manner, and the frank artlessness of her 
 speech, made the more vehement impression on his fancy or 
 his senses, that he was little used to anything of female man 
 ners beyond the light license of the ladies who frequented 
 the courts of the two last of the unhappy Stuarts. He had 
 been turning it already over in his mind, while he was chiefly 
 occupied with other matters, how he should gain possession 
 of that sweet girl s affections, or, if that might not be, of her 
 person ; when the demeanor of Cecil, appearing to indicate 
 some opposition to his will, perhaps some anticipation of his 
 views, decided him : and he resolved at once upon his course 
 of action. 
 
 " Fire it, I say! Fire it at each of the four corners ! It 
 shall house no more rebels !" 
 
 And ruthlessly was that ruthless order obeyed. 
 
 Not a moment was given to the hapless women, not so much 
 even as to bring out raiment, or food, or any of those little 
 articles, the household gods of the affections which may be 
 found in every household. 
 
 The domestic animals, the dog and the kittens were driven 
 forth by the soldiers, more merciful than their commander ; 
 and then the work of destruction was commenced, and carried 
 to a close with as little of delay as of mercy. 
 
 The doors were dashed off their hinges ; arid of these and 
 the furniture a pile was made in the centre of the kitchen, 
 
THE WRONG. 117 
 
 with the addition of dry straw and light wood ; fire was set to 
 this, and to the bark-covered roof, as well as to the pillars of 
 the rustic porches, and to the wooden walls in a dozen differ 
 ent places. This done, the soldiers fell back, carrying their 
 prisoners with them, close to the margin of the cliffs, and stood 
 with their arms folded, leaning upon their matchlocks, and 
 watching the progress of the conflagration. 
 
 It was a terrible and lamentable sight, rendered more 
 lamentable yet by the pale faces and agonized demeanor of the 
 wretched spectators, compelled to witness thus the destruction 
 of their humble home. 
 
 The mother had fallen on her knees upon the greensward, 
 and clasping her little daughter to her cold bosom, was gazing 
 with tearless and stony eyes, speechless, breathless, and as it 
 would appear from that fixed, stupid stare, nearly senseless, 
 upon the progress of the ruin. 
 
 Ruth stood beside her, fearless indeed, and calm, but as pale 
 as ashes ; her two younger brothers clinging, in terror of what 
 should ensue, to the skirts of her dress. Once, her full, quiet 
 eye met that of Andross with a reproachful, deep expression, 
 which, dauntless as he was, he could not brook ; but, for the 
 most part, it dwelt steadily upon the burning walls of the only 
 home she remembered. 
 
 The face of Gideon was flushed fiery red with rage ; he 
 had bit his lip till the blood trickled down his beardless chin ; 
 his hands were clenched, and the quivering of all his limbs 
 betrayed the violence of the passion, which he controlled in 
 the dread only of calling down worse wrong upon the helpless 
 women. The Indian girl, scarce comprehending all that had 
 passed, gazed with round eyes of wonder from face to face ; 
 until the flames burst forth from the roof, the door, the win 
 dows of that house, which had been to her only a prison and 
 a place of torture 
 
118 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Then clasping her hands wildly, while a quick fire flashed 
 from her eyes, she burst into a fit of loud, clear, thrilling laugh 
 ter, so joyous and triumphant, that it struck terror to the hearts 
 of the stout soldiers. 
 
 i " Nevermore !" she exclaimed " Never more to be a slave 
 f there ! Never more to be bound and beaten like a dog! 
 i never, never more !" and she leaped up from the ground, on 
 which she had been sitting, and set up a long-drawn and sav 
 age yell of triumph. 
 
 Excited by this fearful outcry, and conscious as it seemed 
 of the calamity, the house-dog raised his nose into the air, and 
 after snuffing the atmosphere eagerly for a moment uttered a 
 long-protracted howl, inexpressibly wild and melancholy, 
 which was, however, brought to a quick conclusion by a blow 
 from the sheathed broadsword of the lance-pesade, converting 
 it into a sharp yelp of pain. 
 
 Just as this clamor ceased, there arose a fresh sound, stran 
 ger, and if it were possible, more awful. 
 
 It was a deep, hoarse, quavering groan, twice, thrice re 
 peated a harsh, guttural, hollow sound, full, as it seemed, of 
 physical and mental anguish. 
 
 Every one started, and looked in his neighbor s face, and 
 two or three of the soldiers threw up their matchlocks, and put 
 themselves in readiness for action. 
 
 There was a minute of breathless silence ; all listening in 
 an agony of expectation to hear, if it might be repeated. But 
 all was silence. 
 
 " In God s name, what was that?" cried Andross, at length, 
 his lips white and trembling with dismay. 
 
 But none made answer to him. 
 
 " It came not from the burning building 1 Did it ? Speak ! 
 speak, Sir Henry Cecil ! There can be no one within !" 
 
 " Certainly it did not," replied the young man, forgetting his 
 
THE WRONG. 119 
 
 indignation at the late insolence of Andross, in sympathy with 
 his remorseful terrors. " There is no one within ; of that I am 
 certain. It seemed to me, that it came from the summit of 
 yon tall cliff to the seaward. * 
 
 Again the Indian girl s eyes flashed in triumph, again she 
 clapped her hands, and burst into her wild laugh. 
 
 " Tituba knows !" she cried. " Tituba knows ! she has 
 heard it before !" and again she concluded her sentence, with 
 that long piercing yell. 
 
 As quick as thought Ruth Whalley turned the light of her 
 gentle eye on the fierce savage, and her frame seemed to col 
 lapse beneath its influence, and she crouched down to the 
 ground again with a low wailing murmur. 
 
 " What was it, then ? speak, wench !" cried Sir Edmund, 
 scarcely remarking then, in his eagerness, though afterward 
 remembered, what Cecil had perceived, the gesture of the 
 maiden and its effects on the child of the forest. " What was 
 it, that strange sound ?" 
 
 " The white man s devil !" answered the Indian. " If there 
 be any devil worse than the white man." 
 
 At the first words, a shudder of superstitious awe ran through 
 the rude soldiers ; and the buts of their muskets clanged heavi 
 ly on the rocky soil, as they grounded them -by an involuntary 
 impulse. 
 
 " Tush !" said the governor, coldly, recovering himself 
 " it was but the groaning of the timbers, as the flames started 
 them," and he resumed his posture of unconcerned observation, 
 awaiting with folded arms the result of the conflagration. 
 
 Meanwhile, the flames rushed up, blackening the face of the 
 gray cliffs, and blighting the giant boughs of the green pines 
 which overhung the cottage ; and a vast pillar of white smoke 
 soared slowly upward in the calm atmosphere, and stood there 
 
120 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 fixed and motionless, a ghastly and accusing monument of man s 
 cruelty. 
 
 Fiercer they roared, and fiercer and now beam after beam 
 came crashing down ; and the cottage was but a pile of smo 
 king ashes with a light lambent flame wavering over it. 
 
 Then with a strange, heart-piercing cry the unhappy moth 
 er cast her child from her bosom, stretched her arms wide 
 abroad, and fell, as if a bullet had pierced her heart, flat on 
 her face, motionless, and it seemed lifeless. 
 
 The evil deeds of Merciful had recoiled on the heads of his 
 unoffending family ! 
 
 The scent of the innocent blood was purged from the guilty 
 house by avenging fire ! 
 
 And who shall say that it was not from Heaven ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE HOSTAGE. 
 " Be surety for his coming with tliy life." 
 
 IN T TENSE was the disgust of Sir Henry Cecil at the illegal 
 and barbarous actions of his late superior. That he would 
 have resisted them is certain, could he have done so with any 
 hope of success. But alone, and unarmed by his own hasty 
 act, what could he think to do against seven powerful and 
 well-weaponed men by active opposition. 
 
 Remonstrance he had tried, and that had proved worse than 
 fruitless. 
 
 He remained silent, therefore, awaiting what should follow : 
 intending at a future period to try what reparation might be 
 obtained for wrongs, which he lacked the power to prevent. 
 
THE HOSTAGE. 121 
 
 So fierce was his concentrated indignation, that his fine 
 face, from which the flush had now completely faded, was al 
 most as pale as a corpse, even at the lips, which were com 
 pressed tightly over the clinched teeth. 
 
 His brows were bent into a dark frown,, and beneath them 
 his clear gray eyes shone with a bright, angry lustre. His 
 arms were closely folded on his breast, and it was plain to see, 
 by the convulsive tremor which caused his clinched fingers to 
 work as if they were griping the hilt of sword or dagger, how 
 violent was the mental effort by which he restrained himself 
 from such fierce outbreak. 
 
 The others of the group stirred not, with the exception of 
 sweet Ruth, who sprang forward to raise up and assist her 
 mother, and Tituba, who caught the little girl in her arms, al 
 most as quickly as the unhappy woman cast it from her, and 
 soothed it on her bosom with one of those plaintive strains, 
 half-sung, half-murmured, which are peculiar to the females 
 of her race. 
 
 " Mother ! look up ! mother, dear, dearest mother," ex 
 claimed Ruth, as she lifted her to a sitting posture, and wiped 
 away the blood which was trickling from her nostrils in con 
 sequence of the heavy fall. " Mother, mother ! my God ! she 
 is dead, she is dead ! you have slain her !" and she looked up 
 into the face of Andross, with an expression of reproach and 
 pitiful despair that would have moved a fiend to mercy. 
 
 It did move Sir Edmund Andross. 
 
 He turned very pale, and took a quick step forward to the 
 maiden s side, exclaiming 
 
 " No ! no! she is not dead it is a fainting fit only; it is 
 terror ; she will revive directly. Here, Lambert, Martin, stir 
 yourselves, run, fetch some fresh water, row back to the pin 
 nace, and bring some wine and aqua vita." 
 
 His orders were obeyed ; but Ruth who had shifted her 
 L 6 
 
122 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 mother s head from her bosom to her lap, sat gazing steadfastly 
 on the glazed eyes, and impassive features, and on the drop 
 of congealed blood which had now ceased to flow. 
 
 She never had seen death before, yet now she knew it, by 
 a sure instinct ; surer far than the experience of the men who 
 had so often witnessed it, so often, it may be, inflicted it, in 
 broil or battle. 
 
 She held the inanimate and unresponsive fingers in her own, 
 and felt the vital warmth fail gradually, and the flesh contract 
 and stiffen. 
 
 " It is of no avail," she said calmly, but with that calmness 
 which shows more agony of soul than the loudest grief. " She 
 is dead ! you have slain her ! Mother ! mother ! poor, patient, 
 unrepining, kind, dear mother ! a sad life yours has been, and 
 a sad end to it is this ! Weary and toilsome has been your 
 pilgrimage below, uncheered by much of human love, unrelieved 
 by much sympathy or joy ; but by the Christian s hope thou 
 wert sustained, and in thy Savior s bosom thou art now happy. 
 Wo ! wo unto us who remain behind thee !" and, overcome at 
 length, she bowed her head into her hands, and wept bitterly. 
 
 No further movement followed on the part of the bystanders, 
 for all now saw that her words were indeed true ; and that the 
 shock and anguish of the moment had been too much for the 
 shattered spirits and emaciated frame of the unhappy wife and 
 mother. 
 
 Only Gideon stepped up to his sister s side with a more 
 manly expression on his face than it had ever worn before, and 
 manlier feelings in his heart. 
 
 It is events alone that ripen character ; and one short hour 
 will sometimes change us more from youth to manhood, or 
 from strong manhood into the sere of life, than years of tran 
 quillity and peace. 
 
 The younger boys crowded round the corpse of her who 
 
THE HOSTAGE. 123 
 
 bore them, with their young hearts, which had been checked 
 and crushed for years by the stern rule of their iron father now 
 overflowing with a torrent of strangely blended and tumultuous 
 sympathies. 
 
 For a few moments Ruth wept silently, but then by a mighty 
 effort mustering her heart, she laid the cold head down on the 
 turf, knelt by it, stooped and kissed the pale brow and icy lips, 
 and said in a steady voice 
 
 "Farewell! farewell ! poor mother, it will not be for long 
 that I say fare you well ! 
 
 Then she arose to her fulf height, passionless and cold, and 
 confronted Sir Edmund Andross. 
 
 " Man," she said slowly and impressively, " thou hast mur 
 dered her her, who never wronged any living thing, by 
 thought, word, or deed the meekest, mildest, most affec 
 tionate of beings. As surely as if thou hadst stricken her 
 with the sword s edge hast thou murdered her ! Man may not 
 call it murder man may not judge nor avenge it ! Therefore 
 to man do I not appeal, but to God ! He hath seen he hath 
 judged and in his own good time he shall avenge ! To this 
 tribunal, therefore, I appeal ! Before this awful judgment-seat 
 I summon thee to meet the spirit of thy victim, and that right 
 early !" 
 
 " Brothers," she added, catching Gideon s hand, with her 
 right hand, and stretching out her left over the heads of the 
 two younger, " brothers, look ! there she lies, who bore, who 
 nursed, who loved us all, with that love which none but a 
 mother s heart can feel there she lies, from whose poor, pale 
 face we never have met aught but kind and gentle smiles 
 from whose dear lips, whatever we have merited, we never 
 have heard aught but soft and loving words. That face will 
 never smile on us again, those lips will never speak to us. She 
 is lost to us here for ever. Look !" she continued, turning to- 
 
124 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ward Andross, with a sterner manner, though still tranquil. 
 " Look ! there he stands who slew her. Look on him ! Mark 
 him narrowly ! Observe him, that ye forget him not ! Broth 
 ers, ye are now boys, but, with God s blessing, one day ye 
 shall be men ! I do not say avenge her, for vengeance is the 
 Lord s ; he shall repay ! But I say, mark him, for He hath 
 said that he will avenge the innocent blood, of whose sayings, 
 it is written, that " Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my 
 words shall not pass away !" Brothers, I have spoken. " The 
 Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of 
 the Lord !" 
 
 But as she ceased to speak, Gideon stretched out both hands 
 over the body, and cried in a shrill, sad voice : 
 
 " Hear me, Almighty ! Hear me, thou spirit of the blessed 
 dead ! for here, henceforth for ever, I devote myself, body and 
 soul ; here I devote my brothers also, when they come to years 
 of manhood, to be thy avengers ! Man of blood ! thou shalt 
 think one day on these words that I have spoken ; for when 
 thou liest in thy blood, and a bloody death thou shalt die, I 
 will stand by thy side and laugh at thy death-pang ! I swear 
 it by Him who liveth in the holy heavens, now and for ever!" 
 
 The face of Andross had expressed many deep and change 
 ful emotions, while Ruth was speaking for, to do him justice, 
 he was both shocked and grieved at what had occurred ; and 
 felt no disposition to cavil at a woman s words in a moment so 
 terrible, in the horrors of which he had moreover been himself 
 an unwitting instrument. But now, at the threatening and au 
 dacious words of the boy, his cheek burned and his fierce 
 temper resumed the ascendency. 
 
 " Somewhat too much of this," he said scornfully. " That 
 which has happened, I regret as much as any one can do ; but 
 I am not answerable for it, even if it be caused by the perform- 
 ancs of my duty. For the rest, I can make all allowance for 
 
THE HOSTAGE. 125 
 
 the grief of a daughter, while I fear not the vengeance of 
 Heaven, much less the impotent revenge of a puny boy, for 
 acts in obedience to the orders of my king, and the laws of my 
 country. But we must have no more of this. Now, my men, 
 make the boat ready, we will return to the pinnace." 
 
 He paused uneasily, as if he had something more to say, 
 and knew not how to say it ; and, absorbed though she was in 
 her great grief, Ruth perceived his embarrassment, and perhaps 
 unwisely, unfortunately beyond a doubt, commented on it. 
 
 " What, is there more ?" she said ; for even in her sweet 
 and gentle disposition tyranny and the agonies it had produced 
 were awakening a spirit of rebellion. " What more of lawless 
 cruelty, of heaven-daring outrage, is there yet to be done ? 
 Something it must be of appalling infamy, or of atrocity unheard, 
 since it puts even thy bronzed tyranny to shame what is 
 there, I say, more ? Is it not enough that you leave behind 
 you poverty, anguish, ruin, where you found wealth, content 
 ment, peace ? Is it not enough that you have left your foot 
 prints indelibly stamped in this once happy solitude, by death 
 and devastation ?" 
 
 " Peace ! peace !" whispered Cecil, in a low kind of voice, 
 drawing near to her ; " oh, peace, poor maiden, for thine own 
 sake for the sake of those whom thou lovest." 
 
 " It is peace !" she replied, gazing at him with a pitiful look. 
 " The peace of utter desolation ! But once again, I must 
 ask," she added, turning toward the governor, " hast thou more 
 wrong to do us ?" 
 
 " I wish that I could answer, No, " returned Sir Edmund. 
 His passion for the girl s beauty, which had been forgotten for 
 the moment, and his resentment against Cecil, rekindling all the 
 worst part of his nature at sight of his sympathy with her. 
 " But duty must be done, painful or pleasant ; and my duty it 
 
 IA, after all the treason which we have witnessed here, to re- 
 L* 
 
126 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 move you hence as a hostage, to be detained until such time 
 as your father shall surrender himself into custody." 
 
 "Great God! it is impossible!" she cried, clasping her 
 hands in agony "it is impossible, that any man should be 
 so barbarous ! What ! tear an orphan daughter from her dead 
 mother s corpse no ! no ! no !" she sobbed hysterically. " It 
 is not so, it can not be why, who shall bury her? who 
 shall feed these ?" 
 
 And, as she spoke, she stretched one hand toward the dead 
 mother, the other toward the youngest orphans. 
 
 " With that I have naught to do !" he replied ; and, then 
 hearing the brief, bitter curse which fell from the lips of Cecil, 
 he added, " or rather, I should say to thee, quoting a text which 
 thou knowest perchance already, * Let the dead bury their 
 dead ! " 
 
 " Thou art no man," she said, " but a devil ! almost, I be 
 lieve, the arch-fiend himself!" 
 
 " Sir Edmund Andross," interposed Henry Cecil, bridling 
 his wrath, and speaking as tranquilly as he could, " if you have 
 both the right and the will to do this thing, which I can not be 
 lieve ; if you indeed think it your duty to secure this damsel, 
 as a hostage, yet suffer her to remain here, and inter her dead ; 
 and I will pledge to you my word of honor, as a gentleman 
 and soldier, and a knight-baronet, that I will be your warrant 
 that, this sad duty done, she shall surrender herself up to you, 
 within three days at farthest. We are not friends, Sir Edmund, 
 we never shall be friends, but, on my honor, I would not see 
 you do this thing for your own sake ; for, though a stern and 
 a proud man, I have never believed you base or cruel ; and so 
 surely as you do this, the world will deem you both." 
 
 " Have you done, sir ?" asked Andross fiercely. 
 
 " I have not !" answered Cecil ; " for, having told you that 
 I am your enemy, it may gratify your pride to see your enemy 
 
THE HOSTAGE. 127 
 
 a suppliant. I never bent my knee to a created thing ; I would 
 not bend it to preserve my life ; yet I bend it to you now, and 
 sue you humbly to accept the warrant of my honor, and let her 
 tarry here !" 
 
 " Under Sir Henry Cecil s fatherly protection," he said, with 
 a sneer. 
 
 The young baronet sprang from his knee to his feet ; and 
 grasped at the place where his sword should have hung it 
 was well for the governor that it hung there no longer. 
 
 Andross looked at him with a cool, galling smile, and said 
 
 " It can not be, sir. I refuse even an enemy s request. If 
 I could have granted it at all, I should have granted it to the 
 girl s sorrow. Come, my men, lead her to the boat." 
 
 But at this moment one of the two seamen, who had accom 
 panied him ashore, an old white-headed master s mate, but still 
 strong and active, strode out, and faced the governor. 
 
 " By God !" he said, " Sir Edmund Andross, this will not 
 go down here ! On shore, you may be governor or captain, or 
 whatever else you please, but on the deck of the Rosebud, no 
 man is captain but Dick Foster," and here he swore an amazing 
 nautical oath, " and while Dick Foster can stand up in his 
 shoes, that poor thing shall not go aboard her !" 
 
 " Shall not ?" exclaimed Andross, furiously. 
 
 " Yes ! I said shall not, and I say it again, too, for all your 
 toasting-forks, and pop-guns, and laced cassocks. Why, Lord 
 deliver you, I have blue jackets enough yonder to spoil the 
 hash of three times as many red-coats as you can count, even 
 if the jollies would stand by you ; and that I do n t believe they 
 would ; for so poor a devil as a jolly is, I never heard tell of 
 one harming a helpless girl. Do you understand me now, Sir 
 Edmund? I say she shan t come aboard the Rosebud. So 
 you had better take Master Cecil s warrant for her, and let us 
 be off. For I m sick o this work," and he wound up his 
 
128 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 speech, as he had commenced it, with a tremendous oath, by 
 way of peroration. 
 
 " Why, this is rank mutiny !" cried Andross, perceiving that 
 it was doubtful whether he could reckon on the support of his 
 soldiers. 
 
 " Rank mutiny be d d !" the other replied. " I am no man 
 of yours, Sir Edmund. " I know no superior here, but good 
 Captain George of the Rose frigate, to which the Rosebud is 
 a tender ; and as for mutiny, I served black Jem when he 
 licked the Mynheers in the narrow seas, when he was only 
 Duke of York, and he knows old Dick Foster too well to be 
 lieve your nonsense about mutiny. However," he continued, 
 "mutiny or no mutiny, that lass don t go aboard the Rosebud 
 this day, nor to-morrow neither. That s plain English !" 
 
 "Plain English, sirrah! for which you shall answer one 
 day," retorted Andross. 
 
 " Don t sirrah me, Sir Edmund," answered the sturdy old 
 man, laying his hand on the hilt of his cutlass, " or you shall 
 answer for it now. For, if you do it again, I ll cut your crown 
 before you are five minutes older. 
 
 Though sick and sad at heart, Cecil could not refrain from 
 smiling at the total discomfiture of the governor. 
 
 " You laugh now, Sir Henry," said he sharply, as he saw 
 the lip of the young man curl. " See if you laugh, when my 
 turn shall come. Master Foster, you will repent of this. 
 But now, get your men to the boat ; I will leave the girl under 
 your pledge of honor, sir, that she shall be surrendered to the 
 proper authority within three days at farthest." 
 
 " My word once spoken, sir," answered Cecil, gravely, " I 
 can not recall it; otherwise, as things now stand, you should 
 have no promise. Within three days she shall be given up in 
 Boston, unless her father shall surrender himself in the mean 
 time." 
 
THE HOSTAGE. 129 
 
 " Tu ME LA PAGHERAI !"* said Andross, in Italian, with a 
 half-scornful bow, which Cecil returned, saying, with a smile, 
 " Wherever you please, Sir Edmund." 
 
 In ten minutes more, the men were all in the boat, which 
 was pulled hastily back, bearing the governor, chafing like a 
 hurt boar at the resistance and ill-concealed contempt which 
 he had encountered, to the pinnace. 
 
 Scarcely were they on board before her sails were trimmed, 
 her grapnels hauled in, and her canvass filled by the fresh 
 merry breeze, which swept her speedily up into Boston harbor, 
 ignorant of the misery she left behind her, and resembling 
 rather some gay pleasure-boat, than a machine built by man 
 for man s destruction. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 "And found his home a home no more." 
 
 IT would be difficult to discover words, which should de 
 scribe with accuracy the feelings of Sir Henry Cecil, at find 
 ing himself thus left alone in that remote and difficultly ap 
 proached spot, in the midst of that bereaved and mourning 
 family. 
 
 It must be remembered, that, until the preceding night he 
 had scarce heard of the existence of these people, in whose 
 behalf he had now thrown up his commission, and declared 
 himself an enemy of the royal governor, perhaps,, it might 
 thereafter be assumed, of the government itself. 
 
 * " You shall pay me for this." 
 6* 
 
130 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 He therefore knew little or nothing of the habits, manners, 
 or sentiments of the people to whom he now stood somewhat 
 in the light of a protector ; and it may be added further, that 
 with what he knew of them he felt but little sympathy. 
 
 An ardent lover of constitutional English freedom, he had 
 no common feelings with the advocates of democratical equal 
 ity ; he was no believer in the visionary schemes and ideal 
 republics of Harrington and Vane. Earnest himself and sin 
 cere in his belief of the doctrines of the English church, yet. at 
 the same time an advocate of universal toleration, he could riot 
 but view with dislike and disgust the stern cold sectaries, who, 
 flying from what they called persecution of their own sect at 
 home, now persecuted every other creed with the bitterest and 
 most cold-blooded rancor. 
 
 The very dialect of these people, their dragging the holiest 
 names and most sacred things into association with the com 
 monest and most familiar their forcing the language of the 
 church or conventicle into the domestic circle their profane 
 expostulations with the Deity their contempt of all kind and 
 endearing usages their prohibition of all innocent amuse 
 ments all these things were to him odious and almost abom 
 inable. 
 
 He looked, moreover, on the trial and execution of King 
 Charles I. as a great crime; and although he certainly did not 
 believe in the propriety of dragging frail old men to the scaf 
 fold for a deed done, probably, in good faith, some forty years 
 before, he yet felt not the least inclination to be brought into 
 contact with men, whose manners were as distasteful to him, 
 as their principles were hostile to his own. 
 
 As a soldier, obedient to discipline, he would scarcely have 
 expressed, therefore, his disapprobation of the steps taken for 
 the arrest -of the elder Whalley, even if he had felt it more 
 strongly than he did ; and, as for the younger Puritan, he cer- 
 
THE RETURN. 131 
 
 tainly had no doubt about the propriety of apprehending him, 
 not on account of the shelter he had extended to his own 
 father, but of the treason which he was believed to be plotting 
 against the colonial government. 
 
 Cecil was, therefore, in many respects strangely situated. 
 His own impulsive temper, joined to his natural dislike of all 
 tyrannical and oppressive measures, had prompted him to 
 stand forward as a righter of wrong, and a supporter of the 
 oppressed, against legitimate authority. The subsequent vio 
 lence of the governor had led farther than he would otherwise 
 have gone ; and now he found himself committed, as it were, 
 to a line of conduct which might ultimately lead him he scarce 
 knew whither; and that, too, in behalf of the people, concern 
 ing whom he had entertained many and grave doubts. 
 
 It is very true, that Cecil, as well as Sir Edmund Andross, 
 had been deeply struck by the charms of the fair Puritan. 
 For he, too, was an admirer of female beauty, though in a 
 very different manner from the dissolute and licentious gover 
 nor ; and her loveliness was of an order to attract and fix the 
 admiration of the coldest. 
 
 But in the difference of the dispositions and the principles 
 of these two men, there lay the clew to what might almost 
 make a history. 
 
 For as Andross, whose devotion to the sex was wholly sen 
 sual and physical, cared nothing for the mind, the accomplish 
 ments, the heart of the woman on whom he cast the eyes of 
 passion; so Cecil, in whose estimation the beauteous body 
 was but the casket of a soul, and to be loved and treasured, or 
 despised and cast aside, according as that soul was beautiful 
 or not, cast but a passing glance upon mere charms of the 
 person, and was no more capable of falling, as it is called, in 
 love with a fair complexion, bright eyes, fine hair, and a volup 
 tuous figure, than of adoring a waxen puppet. 
 
132 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 There was nothing, therefore, of love, even in its incipient 
 stages, in the feeling which had induced him to step forward 
 to the protection of Ruth Whalley. It was solely his hatred 
 of all oppression, and his sympathy with all the oppressed, 
 that had prompted him to the act, by which he had been ap 
 parently divorced from his countrymen. 
 
 And scarcely was the pinnace under way, before he began 
 to envisage the extreme awkwardness of his position. 
 
 Alone, on an almost isolated rock, with no shelter from the 
 weather, and, so far as he could see, no means of providing 
 any ; surrounded by weak women, and children under age, 
 with the exception of Gideon, who now, that the momentary 
 excitement had passed away, appeared completely paralyzed 
 by the terrible occurrences of the last hour, what was he to do, 
 what to devise, even for the present ? 
 
 Then for the future : he had pledged his honor that this 
 girl should be yielded up on the third day as a hostage. And 
 now, that the enthusiasm and indignation which had urged 
 him to give that pledge had faded, he could not but apprehend 
 some difficulty in the performance of his promise. 
 
 Especially, in case the father should return, armed per 
 haps, and accompanied by his neighbors, to oppose her sur 
 render. 
 
 While he was musing thus, gazing with vacant eyes over 
 the rolling waves, across which the little bark was bounding 
 with his comrades homeward, the young girl, who perhaps in 
 some sort read his thoughts, drew near and addressed him 
 timidly. 
 
 " You have saved us," she said in a low, soft voice ; " and 
 now you regret it." 
 
 " Oh ! no !" he answered. " It is not that, indeed. I have 
 done nothing but what, as a gentleman and a Christian, I was 
 bound to do. I do not, therefore, in the least regret it. But 
 
THE RETURN. 133 
 
 surely, in all this, there is enough of difficulty to make me 
 grave and thoughtful. 
 
 " Difficulty?" she replied, " difficulty I do not understand 
 you !" and then, as if a light broke suddenly upon her 
 " What !" she exclaimed, " can you imagine, for a moment, 
 that I would break the promise you so nobly made for me ?" 
 
 " Not you," he answered, looking into her soft dove-love 
 eyes, with more of admiration than he had hitherto manifested, 
 " Oh, no ! not you ; but perhaps " 
 
 " My father !" she interrupted him. " Well ; and even if he 
 should oppose it, do you believe I would obey him, rather than 
 the laws of truth, of gratitude, of honesty ? Oh ! no, sir ; 
 you do not know Ruth Whalley." 
 
 " I have scarce had time to do so," he answered, with a grave 
 smile ; " yet I think that I have not, at least, much misjudged 
 you. But there are other things which disturbed me. We 
 are alone on this rock, without house or any shelter, without 
 food, drink, fuel, or change of raiment without any means, 
 in short, for the support of the living, or the " and he paused 
 abruptly, fearful of shocking her ; but she took up the sentence 
 where he broke off, 
 
 "The burial of the dead! it is true ! it is true ! Mother, 
 dear mother, and had I even for a moment forgotten you ?" 
 and, with the words, she threw herself at her full length on 
 the greensward, beside the body, and clasping it with both her 
 arms, buried her face in the cold bosom, and wept bitterly. 
 
 Cecil stood still, and looked on in silence, for he knew well, 
 young as he was, that grief must have its course, and that it 
 is neither wise nor kind to oppose its current. 
 
 But while she lay there, sobbing as if her heart would burst, 
 the Indian girl crept up to Cecil s side, and pointing with a 
 tremulous gesture, and a face almost distorted with terror, to 
 ward the sea, exclaimed, 
 M 
 
134 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " See, he comes ! it is Merciful ! Save Tituba, young sol 
 dier, save her from Merciful !" 
 
 Then, for the first time, it occurred to the young man, that 
 he might himself stand in need of defence, in the first moments 
 of the Puritan s despair and fury ! He was not one, however, 
 to take much thought of himself, when others called for assist 
 ance ; and, though he might feel a passing regret that he had 
 broken his good sword, and cast it from him, he still hastened 
 to assure the poor Indian of his readiness to protect her. 
 
 " No one will injure you, he said, poor thing, while I am 
 present; but wherefore should you think he will harm you? 
 and where is he ? for I see him not." 
 
 "Merciful flogs Tituba," she replied, "always. Do good, 
 or do evil, still flog ! flog ! If Tituba were a man, a chief, as 
 her father was, she would ask no one to protect her. There, 
 see, there ! over the port of the bridge, his white sail rises 
 and falls above the waters so small, that it looks like a sea 
 gull s wing, but it is a broad, canvass sail Merciful s sail! 
 He will be here soon then, young soldier, forget not, but 
 save Tituba." 
 
 This further testimony to that, which he already more than 
 suspected, the brutal harshness of the Puritan s disposition, 
 went far to convince Cecil that he should have indeed no easy 
 part to play, perhaps no safe one ! Yet even in that moment 
 of personal- uneasiness the noble youth found time to think of 
 the horrors which would meet the eyes of that stern man on 
 his landing, and to consider how to palliate them. 
 
 He approached Ruth cautiously, as she still lay beside her 
 mother s body, although the convulsive agonies of her first 
 t^rief appeared in some sort to have abated, and stooping over 
 her, said, very gently, 
 
 " Your father is approaching; my poor Ruth, will you not 
 
THE RETURN. 135 
 
 rise and meet him? The shock will be terrible. It must not 
 break thus upon him all at once. 
 
 She arose on the instant, and calmed herself, and restrained 
 her tears, with a mighty effort. Nay! she stepped a few 
 paces back to a spot, where a clear spring trickled from the 
 rock, and washed away the traces of her weeping, and re 
 arranged her dishevelled hair. 
 
 Then walking steadily forward to the little esplanade before 
 the bridge, she gazed sadly at the approaching boat, and said, 
 loudly, 
 
 "Yes ! it is he poor father! This will be very grievous 
 to him all lost at one blow ! all lost, and she, too ! and it 
 will shock him, too, the more, that he was not so kind to her 
 always, as he should have been !" 
 
 But, as she spoke, she started as if remembering that those 
 heard her, who should not ; and then, recovering herself, 
 looked anxiously around the little group, apparently in search 
 of something. After a moment or two, however, she shook 
 her head sorrowfully, saying, " Nothing no ! there is nothing 
 left at all from the fire. I would we had wherewithal to 
 cover her." 
 
 Sir Henry Cecil answered nothing, but he unbuckled from 
 his shoulder the rich scarlet cloak adorned with a heavy 
 fringe of gold, which was a part of the cavalier s costume of 
 the day, and disengaging it from his person, laid it as gently 
 and reverently over the senseless clay, as if he had appre 
 hended that a ruder motion might yet disturb those dreamless 
 slumbers. 
 
 Ruth gave him a deep glance of gratitude one of those 
 glances, which sink at once into the heart, and never are for 
 gotten and then rushed toward the bridge to meet her father; 
 for the fresh breeze had swept his boat in rapidly, while they 
 were speaking, and he was close at hand already. 
 
136 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 A few minutes, and he stood upon the platform, haggard, 
 and pale, and ghastly ! 
 
 That single night of agony upon the deep, joined to the last 
 three hours of terror and dark anticipation for he had lain in 
 his boat within a league s distance, his sail housed, and mark 
 ed the movements of the royal pinnace, and the smoke hang 
 ing like a pall over his humble roof had changed the man s 
 appearance more than whole years of hardship. 
 
 What had been lines before in his dark face were now deep 
 furrows, ploughed by the iron which had entered into his soul ! 
 The hair of his head was nearly as white as his father s. 
 
 Yet was his hard and indomitable spirit still untamed ; and 
 it was fury, rather, and the desire of vengeance, than grief or 
 alarm, that contracted his stern features. 
 
 " Ha !" he exclaimed, as he reached the platform, and saw, 
 as he supposed, the full extent of the desolation, " Father of 
 Mercies ! who hath done this ? -and wherefore ?" 
 
 " The royal governor, replied Ruth, taking his hand in her 
 own. " But be not angry, father ; for surely it is He, who can 
 not err, that hath so ordered it." 
 
 "Wherefore? I say, wherefore? On what pretext did 
 he this villany, the bloody-minded tyrant and oppressor ? 1 
 say, wherefore ?" 
 
 " He came with soldiers to arrest you and my grandfather ; 
 and finding you not here, would not believe at all that the old 
 man had gone hence, and so burned " 
 
 But Merciful waited no further explanation. His eye fell 
 upon the shrinking form of Tituba, who stood between himself 
 and the body ; and yet so stunned was he and bewildered by 
 surprise and wrath, that he neither missed the presence of his 
 wife, nor observed that of the young soldier. 
 
 At one bound he reached her, and before Cecil could inter 
 pose, exclaiming, 
 
THE RETURN. 137 
 
 "Harlot and witch! This is thy doing; it is thou hast 
 betrayed him !" he struck her a brutal blow on the bosom, with 
 his clenched hand, felling her to the earth, ere she had time 
 to cry aloud for succor. 
 
 But not content with this, he reared the heavy musket, 
 which he still carried high above his head, grasping it by the 
 muzzle, and brandished it to give full force to the blow, ex 
 claiming, " As the Lord liveth, thou shalt work no more trea 
 son !" 
 
 Sir Henry Cecil, who, in his anxiety to conceal the body 
 of his wife, had almost forgotten the words of the poor slave, 
 stood too far aloof to reach him in time to arrest the stroke. 
 Gideon was paralyzed with terror, Ruth overcome by so rapid 
 a succession of horrors, and well-nigh fainting. 
 
 It seemed that no mortal help could save her; but Cecil, 
 who never for a moment lost his quick wit, or readiness of 
 mind, cried, in a piercing voice, 
 
 "Hold, madman! Do no murder in the presence of THE 
 DEAD !" 
 
 "THE DEAD !" exclaimed the Puritan, aghast, starting, and 
 holding back that felon blow. 
 
 But as vSir Henry spoke, he had stooped down and removed 
 the covering from the pale face so calm, so fixed, so sorrowful 
 in its last sleep. 
 
 " Great God ! my wife ! my wife !" and, dropping the mur 
 derous weapon, he fell upon his knees beside her, whom 
 of late he had so little cherished, and a whole torrent of re 
 morseful, and fond, and agonizing memories bursting at once 
 upon his soul, he bowed his stern head on his hands, mute, 
 convulsed, self-convicted, well-nigh choked with despairing 
 
 anguish. 
 
 M* 
 
138 THE FAIR PURITAN 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE HUSBAND. 
 
 " Now the friend s familiar step to greet 
 With loving laughter, or the volume sweet 
 Of those glad eyes." 
 
 SIR Henry Cecil had looked upon grief many times had 
 been familiar with mortal misery and mortal anguish in many 
 a varied shape yet never had he witnessed anything that 
 could, in the least degree, bear comparison with the even tor 
 tures of the Puritan. 
 
 It was not grief alone at his bereavement ; it was not the 
 shock alone of seeing her, who had been wont to meet him, on 
 his every return home, with silent looks of welcome the 
 only welcome that he would endure outstretched cold, sense 
 less lifeless, never to welcome him again. 
 
 No ! had it been only this, he could have borne it. His 
 resolute and iron spirit would stubbornly have struggled up 
 against that torture. 
 
 No ! no ! it was the intolerable sense of wrong which might 
 be repented, but never could be undone, nor requited to the 
 deaf form which lay there unconscious of his present sorrow, 
 as of his past unkindness. 
 
 He saw not the pale, wan, emaciated face of the dead wife, 
 but the gay, lively, glowing features of the happy maiden, when 
 he first beheld her, the star of the village company. It was 
 riot the ashy cheek of the cold corpse, but the bright blush of 
 the warm, living bride, that was set before the eyes of his 
 spirit. It was not the icy fingers that he felt, but the affec- 
 
THE HUSBAND. 139 
 
 tionate and twining pressure of that soft hand, that timidly en 
 cased his own before God s holy altar. 
 
 And then, as the vision faded from his soul, and he remem 
 bered that for years that face had been almost as much ema 
 ciated, that cheek almost as hueless, that once bright-speaking 
 eye almost as dim, as now when the light of life had for ever 
 left them ; as he reflected that for years the spirit, which in 
 formed that gentle frame, had been almost as dead as was the 
 body that enshrined it now wan, hueless, dim, and dead, 
 through his own cold and gloomy despotism his heart smote 
 him -^ smote him, O God! how heavily. 
 
 The many, many times, that he now felt, as all at once they 
 rushed up, thronging unbidden, palpably upon his memory 
 the many, many times, when he had tucned the happy smile 
 upon that loving face into a bitter tear, by his cold carelessness. 
 The many, many words, thoughts, deeds of fondness, which 
 he had cast back upon that tender heart, ungratefully repulsed 
 and cruelly requited. 
 
 And now he could no more blight her smlies with the chill- 
 ness of his wintry eye, nor still her soft words with his gloomy 
 brow great Heaven ! what would he now have given to see 
 her smile unchecked, to hear her speak unreproved, the prompt 
 ings of her innocent soul ! 
 
 What would he now have given to cast himself at her feet 
 and cry, I have sinned, I have sinned against Heaven and 
 against thee pardon me, sweet and injured saint, and take 
 me once more to thy broken heart, and let my future life be 
 passed in one unceasing effort to heal the wounds made by my 
 cruelty ; to requite, by a tranquil and serene old age, the sad 
 youth, from which I ha,ve robbed the flower !" 
 
 But ever as he thought of this, the awful words, " IT is TOO 
 LATE !" seemed to roll over his head in immortal thunder. 
 
140 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 God might forgive him, it is true, but she, whom he had 
 wronged so deeply, could forgive him never ! 
 
 Reader, if thou hast ever possessed a friend, now lost to 
 thee a friend, whom thou perchance hast loved as unselfishly 
 as poor humanity can love whom thou hast ever treated with 
 as much kindness and consideration as the infirmities of the 
 mortal will permit thou knowest well how many little acts 
 forgotten with the accident that caused them, thou wouldst 
 give worlds, if it were possible, now to recall ; how many 
 things done which thou oughtest not to have done, how many 
 left undone which thou oughtest to have done, crowd on thy 
 soul, and cry aloud awakening remorse that must endure for 
 ever. Reader, thou canst imagine what must have been the 
 torture of that self-convicted man, as he knelt over the cold 
 form of her, to whom he had been the tyrant in lieu of the pro 
 tector ; whom he had sworn to love, comfort, honor, and whom, 
 instead, he had afflicted, harassed, treated as a slave. 
 
 He did not weep tears are too genial visitors that they 
 should come to those hard eyes but the dark sweat-drops 
 rolled as thick as rain in a thunder-storm from his knitted 
 brow ; and groans, as harrowing as ever disclosed the agonies 
 of a most guilty soul, burst from his quivering lips ; and he 
 beat his breast with his clenched hands with violence, that 
 showed how wholly and sincerely his mind was absorbed in 
 its own terrible and gloomy recollections. 
 
 No one spoke to him no one consoled him. For in truth 
 his grief was of a nature too turbulent and stormy to render 
 consolation possible. And, had it been possible, there was 
 none present altogether capable of offering it. 
 
 Ruth Whalley, who had endured so much, and endured it 
 so nobly during that dreadful morning, was at length wholly 
 otercome by the mingled influence of her terror and her grief. 
 Her habitual dread of her father s violence, although, as I have 
 
THE HUSBAND. 141 
 
 said, he was scarcely or never violent to her, had rendered 
 her anxious and uneasy at the moment of his return ; and, in 
 stead of looking forward to his presence, as to that of her best 
 friend and surest comforter, she almost trembled at his coming. 
 
 Ignorant, however, of all that had passed on the previous 
 night, little suspecting that her father was aware of Tituba s 
 privity to his great secret, scarcely indeed suspecting, herself, 
 how far the Indian girl was privy to it, or what the secret was, 
 Ruth was far from anticipating the appalling burst of fury, 
 which had made the unhappy man again almost a murderer. 
 
 When he struck Tituba to the earth, she had rushed to sup 
 port and soothe her, and now while the old man was yielding 
 to the agonies of his evil conscience, those two weak crea 
 tures sat weeping in each other s arms, half-paralyzed. For 
 the high, gallant, and enduring spirit of sweet Ruth was for 
 the moment weakened so far, by the successive horrors she 
 had witnessed, that it was not much superior now to the poor 
 Indian s frail and benighted intellect. 
 
 Gideon, ashamed to display the violence of his emotions, in 
 a stranger s presence, and not entirely free from personal fear 
 of his father, though he was conscious of no cause for fear, 
 had withdrawn to a little distance from the scene of all these 
 sad occurrences, and was sitting on a large stone at the foot 
 of the pine-tree, the top of which concealed the hiding-place 
 of his grandfather, with his face buried m his hands, and the 
 tears trickling through his fingers, as fast as summer rain-drops. 
 
 The two younger boys sat motionless beside the corpse, 
 crying themselves, but striving hard to smother their own sobs, 
 and to hush the wild lamentations of their little sister. 
 
 And Cecil, with his arms folded over his great heart, stood 
 silent, motionless ; watching, with feelings singularly blended 
 of disgust and compassion, the paroxysms of the Puritan s re 
 morse and sorrow. 
 
142 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Not to compassionate such sorrow, in any human being, was 
 utterly impossible to such a heart as Cecil s. 
 
 Not to feel something of contempt toward one so help 
 lessly the slave of his own bad and selfish passions, and 
 at the same time so fearfully blinded to his own failings by 
 self-pride and the delusion of self-righteousness, was no less 
 impossible. 
 
 Nor could one so clear-sighted, and so shrewd to read char 
 acter from the smallest outward indications, as the young sol 
 dier, fail to perceive that nothing short of the consciousness 
 of great real cruelty could call forth such bursts of remorseful 
 self-accusal, such strange and almost blasphemous attempts at 
 self-justification, as that dark sinner uttered ; now toward the 
 senseless corpse at his feet, now toward the All-Righteous and 
 Eternal Lord, whom he addressed in terms the most awfully 
 familiar. 
 
 Far be it from my pen to attempt even to record the crude 
 extemporaneous raving of ^he fierce, ignorant sectarian. It is 
 enough that they shocked the ears of Cecil more than the most 
 profane oaths, and most licentious blasphemies, he had ever 
 heard in the lascivious courts of the Stuarts, or in the turbulent 
 camps of the Low Countries. 
 
 He was, indeed, on the point of interrupting the wild mourn 
 er with some words of advice, if not of comfort, when sudden 
 ly, as if at length his own violence had exhausted him, he 
 became silent, stern, self-possessed. 
 
 He bowed down over the body, pressed his lips once to the 
 cold brow, covered the face again reverently with the scarlet 
 military mantle, which now, for the first time, appeared to at 
 tract his attention, prayed for a few moments in silence ; and 
 then, rising to his feet as quietly and firmly as if no storm of 
 passion had ever convulsed his steady features, addressed the 
 young soldier abruptly, though not perhaps uncourteously : 
 
THE HUSBAND. 143 
 
 " And now," he said, " it is time to ask who you may be, 
 and what brought you hither ?" 
 
 " I am one Henry Cecil," answered the other, " commonly 
 called Sir Henry, late captain in the governor s life-guard, and 
 with the governor, I came hither in the pinnace Rosebud." 
 
 " Late captain! ha!" returned the Puritan, apparently 
 
 surprised at his reply. " And what but I will speak 
 
 with you anon," he added, " my daughter must inform me of 
 what has passed. Come, Ruth," he continued, perhaps un 
 consciously assuming a gentler tone, than he had used for 
 many a year, " poor child, I am your only parent now, come 
 with me that we may commune together in private of the past, 
 and take council for the future. Come, my good Ruth, tears 
 are now unavailing, and we have much to think of and to do 
 there will be time for grief hereafter." 
 
 At the kind words, the unhappy girl s tears flowed at first 
 the faster ; but restraining them she arose, and gave her hand 
 to her father ; who, with a gesture of cold salutation to Sir 
 Henry, led her across the little bridge, and down the rugged 
 stairway, to the sea-beach, and there for an hour and upward, 
 they walked to and fro beside the trembling breakers, the 
 hoarse roar of the surf drowning their words to all ears save 
 their own, the deaf and pitiless sea the only witness of their 
 sorrows. 
 
144 THE FAIR PURI7 AN 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 " Stand, ho ! surrender if ye stir, ye die." 
 
 IT was near midnight, and the skies were black and star 
 less. A huge and solid pall hung beneath the firmament, 
 above the earth and sea, making the darkness almost palpable. 
 
 The funeral of Whalley s hapless wife was over. 
 
 " Dust unto dust, and ashes unto ashes," all that was mortal 
 of her nature had been given unto earth ; although the sublime 
 words prescribed by the ritual of the English church, odious to 
 those stern fanatics, had not been said or sung over the earthly 
 tabernacle of the departed sister. 
 
 A long, colloquial, discussed rhapsody, half-preaching and 
 half-prayer, had replaced that beautiful and soothing liturgy. 
 
 The feelings of the survivors had been harassed almost be 
 yond their powers of endurance by many a home-thrust allu 
 sion to the qualities of the deceased, and to all her relations, 
 mortal and immortal. 
 
 But, like all other earthly things, this torture also had its 
 termination. Wild hymns were chanted full of austere denun 
 ciation of the godless, which term, in the meaning of the 
 chanters, included all persons inimical to their peculiar doc 
 trines. 
 
 And then, dark, stern, severe, and silent, the Calvinistic 
 minister, and the few neighbors who had come to lend their 
 aid to the bereaved and stricken family, went their way, cold 
 and unsympathizing with those griefs of the heart, which were 
 beyond their callous comprehension. 
 
THE ARREST. 145 
 
 With the exception of Sir Henry Cecil, whom chance had 
 domesticated in their circle, the mourning family were once 
 again alone. 
 
 The aged regicide, whose hiding-place was now a secret 
 no longer, had been for a few hours liberated from his cell, in 
 order to participate in the funeral rites of the daughter of his 
 house ; and his had been the wildest, fiercest denunciation of 
 the sons of Belial ; the boldest and most earnest exhortation 
 to resist the biddings of the man, who, like to Jeroboam, the 
 son of Nebat, had made Israel to sin, and built high places to 
 false gods, and hearkened unto priests even the priests of 
 Baal. 
 
 And great had been the delectation of the fanatical inde 
 pendent spirits who made it their especial boast, that they had 
 founded in New England " a church without a bishop, a state 
 without a king !" 
 
 But when nightfall approached, and the small band of armed 
 neighbors returned to their homes along the iron-bound coast, 
 each party in its barge or sail-boat, Merciful had insisted, as a 
 measure of precaution, that his father should return for the 
 hours of darkness to the seclusion of his cavern ; it having 
 been determined that, at an hour before daybreak, he should 
 depart with his son and younger grandson, for a securer refuge 
 on the shores of Connecticut. 
 
 Nor was this the sole step of precaution that the dark Puri 
 tan had taken. 
 
 One of the giant pine-trees had been cut down, and caused 
 to fall in such a manner that its head rested against the crags, 
 at about three fourths of their elevation above the little green, 
 whereon once stood the humble dwelling of the rich fisherman 
 and farmer. 
 
 The branches had been trimmed partially, so that the trunk, 
 with their aid, presented to a bold foot a sort of rude, extem- 
 N 7 
 
146 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 poraneous ladder, by which to arrive nearly at. the top of the 
 rocky wall, which fortified that narrow amphitheatre. 
 
 From the stump of a tree that had grown of old on the very 
 brink of the precipice above, a stout, knotted rope had been 
 lowered some twenty feet, swinging loosely in the air, so that 
 an active man might reach it, when standing on the top of the 
 felled pine-tree, and so, perhaps, perilously swing himself to 
 the ledge above his head. 
 
 This rude arrangement had been made in a few hours ; 
 Gideon having attached the rope according to Merciful s in 
 structions, during his visit to the farm on the main land, and 
 the Puritan having felled and trimmed the pine with his own 
 potent axe. Nor did he doubt at all that he might so be 
 enabled to escape from any sudden onslaught of his enemies. 
 
 A large and tolerably comfortable tent had been pitched 
 with the sails, masts, and cordage of the smaller boats. Bed 
 ding and food in profusion had been brought from the farm, a 
 good fire had been lighted, and, so far as mere animal com 
 forts were concerned, the family and their involuntary guest 
 were well enough provided. 
 
 But the wants of the heart ! the cravings, irrepressible and 
 agonizing of the spirit ! for them what care of mortal shall 
 provide ? 
 
 It was midnight dark, silent, starless midnight the heav 
 ens overclouded, the ocean moaning sullenly beneath its dark 
 canopy of cloud and mustering storm. 
 
 All at the cove were buried in deep, heavy sleep the 
 child of sorrow and intense excitement. Sleep that exhausts 
 rather than supports sleep that, in very deed, was o er- 
 wrought nature s agony. 
 
 The women and children slept in the tent, the men, Merci 
 ful, Gideon, and Sir Henry Cecil, lay in their cloaks around 
 the wavering embers of what, some hours before, had been a 
 
THE ARREST. 147 
 
 cheerful watchfire, with their weapons ready beside them. 
 The very dog had coiled himself away in some nook of the 
 rocks, and slumbered before them. 
 
 And it was needed now for, during an hour or more, 
 there had been sounds and sights on the sea, and on the shore, 
 which, had there been ears to hear, or eyes to behold them, 
 would have created fear and apprehension. 
 
 First, the long roll of oars rattling in the rowlocks with that 
 peculiar and regularly-marked cadence which tells the prac 
 tised ear that the rowers are man-of-war s men, came swing 
 ing in from the seaward. 
 
 Then several hails were heard from boat to boat, checking 
 the speed of this, and hurrying the loiterers in that, to the 
 intent that all should come to land at the same time. 
 
 Soon afterward, lights might have been seen rising into 
 sight, and lost again, moment after moment, as the bows of the 
 boats which carried them, tossed on the ridgy billows. 
 
 Next came the crash of the keels, as they rode in upon the 
 crests of the coming seas and were beached on the shingly 
 coast ; and then succeeded the suppressed hum of voices, and 
 the sharp clash of arms, as the men landed, and fell into col 
 umn, or file rather of two in front, in order to accommodate their 
 movements to the rude rocky staircase, and the narrow bridge 
 by which they were to gain the platform. The lights were now 
 all extinguished, with the exception of a single torch, carried by 
 a lance-pesade at the head of the file, and the matches of the 
 musqueteers, which gleamed like a long row of glow-worms 
 in the darkness. 
 
 Yet, for all this, the watch-dog had given out no warning 
 bark the sleepers slept, unconscious that the enemy was on 
 their very threshold. 
 
 And now, the soldiery had scaled the steep ascent, and had 
 begun to file across the wooden bridge when, as their meas- 
 
148 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ured march sent out its regular and sullen sounds, the faithless 
 guardian of the night sprang out from his lurking-place with a 
 vociferous and useless clamor and all were on their feet in 
 an instant. 
 
 The first impulse of Merciful Whalley was to snatch up 
 his wood-knife and his musket, thrusting the former into his 
 leathern girdle, and cocking the other with a practised hand. 
 
 A moment s thought, however, convinced him of the folly 
 of resistance ; the rather as he saw the long line of matches 
 deploying on the green, and attesting the presence of a strong 
 company of regulars. 
 
 He turned, therefore, with a rapid step toward his temporary 
 ladder, calling out to Cecil, 
 
 " Keep your troth, friend, and protect her in her peril, as 
 you would that the Lord should protect you. Farewell, and 
 God keep you !" 
 
 As his voice broke the silence, another voice was heard 
 shouting to the soldiery it was the voice of Clark. 
 
 " Hurrah ! men, we have got the archfiend here. That was 
 the voice of Whalley. Light up the torches, lads ; and, ye 
 surrender quietly if ye are wise. Good treatment to all 
 those who yield ! Death to the man who stirs hand or foot in 
 resistance !" 
 
 At these words, twenty or thirty torches were lighted, and 
 a red, dusky glare was thrown across the narrow platform, 
 touching the canvass of the white tent, and bringing into bold 
 relief the little group of women and children, with the fine 
 figure of Sir Henry Cecil standing conspicuous before them. 
 
 He held his hat in his hand } and had just snatched a musket 
 from the grasp of Gideon, and cast it down upon the ground, 
 setting his foot upon it, when his clear voice was heard, calm 
 and sonorous, 
 
 " For God s sake, sir, whoever you be, use no violence ; 
 
THE ARREST. 149 
 
 trhere are none here to resist you, and we surrender quietly to 
 any show of authority, lawful, or unlawful; there are none 
 here but myself, and a few boys and women !" 
 
 " Sir Henry Cecil," he replied, " I pledge you my word 
 there shall be no resistance, if you offer no violence." 
 
 " That is enough ! that is enough !" cried Nathaniel Clark, 
 who had no relish for hard knocks, and entertained some 
 salutary apprehensions of the Puritan. " Stand to your ranks, 
 men, steady! Advance, lance-pesades, with the torches; 
 but, where is Merciful Whalley ? I heard his voice, I am 
 certain." 
 
 " He is gone," answered Cecil, quietly. " He fled so soon 
 as he heard you coming." 
 
 "Gone! fled! impossible !" cried the other. "Quick! 
 quick! bring up those torches. How should he have 
 gone hence, or whither ?" 
 
 The torches were brought forward rapidly, but their glare 
 was insufficient to illuminate the dark corner under the shadow 
 of the rocks, where Merciful was scrambling with such difficulty 
 up the tree ; and all might yet have been well, but at this mo 
 ment a heap of dry torch-wood, which, in the first moment of 
 alarm, Gideon had cast upon the embers of the watch-fire, 
 kindled and burst out into a jet of clear, white flame, mounting 
 high into the air, and rendering the whole scene as visible as 
 if it had been broad daylight. 
 
 The Puritan had reached the head of the fallen tree, and 
 was just grasping the rope. Another moment would have 
 placed him in safety. 
 
 " There ! there !" shouted Clark, " there he stands away! 
 follow him ! fifty guineas to the man who takes him !" 
 
 Half a dozen of the soldiers darted away, arid two began to 
 climb with such activity and spirit, assisted by the light of the 
 
 fire and the torches, and encouraged by the shouts of their 
 
 N* 
 
150 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 comrades, that the foremost had reached the rope, and began 
 to climb it, before Whalley, embarrassed by his long gun, 
 which he had slung across his shoulder, had reached the sum 
 mit of the cliffs. 
 
 It was a scene of terrible and painful interest. Even the 
 gallant Cecil shook like a leaf with the strong excitement, 
 while Ruth uttered a faint shriek, firm as she was in ordinary 
 peril, and covered her eyes with both her hands, unable to 
 look upon the catastrophe. 
 
 It was but a moment before Whalley stood unharmed on the 
 summit, the soldier scaling the rope rapidly within six feet of him. 
 
 The stern Puritan looked down with a grim smile upon his 
 pursuer ; he drew his keen wood-knife, and knelt upon the 
 precipice s edge. 
 
 " Back !" he cried to the man, in a deep, stern voice, " back! 
 or I cut the rope !" 
 
 But the man s blood was up, and he replied only by a curse. 
 
 " Once more, I say, back, fool !" shouted the Puritan, "back, 
 or you are but a dead man !" and he laid the edge of his knife 
 to the cord. 
 
 Then Clark himself shouted from below to the daring sol 
 dier, " Come down, fool ! it is all too late !" 
 
 But the man still persevered, and as the trenchant blade 
 severed the hempen strands, he grasped the rocky ledge with 
 both hands. Another second would have placed him on the 
 summit beside Whalley ; but, ready-witted in peril, the Puri 
 tan struck his fingers with the iron-bound butt of his musket ; 
 he relaxed his hold, and fell headlong. 
 
 A wild shriek burst from the spectators, and with a sharp 
 metallic clang, the muskets of the soldiery rose to the aim un 
 bidden. 
 
 It was well for the daring climber that he fell first upon the 
 feathery branches of the pine-tree, which broke his fall, and 
 
THE ARREST. 151 
 
 thence upon the pile of boughs, which lay on the ground be 
 neath it, else never had he moved limb any more ! As it was, 
 although stunned for the moment, and sore bruised, he escaped 
 uninjured. 
 
 But, as he fell, the voice of Ravenscralt shouted to " fire," 
 and a sharp running volley rattled immediately, waking strange 
 echoes from the cliffs, and the balls fell pattering like hail 
 storm around him. Yet he stood on the brink, in the full light, 
 unharmed and fearless. 
 
 But all were not so fortunate as he. The little group, com 
 posing his family, stood around the fire midway between the 
 soldiers and their living target, and, although far beneath the 
 line of fire, so rapid was the volley, and so bad the direction, 
 that several balls struck about them. 
 
 One took effect fatally ! 
 
 With a wild yell, poor Tituba fell headlong on her face 
 among the embers of the watch-fire ! happy in this, at least, 
 that she was dead before she struck the ground ! 
 
 The victim of long years of violence fell by a violent and 
 bloody death ! 
 
 The feminine shriek reached Whalley s ears ; the fall of the 
 female figure met his eye. 
 
 " God of my fathers !" he exclaimed, in notes of the most 
 piercing anguish, " is it is it my child ? my Ruth ? my angel 
 daughter ?" 
 
 And, for a moment, Cecil feared that he would leap down 
 from that fearful elevation. 
 
 " No, no ! M shouted the youthful soldier, " it is the Indian 
 girl- it is poor Tituba! Your daughter is quite safe but, I 
 fear, they have killed the other ! Begone, for God s sake, 
 Master Whalley, else shall more evil come of it ! I will pro 
 tect your daughter." 
 
 " I go ; but, first, one shot to avenge Tituba !" 
 
152 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Almost as he spoke, a bright flash glanced from the muzzle 
 of his piece, and, ere the full, round report had followed it, 
 the officer, who gave the word to fire, lay gasping with a mor 
 tal wound upon the greensward. 
 
 That was the last act of that fatal night of that dread 
 domestic tragedy ! The moment he had discharged that 
 avenging shot, the Puritan retreated from the edge of the rocks, 
 and, almost at the same moment, the wood which had blazed 
 up so inauspiciously being consumed, the broad flaming light 
 expired ; and, save from the lurid glare of the smoky torches, 
 the dismal scene, with its spectators, captives, and captors, 
 would have been buried in utter darkness, as it was in dismay 
 and dread. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 "Farewell, a long farewell." 
 
 UNDER whatever circumstances, there is always a feeling 
 of melancholy, if not of bitter and painful regret, connected 
 with departure from any place in which we have spent calm 
 and happy days. How much more so, if that spot be the hal 
 lowed home of our childhood, the spot on which our eyes first 
 opened to the daylight how much more so, if our departure 
 be compulsory, and its term indefinite, perhaps everlasting. 
 
 It would perhaps be difficult for fiction to invent a state of 
 things more painful, than that under which Ruth Whalley was 
 torn from that first home she had ever known, torn from it 
 never probably to return thither. 
 
 The dwelling in which she had passed so many tranquil days, 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 153 
 
 a heap of smouldering ashes ; the mother whom she had loved 
 so tenderly, scarce cold in her untimely sepulchre ; the father 
 whom she revered and pitied with such reverence of filial af 
 fection, a proscribed fugitive, and outlaw ; the Indian girl, 
 whom she cherished the more that she felt almost as a mother 
 toward her, so long had she soothed her sorrows and protected 
 her, a bleeding corpse ; her brothers, and, yet worst of all, her 
 little sister, left by the mother s death and the father s outlawry, 
 orphans on both sides ! what could be more disastrous, more 
 alarming ? But, as if fate had determined that no particular 
 should be wanting, this was not all, nor to herself personally 
 was it even the most terrible. 
 
 She was a prisoner, about to be immured, as a hostage for 
 her father s person at the control, absolutely in the power, of 
 a man, the most abhorred, the least scrupulous of means where 
 by to attain his ends, in all New England. Nor, with the 
 woman s ready and instinctive intuition of all that regards the 
 conditions of her sex, had she failed to decipher the atrocious 
 meaning of the governor s wild, lawless glances, or to suspect 
 the secret object of his persecution. Yet, upheld by the purity 
 of an honest, innocent heart, confident of the justice of her 
 cause, the rectitude of her intentions, she was so calm, so tran 
 quil, so self-sustained, as she made the brief preparations for 
 her forced departure, that Cecil scarcely knew whether to attrib 
 ute the firmness of her demeanor to the highest grade of forti 
 tude, or to insensibility of her position. 
 
 It was nearly low water, when the soldiers landed at the 
 cove ; and, as above three hours had elapsed during the terri 
 ble occurrences which signalized their coming, and the differ 
 ent preparations necessary ere they could re-embark, the tide 
 was making rapidly ; and a faint, dappling of the east began 
 to give token of the appearance of another day. 
 
 The officer, whom the avenging bullet of the Puritan had 
 
 7* 
 
154 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 stricken down in the midst of his triumph, wrestled long with 
 his agony ; and this had delayed the movement of the soldiers. 
 It was too evident that he was wounded mortally, and that any 
 attempt to remove him would be but to precipitate the fatal 
 moment ; anxious as he was, therefore, to return with the news 
 of his success to his employer, Clark, to whom, though no 
 soldier, the management of the expedition had been intrusted, 
 could not attempt to enforce a re-embarkation. At length, how 
 ever, the stout soldier breathed his last, sensible that he was 
 cut down in the unjust quarrel of another ; and bitterly com 
 plaining that obedience to orders that he might not dispute, had 
 consigned him to a fate so untimely and ignoble. 
 
 " Had it been fighting with the enemies of my country," he 
 gasped feebly with his choked voice, in faltering accents, 
 " with the colors of my king above my head, and the broad day 
 to witness gallant actions, I had not cared a rush soldiers 
 have but to die ! but thus ! thus ! shot like a mad dog, in a 
 night affray, by a lousy peasant faugh! is this the end 
 of an old soldier!" his words became more and more 
 interrupted ; his voice failed altogether ; his head fell back ; 
 they thought that all was over. 
 
 But in a moment he raised himself erect with a convulsive 
 motion, and cried aloud in clear accents, " Give me a soldier s 
 grave ! Farewell, old companions ! Attention ! England for 
 ever! Hurrah! boys hurrah!" And ere the words had 
 well left his lips, he was dead ! 
 
 And such, thought Cecil sadly within his secret soul, such 
 is the veteran s end a man like this lost to his country at a 
 proud despot s bidding. 
 
 The brave man once departed, there was no more delay ; 
 his body was wrapped in his military cloak, and carried down 
 by six of his men in silent sorrow to the barge. Short time 
 was allowed to Ruth for her adieus to Gideon and the younger 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 155 
 
 ones ; short time for advice and exhortation. But she kissed 
 each in turn, and pressed them to her bosom, and bade them 
 be of good comfort, and not forget their God in the days of their 
 sorrow. But when she came to the babe, her dead mother s 
 darling, she wept bitterly, and placing her in the arms of her 
 elder brother 
 
 " Remember," she said, " Gabriel, that to this little one you 
 are now all in all ; to her you must be father, mother, sister, 
 brother God keep you fare you well. Bury that poor 
 thing, there beside you know brother! God bless you, 
 brother !" 
 
 Her words died in her throat ; she could say no more ; but 
 she turned to Sir Edmund s emissary with air of true dignity 
 
 " Now, sir," she said, " I am ready ; lead on, I will follow." 
 
 And not daring to trust herself to take a last look at the 
 ruined homestead, the fresh grave, or the sad group, whom she 
 left behind her, she took the arm which Cecil tendered re 
 spectfully, and went her way in silent anguish. 
 
 In ten minutes more, the boats were darting toward the dis 
 tant town as fast as the sturdy oarsmen could drive them 
 through the water ; and ere long, the breeze rising as the sun 
 drew nigh to the horizon, and the gray dawn grew brighter, 
 their sails were set, and they stood gallantly and gayly (as if 
 they bore in them no breaking hearts, left none behind them) 
 homeward before the wind that sent them over the ridgy waves 
 with a sound as of a giant s laughter. 
 
 It was long ere the wailing of the younger boys and of the 
 little girl, thus cruelly abandoned among scenes so fearful and 
 heart-rending, was lulled into silence ; but happily the sorrows 
 of the very young are but, comparatively speaking, brief in 
 duration ; and, worn-out with fatigue and excitement, they 
 sobbed themselves at length to sleep, and all was silent. 
 
 But Gideon slept not ; the responsibility of his situation, and 
 
156 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the strange calls upon his manhood within the last few hours, 
 had made him a man, almost prematurely. 
 
 With a musket upon his shoulder, he was walking backward 
 and forward, a sentinel over the living and the dead, when, 
 scarce an hour after the departure of the boats, his father hailed 
 him, from the top of the rocks. 
 
 " Gideon ! what, ho ! is all clear below ?" 
 
 " All is clear, father. They have been gone this hour." 
 
 Merciful fastened a fresh rope to the stump aloft, and swing 
 ing himself boldly down, stood by his son s side in a moment. 
 
 " Let them sleep," said the stern father, melted now from all 
 his sternness. " Let them sleep, Gideon, while they may. 
 Now, mark me, there is no time to lose the old man and I 
 should have been, out at sea ere this. The schooner is all 
 ready, the tide up ; we must get him on board, and then put 
 off at once. Enoch shall go with me. But we will let him 
 sleep, to the last minute. Now, for your own part ; so soon 
 as I am gone, get the two little ones into the pinnace, and 
 carry them to neighbor Venty s house at Nahant. Martha 
 will be a mother to them, for a while, for the sake of her who 
 is gone. Get some of the lads to come and help you bury that 
 poor thing. Then go to Boston, find Simon Bradstreet, tell 
 him all that has fallen out, and do all that he bids you. Tarry 
 in Boston till I come ; and if in aught you may comfort Ruth, 
 do so. Be quiet above all things ; brawl not ; nor complain 
 loudly : nor resist the authorities in anything the time is not 
 yet fully come. Do you understand me, boy ?" 
 
 " Perfectly, father," replied the young man, steadily and 
 proudly. " And, with God s help, I will do all your bidding." 
 
 " Well spoken, boy," said his father, grasping his hand with 
 a feeling akin to admiration. " Truly these are dark times, 
 Gideon. But, remember, no hour of night so dark as that which 
 is nighest to the blessed morning and no night so black but 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 157 
 
 the will of God can turn it into brightest day, yea, in the twin 
 kling of an eye." 
 
 Then was a solemn pause of a few moments ; and both 
 mused deeply, and, perhaps, hopefully, until Merciful again 
 broke silence 
 
 " Come we must go to work there is no time for loiter 
 ing." 
 
 Within a few minutes, the old man was on board, the moor 
 ings of the schooner, all save one, were cast off, the sails un 
 furled, and everything in readiness. 
 
 Then, for the last time, Merciful returned ashore. With 
 Gideon s aid, he removed the corpse into the tent, and fastened 
 the canvass closely to the ground with pegs and heavy stones, 
 that neither beast nor bird should enter, until the return of his 
 son with the men who should inter her. 
 
 Then Enoch was aroused, and sent on board the schooner, 
 prond, in his boyish triumph, at being chosen by his father for 
 an important duty ; and then the hard man knelt and prayed 
 over the grave of his unhappy wife ; knelt and wept, almost 
 tenderly, over his sleeping children. 
 
 Rising to his feet with a strong, silent effort, he grasped 
 Gideon s hand, and went aboard his little vessel, without an 
 other word. 
 
 The last rope was cast of. In half an hour he was a league 
 away to the westward, all his sails set and distended by a fresh 
 favorable breeze. 
 
 Then Gideon awakened the little ones. He had victualled 
 the pinnace for their short voyage, and stepped its light mast 
 already ; and now, with the old house-dog and the playful kit 
 ten, sole relics left of that large and well-ordered household 
 he put them on board the last boat, rejoicing childlike in the 
 thoughts of a merry sail over the sunny sea, and half forgetful 
 of the mother they had lost, the sorrows they had felt, yestreen 
 
158 THE FAIR PURITAN . 
 
 happy in that one faculty, the faculty of childhood only 
 that they could readily forget ! 
 
 Save by the dead alone, the cove was now untenanted. The 
 graves may be seen there yet : but human habitation was 
 never raised again on that ill-omened spot. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE MOURNER. 
 " To breakfast, with what appetite you may." 
 
 IT was already broad, rejoicing day, when the man-of-war 
 boats, which had been despatched late on the previous evening, 
 were descried coming up the beautiful bay, with their lug-sails 
 set, dancing along before a brisk sea-breeze. 
 
 Nothing can be conceived more beautiful than the scene 
 which was presented by Boston and its environ, even at that 
 early day ; when the dense verdure of the primitive forests 
 had not receded wholly from the limits of cultivation, but was 
 delightfully interspersed everywhere with the well-cultivated 
 fields, and glowing gardens of the industrious and earnest 
 settlers. 
 
 Some of the islands, with which the lovely bay is dotted, 
 were still clothed in the untrimmed greenery of nature ; some 
 bolder and more sterile, were girt with incipient fortifications, 
 and mounted with a few guns, under that meteor flag of Eng 
 land, which waved not then, as now, in every quarter of the 
 habitable globe. 
 
 Boston which already at this time, with its neighboring vil 
 lages, contained some ten thousand souls, was a beautiful and 
 striking object ; not clustered, like the compact and unven- 
 
THE MOURNER. 159 
 
 tilated towns of the Old World, about some feudal turret, or 
 hedged in by moat or rampart, but straggling over a large space 
 of ground, with pleasant gardens and green groves between its 
 happy homes, and the houses of God only lifting their modest 
 and unsteepled heads above the breezy foliage. 
 
 The refined taste and poetical imagination of Ruth Whalley, 
 at any other time, would have been kindled into rapture by the 
 aspect of that fair city and the fertile hills around it, under the 
 brilliant influences of the cloudless sky, and the sunny morn 
 ing. 
 
 But there was no room now in her oppressed and sorrow 
 ful spirit, for any joyous or romantical impressions. 
 
 She had sat silent in the stern-sheets of the barge, and al 
 most motionless, since she had left the cove. Insensible to 
 the chilly dampness of the early morn and the fresh sea-breeze, 
 so much more was she occupied by the intolerable weight of 
 her inward sorrows, than by any consideration of her external 
 sufferings, she was scarce conscious that some charitable hand 
 had wrapped her closely in a warm boat-cloak. 
 
 How then should she think of the beauties of nature, how 
 rejoice in the sun-lighted atmosphere, or in the rippling wave 
 lets, azure with crests of gold, leaping and glancing in the 
 morning s radiance, when she took no note of those bodily 
 sensations to which at another time her every nerve would 
 have thrilled painfully ? 
 
 Between the sorrows of the past, and the anticipations of 
 the future, it was all that poor Ruth could do to muster enough 
 of resolution to face her position calmly, to refrain from vain 
 tears and feminine lamentation. 
 
 How could she have done this, had she not been endowed 
 happily with a character of no ordinary firmness ; had not that 
 character been formed by trials of no common or every-day 
 occurrence ; had not her whole soul been pervaded by love, 
 
i()0 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 and faith, and that true piety which hopes all, and confides all, 
 to the wisdom and the mercy of the All- Wise, the All-Merciful. 
 
 Such love, such faith, such confidence, indeed, do much, and 
 avail much but they can not do all things, nor command en 
 tirely the course of human feelings. Mortality, alas ! how 
 trained soever to set its hopes on high, to lay its treasure up, 
 " where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves 
 do not break through nor steal," must still be mortality must 
 still feel the heart-ache, the fear, and the strife, which are 
 part and parcel of its earthly nature ; must droop and pine 
 when bereaved of the loved, the lost ; must shudder at the ap 
 proach of trial and temptation ; must wince beneath torture, 
 whether it be of the body or the soul. 
 
 Thus was it now with Ruth Whalley. If ever heart was 
 imbued with gratitude, and reverence, and love to the God 
 whom she worshipped, in the singleness of her young spirit, 
 it was hers. If ever soul was schooled and taught, by sad ex 
 perience, to lay its burthens at the foot of the cross, arid to 
 count all earthly sorrows as everlasting gain, it was hers. 
 
 Yet there are moments, when the power of religion, however 
 deeply it may penetrate the spirit, however much it may alle 
 viate the griefs of those, who are not sorry as men without 
 hope, can not control the anguish of the heart, or change 
 melancholy to rejoicing. 
 
 Thus was it now with Ruth. 
 
 She knew, that it was well with the departed. She knew, 
 that a life of suffering and sorrow, endured with exemplary 
 resignation, a life of good-will and Christian benevolence to 
 ward all men, a life of faith, hope, and charity, must have won 
 its exceeding great reward. She knew that the weak frame 
 of her, whom she mourned, would be no more, was weary for 
 everlasting that the wounded heart would no more bleed, 
 the o erwrought brain ache no longer. She knew, in the holy, 
 
THE MOURNER. 161 
 
 happy confidence of her strong faith, that the dear, dear moth 
 er, whom she had never seen on earth, but sad, sick at heart, 
 unprized, ill-requited, was now enjoying bliss ineffable in 
 heaven. 
 
 Yet she felt she felt only, that the dear mother was gone 
 hence, never again to beam affection on her from those deep, 
 fond eyes ; never again to smile welcome with those thin, pale 
 lips, to smile with that mournful sweetness which made the 
 wan face beautiful ; never again to say " dearest" in that low, 
 gentle voice, the very tone of which dwells in her ear, like 
 unforgotten music. She only felt the void, the emptiness, the 
 hollowness, which nothing in this world again should ever fill 
 or satisfy. 
 
 How then should she take note of the white walls and the 
 diamond lattices, laughing in the gay morning sunshine ; or of 
 the trees singing their joyous matins, with their breeze-shaken 
 harps awake and vocal ? How should she mark " the unnum 
 bered laughter of the ocean waves," or enjoy the minstrelsey 
 of the light summer gale murmuring gently over and around her ? 
 No ! no ! There are griefs which overcome us like a sum 
 mer-cloud ; which pass not like the summer-cloud away. 
 There are sorrows which fall with a weight so chilling on the 
 heart, that we feel instantly, instinctively, that for us the glory 
 of this world has indeed departed that henceforth the sun 
 may shine, but it will no more be that sunshine that hence 
 forth we may see, may love, the beauties of the fair earth and 
 blessed heavens ; but it will no more be that earth, or those 
 heavens, on which we gazed so happily, so trustfully, through 
 the charmed medium of a mutual soul. 
 
 Alas ! for those with whom it is so. For them there is no 
 future here ; the past is their all on earth their only object, 
 in this life, must be thenceforth to forget the present to 
 
 dream of a futurity, beyond, incomprehensible, eternal. 
 0* 
 
162 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 It was not thus, however, that her grief smote the soul ol 
 Ruth. The loss of the aged, how much beloved soever, is a 
 thing so much in the ordinary course of nature, that though it 
 may stun for the time, though it may even depress and sadden 
 us, for days, months, perhaps years, rarely or never crushes us 
 with that overwhelming weight of wo, which paralyzes all 
 capacity for happiness thereafter. 
 
 Stunned she was, grievously, and oppressed, not by the past 
 only, but by the darkest forebodings for the future forebodings 
 for herself, yet not selfish forebodings for all whom she loved 
 on earth. 
 
 She was alone, too. Alone in her sorrow alone in her 
 dread of coming trials. 
 
 There was no kindly voice to whisper comfort for the past, 
 hope for the future. 
 
 The only friend, who could have consoled, was intentionally 
 separated from her, in that dark hour. Her enemies were 
 shrewd and deep-sighted in piercing the secrets of the heart 
 children of darkness, wiser in their generation than the 
 children of light. 
 
 Intending to act on her mind wholly, it was their object to 
 make her feel at once the utter loneliness, the isolation, the 
 unfriended, hopeless position in which she was placed. And, 
 with this end in view, Sir Henry Cecil, from whose gallant 
 and daring spirit, coupled to his sincere hatred of all tyranny, 
 Andross expected the only opposition he was like to meet in 
 his infamous designs Sir Henry Cecil had been purposely 
 placed in a different boat from the fair Puritan ; and that boat s 
 crew had been instructed to lay somewhat behind the others, 
 in order to prevent, if possible, the youthful knight from learn 
 ing the fate of his fair fellow-captive. 
 
 It might have been about eight o clock of the fine summer 
 morning, when the three leading boats landed on the esplanade, 
 
THE MOURNER. 163 
 
 under the guns of the frigate and the fort, on both of which the 
 English flag was flying, over brave hearts and stout hands, as 
 ever roamed the deep in pursuit of glory. 
 
 A company of musqueteers were exercising on the espla 
 nade, with their bright gorgets and steel caps glittering gayly in 
 the sunshine, and their red cassocks making a glorious show 
 among the dark-colored cloaks and doublets and the steeple- 
 crowned hats of the few artisans and shopkeepers, who had 
 collected to witness the spectacle, with eyes half-admiring, 
 half-abhorrent. 
 
 As the boats came to shore, the officer in command, detach 
 ing a small party to clear the mound of all idlers, marched his 
 company down the beach, and formed it in close order, in a 
 hollow column, open toward the sea. 
 
 Without a moment s delay, the soldiers who were in the 
 boat with Ruth, a dozen perhaps in number, leaped ashore ; 
 and, Clark who had accompanied her, taking her by one arm 
 and Foxcroft by the other, she was lifted to the dry ground, and 
 instantly conveyed into the centre of that serried column, her 
 guard marching after her into the hollow space, and filling the 
 whole up, so as to render it a solid mass, of which she formed 
 the centre, with six men on each side of her, and three times 
 as many before and behind. 
 
 The word of command was given instantly ; the drums and 
 fifes struck up a march ; and at a steady and quick step the 
 column marched into the town, their several ranks and sloped 
 fire-locks effectually concealing the sex and person of their 
 prisoner, from any over-curious eyes. 
 
 The red-coats were not, at that time, at all more popular in 
 Massachusetts, than they were at a later period ; and, in some 
 respects, it was perhaps unfortunate for Ruth that it was so. 
 
 For no persons followed the glittering procession, except a 
 few idle boys ; and no windows were raised in the streets 
 
164 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 through which they passed, no heads protruded to gaze upon 
 the flaunting plumes and flashing weapons, or to listen to the 
 exhilarating music. 
 
 The escort arrived, therefore, at the door of the government 
 house, its purpose unsuspected ; and, forming in the same 
 order now as they had done before at the place of debarkation, 
 the soldiers covered the entrance of Ruth into the house of her 
 worst enemy, and she passed in unseen by any eye of friend 
 or countryman. 
 
 Ignorant whither she had been conveyed, the innocent girl 
 gazed around her with bewildered eyes, as she found herself 
 instead of being within the precincts, as she had expected, of 
 a dark and loathsome hall, with a circular staircase leading to 
 a fair gallery above ; adorned with arms, and standards, and 
 emblazoned escutcheons, and tenanted by several lackeys, 
 flaunting in royal liveries of scarlet and silver. 
 
 Nathaniel Clark alone entered the house with her, the heavy 
 door closed after her, arid by its sullen jar told her the fatal 
 truth, that she was now as much a prisoner in that fair man 
 sion, as she could have been in the darkest and most gloomy 
 dungeon. 
 
 In total silence, her conductor led her up-stairs, traversed 
 the corridor, entered a small ante-chamber richly furnished, 
 and passing through it, flung open the door of a large and 
 stately bed-chamber, and motioned her to enter. 
 
 " His excellency," he said, " feeling for your unpleasant sit 
 uation, and desirous of alleviating, as much as in him lies, the 
 sorrow and vexation it must cause you, has determined, as you 
 are a prisoner for no crime, but a hostage only for your father s 
 forthcoming, to detain you here for a while, in his own house, in 
 stead of committing you to a common prison. You will find food 
 prepared for you, and change of raiment, and everything that 
 is needful ; a servant of your own sex will attend you ; and il 
 
THE MOURNER. 165 
 
 will not probably be very long ere you will be once more at 
 liberty." 
 
 Ruth Whalley gazed at him wildly while he was speaking ; 
 and her lips moved as if she would have interrupted him ; but, 
 until he had ceased, no word came forth from them. Then 
 she cried eagerly 
 
 "His house! did you say his house? His the gov 
 ernor s ?" 
 
 " I did," he replied, with a bland smile ; " you will be lodged 
 like the nobles of the land." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she answered, "oh, for Heaven s sake, no! 
 Better the blackest, deepest dungeon! Oh, sir kind, gentle 
 sir," she continued, clasping her hands in an ecstasy of pas 
 sion, " take me hence ! take me hence ! take me, for God s 
 sake, to the common jail ! Leave me among the foulest male 
 factors ; but oh, do not, do not compel me to tarry here !" 
 
 " By my honor !" he answered coldly, " you do not know 
 when you are well, methinks ; nor have you much idea of 
 what a dungeon is ; or else you would not be so anxious to 
 change your quarters. No ! no ! I have no power in the mat 
 ter. I must obey orders. And you would not thank me to 
 morrow, if I broke them to do your bidding. No ! you will 
 not be of this way of thinking, long. You will be very well 
 here fine rooms, soft beds, rich fare. And, speaking of 
 fare," he added, stepping up to a table sumptuously spread, 
 "see what a morning meal is here oysters in aspick jelly, 
 a fat, larded capon, white rolls, and cates, such as women love 
 and champagne above all things. I commend you to the 
 champagne especially. Sir Edmund is choice in his wines. 
 And, seeing that you may be awkward at unwiring it, I will 
 make the way plain for you." Then, suiting the action to the 
 word, he uncorked the flask, poured himself out a pottering 
 bumper, nodded familiarly to the poor girl, saying " Come 
 
166 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 gayer thoughts to you, fair girl ! and a good appetite !" and he 
 quaffed it to the dregs. 
 
 Then, ere he left the room, he added, "you will be just 
 as free here as at home, only you can t get out. The win 
 dow is three stories high, and looks into a walled garden ; 
 the doors, I am grieved to say, I must lock behind me. 
 But don t, I prithee, look so disconsolate. Cheer up and take 
 some breakfast ; believe me now, you will feel much happier 
 after breakfast. I am myself somewhat greasy of a morning, 
 and fantastical, not to say melancholical ; but after breakfast, 
 it is a wonder to see how I brighten up again. Fare you 
 well, and believe me, you will feel much happier after break 
 fast." 
 
 And, with a lamentable attempt at imitation of the light flip 
 pancy and licentious coxcombry of the young gallants whom 
 he had admired in Sir Edmund s train, the vicious and base 
 New-Englander liberated the poor girl, at least, from one 
 odious thing, his own disgusting presence. 
 
 But she was unconscious even of that poor relief. She 
 gazed around her for one instant, at the rich furniture, the gor 
 geous bed, the sumptuous meal, the splendid garments which 
 were laid out as if for her use ; and her heart sank almost 
 hopelessly, as her worst fears were thus confirmed. 
 
 Her courage all gave way she bowed her head upon her 
 knees, and fell into a paroxysm of fierce agony, such as her 
 calm and gentle nature never had known before. 
 
THE TEMPTATION. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE TEMPTATION. 
 
 FOR a short time after her odious persecutor had relieved 
 tier of his presence, the fair girl sat motionless, sick at heart, 
 almost hopeless, and full of sad and terrible forebodings. It 
 was some minutes before she could sufficiently collect her 
 senses to understand or realize thoroughly her actual situation. 
 
 For so pure was her young and maiden spirit, so innocent, 
 and so unconscious of all evil, that it was difficult, almost im 
 possible, for her to comprehend the baseness and brutality of 
 Edmund Andross. 
 
 Nor, indeed, until the visit of that vile pander to his foul will, 
 had she surmised or apprehended any more formidable danger 
 to herself than a few days of honorable durance. It was the 
 cause only of that state of durance, in which she was held, and 
 its probable consequences to her father, that had rendered her 
 anxious and unhappy. 
 
 The sight, it is true, of the splendid repast under which 
 groaned the rich table, and of the gorgeous dress prepared for 
 her, had for a few seconds space awakened some suspicions, 
 but they were slight and transient ; and until the vile agent of 
 the governor s licentious and despotic pleasures had left her to 
 her meditations, she had perceived no cause of seriousness or 
 deep alarm. 
 
 But now, the whole dark truth broke on her soul at once 
 
 she saw, as we see objects, by the pervading glance of the 
 electric flash, during the darkness of a stormy mind, all her 
 own fearful perils, all her oppressor s schemes of infamy, all 
 
JG8 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the woes that were gathering about her devoted family all 
 this she saw, more clearly, more palpably a hundred-fold, by 
 aid of the spiritual flash which lighted momentarily up the 
 darkness of her soul, than she had done by the steadiest light 
 of reason. 
 
 All this she saw, but therewith she saw no way to escape 
 from the toils, which were spread on every side of her, no 
 strength whereby to resist the arm of actual violence if it 
 should menace. 
 
 Long she revolved and pondered these things, but it was 
 only to perceive the utter fruitlessness of any human intellect 
 to plan, of any human force to effect her rescue. 
 
 At length, in obedience to the dictates of her warm, pious 
 heart, and mindful of the customs of her father s house, she 
 sank down upon her knees, and with clasped hands, and 
 streaming eyes, prayed long and fervently to him who alone is 
 a " present help in the time of trouble." 
 
 She prayed, not for the safety of her mother s soul, to do 
 that the stern dictates of the puritanic rule forbade, as idolatrous 
 and papistical ; but that she might resemble her in patience, 
 in long-suffering, in grace ; that, like her, she might be pre 
 served spotless from the foul stains of the world ; that, like 
 her, she might live in the faith, and die acceptable to the Lord. 
 She prayed that the gray hairs of her father, and of her father s 
 father, might be shielded by his hand, who alone can save, 
 from any mortal peril ; and that no shame might be brought 
 upon them by any deed of hers, or wrong endured unconsent- 
 ing. She prayed for her brothers, and for that hapless orphan 
 sister, abandoned, in her tender infancy, to the precarious nur 
 ture of a stranger. She prayed also, though her voice fal 
 tered somewhat, and her heart fully smote her as she did so, 
 for the young, gallant cavalier, who had so nobly and so gen 
 tly striven to protect her ; who had already, it might well be 
 
THE TEMPTATION. 169 
 
 said, saved her from some outrage, and to whose aid, alone of 
 earthly guardians, she looked with any confidence of hope. 
 
 Refreshed and strengthened she arose, as all must needs 
 arise, who commune in sincerity and faith with Him who is 
 in heaven ; as all must needs arise who put hope where only 
 safety can be found ; and cast their burthen at the feet of him, 
 who can alone relieve them. 
 
 Refreshed she rose, and strengthened ; and then, neglecting 
 the rich cates and dainties, which loaded the board, broke her 
 fast frugally and sparingly, on a white wheaten roll, and a cup 
 of pure water. This done, she turned to one of the tall mir 
 rors which hung in several places on the walls, and arranged 
 her disordered hair in neat and modest tresses ; pinned her 
 white kerchief closer across her sloping shoulders, and brought 
 her simple yet becoming dress, which had been somewhat dis 
 arranged by the events and voyage of the past night, into its 
 wonted state of graceful neatness. 
 
 When she had done this, she sat down quietly beside a win 
 dow, which looked out upon the tops of the tall trees growing 
 in the garden, and, having no other means of occupation or 
 employment, was soon very busy with her own thoughts. 
 
 And about what should her thoughts have been busy, were 
 it not with the wild and dark and terrible events which had 
 rendered the last days the most strange and important of her 
 whole life how strange, and how important she as yet hard 
 ly knew herself, or doubted. And of whom should she have 
 thought the most as connected with all those dark and terrible 
 events, were it not of him, who had behaved throughout all 
 those trying scenes with so much dignity and courage, so 
 much respect and grace, and generous consideration of 
 whom, were it not of Sir Henry Cecil. 
 
 It is true, lie was uppermost all the time in her mind she 
 strove to banish his image, she struggled to fix her thoughts 
 v 8 
 
170 THE FAIR PURITAX. 
 
 upon other matters she went so far as almost to reproach 
 herself with light-mindedness and the lack of natural affection, 
 .that with her mother scarce yet cold in her untimely grave, 
 with her grandfather a proscribed exile, her father in imminent 
 peril of his life, her thoughts should he in this wise irresistibly 
 attracted toward a stranger. 
 
 Yet it was all in vain. The words, the gestures, the grace 
 ful attitudes, the noble form of the young soldier would not be 
 banished from the mirror of her soul by any exercise of her 
 will, any upbraidings of her conscience. The clear, sonorous 
 tones of his well-modulated voice rang in her ears incessantly 
 
 the soft light of his speaking eyes dwelt in her very soul. 
 Arid who shall wonder and upbraid. When it is fate, or 
 
 nature when it is licensed even by the words of Holy Writ 
 
 that they whom God hath joined together, shall not be sun 
 dered by any mortal arm, but shall leave father, mother, all 
 things, for each other. And if they were not yet united in 
 those hallowed ties which of two creatures make one being 
 .if they had not yet fully admitted each one to his or her own 
 
 soul, that they were as yet heart-united still each had seen 
 the other and to each in that other was fate fixed for ever. 
 
 While she was buried yet in the strange, yet not unpleasing 
 meditations, a footstep was heard approaching her door rapid 
 ly, when it had reached the very threshold it paused there, and 
 no further sound was heard for several seconds. 
 
 Half-terrified, the fair girl listened, as if her very heart sus 
 pended on her sense of hearing. Her cheeks were suffused 
 with a painful blush, her bosom throbbed as if its tenant would 
 have burst the soft bonds which enclosed it. 
 
 Recovering herself, however, by an effort, she had arisen 
 to her feet, and made two steps toward the door, as if to see 
 who was the unexpected and unwelcome listener, when a hesi 
 tating knock was stricken on the stout oak pannel, and, ere 
 
THE TEMPTATION. 171 
 
 she could reply, the key was turned in the lock, and the door 
 opened from without, displaying, as it revolved on its hinges, 
 the stately person of the governor. 
 
 " Ha ! this is well, fair prisoner of mine," he said with a 
 smile, as he beheld the preparations laid out for her morning 
 meal. " It is partly for this that I came hither to see if my 
 brave servants have ministered sufficiently to all your wants." 
 
 " Far more than sufficiently," answered the poor girl, " to 
 one who hath never tasted of the wine-cup, nor known so 
 much as the name of these foreign dainties. Slight fare is 
 enough, and more than enough, for the poor captive, who pines 
 for the free air of liberty." 
 
 " Do you so pine, my gentle maiden. Then I come, as I 
 trust, a right welcome visiter ; for I come to communicate with 
 you now to the end that you shall be forthwith free !" 
 
 " Welcome, indeed ! oh, more than welcome, noble and gen 
 erous sir ; shame, shame on me, if I have wronged you in my 
 thoughts, and yet " 
 
 " And dost thou indeed so pine to exchange this splendid 
 chamber, this rich diet, a life of ease and luxury, for those wild 
 rocks, that stormy sea, the toils and hardships among which I 
 found you ?" 
 
 " I do pine, noble sir, to return to the ruins of my childhood s 
 home ; I do pine to pray again beside my mother s nameless 
 grave ; to comfort my father s woes ; to soothe my little sister s 
 childish sorrow oh, suffer me, suffer me to return, great sir, 
 and I will bear you in mind ever at my prayers." 
 
 " And would you do much, maiden, to win your release, to 
 win your father s pardon ?" 
 
 " I would do anything," she answered clasping her hands to 
 gether, " anything that I may do unreproved of Heaven." 
 
 He paused for a moment or two, as if to consider how ho 
 might the most easily approach his subject. 
 
172 THE FATR PURITAN. 
 
 " Ruth," he said, " listen to me. I have dwelt for long years 
 in the noblest court of Europe, of the world among the love 
 liest, the most beautiful of women, yet, maiden, never have I 
 loved until now. When first my eyes beheld you, they beheld 
 their fate. I adore you. Without you I can not exist be 
 mine, and you are free to-morrow be only mine, and your 
 father, your grandfather, are pardoned." 
 
 The young girl looked at him steadfastly, as if she would 
 peruse his soul. " Be yours, she answered slowly. " Be 
 yours. Nobles of your degree wed not with girls of mine 
 how then shall I be yours ?" 
 
 Even his cool effrontery was at fault, and he hesitated ere 
 he made answer 
 
 " Be mine," he said, "by the gentle bonds of love, not by 
 the iron shackles of this world s hypocritic custom " 
 
 " Silence !" she cried, interrupting him with an air of per 
 fect majesty. " Silence ! for shame ! if not for charity or 
 virtue! Rather die all father, grandfather, sisters, brothers 
 rather pass our name from the face of the earth ! Begone ! 
 hence, base man ! words can not speak how I despise you ! 
 Begone, wretched man, and tremble !" 
 
 " Nay, tremble rather you !" he cried, rushing furiously to 
 ward her " for lo ! you are alone, and in my power, and that 
 you will not grant par amours, I will have by force !" 
 
 " Never ! God aid me, never !" and with the words she 
 snatched a long two-edged carving knife from the board, and 
 raised it, with a flashing eye and a lip quivering with wild en 
 thusiasm. " Stand off, base villain ! for if my hand be too 
 weak, as I think it is not, to drive this steel into your heart, it 
 has the strength at least to reach my own! Stand back or 
 see me at your feet, slain by my own hand, but by your 
 guilty deed !" 
 
 The fierce, strong man was overcome, but not melted. It 
 
THE CHARGES. 173 
 
 was dismay, not pity, that checked him for one moment. His 
 
 brow grew black as night, and his scowling eye shot forth a 
 
 ray of hellish spite and fury. 
 
 He shook his clenched hand at her furiously 
 
 " I would have saved you," he cried, " but you would not ! 
 
 your blood be on your head ! blame not me that you perish !" 
 And he rushed from the room, and locked the door behind 
 
 him as he left it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE CHARGES. 
 
 THE rest of that eventful day, and the long, weary night 
 which followed it, was passed by the gentle and unhappy 
 maiden in a state of mental perturbation and anxiety which it 
 were easier far to imagine than describe. 
 
 As soon as her tormentor left her, the enthusiastic courage, 
 which hud nerved her for a moment, failed, and was instantly 
 succeeded by that faint and nerveless exhaustion, which is 
 often produced by the reaction of unwonted mental efforts. 
 
 She wept long and painfully, though perhaps scarcely con 
 scious wherefore she was weeping. 
 
 Hours elapsed before she found even the strength to fall 
 upon her knees, and thank the Giver of all good that he had 
 heard her prayer, and shielded her against the violence of the 
 oppressor. 
 
 But when her heartfelt thanksgiving was ended, she was no 
 longer calm and hopeful as before. Every sound now came 
 full of terror to her ears. Every footstep that echoed through 
 
 the long passages was fraught with apprehensions of new peril. 
 P* 
 
174 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Not a door clapped, or a window rattled in its frame, but she 
 fancied the approach of her dreaded enemy. 
 
 No lights were brought to her, nor did any person indeed 
 approach her chamber-door that night, although full fifty times 
 she started from her chair, with blanched cheeks and clasped 
 hands, in an agony of consternation. 
 
 There was no means of securing her door on the inside, nor 
 was there any piece of furniture in the room, which she was 
 able to move, of weight sufficient to prevent its being opened 
 from without, during the hours of darkness. 
 
 She did not therefore dare to lie down upon her bed, or to 
 lay aside any part of her dress, or voluntarily to close her 
 weary eyes. 
 
 At times, indeed, she would fall into a troubled and restless 
 doze, as she sat erect in her chair ; but scarcely had her mind 
 lost the consciousness of her real position before a thousand 
 wild and hideous phantasies would take possession of her 
 thoughts, and with a start she would awake again to a sense 
 of her helplessness and danger. 
 
 Terribly this long night passed away ; nor, when absolute 
 stillness succeeded to the occasional sounds which had dis 
 turbed her solitary watch, were her fears less vivid. 
 
 Not the hum of a musquito in the silent night air, not the 
 rustle of a timid mouse behind the arras, but her fancy con 
 jured up the whispered tones, and stealthy footsteps of her 
 persecutor. 
 
 But hours of agony, although protracted to the utmost, as 
 well as the brief minutes of ecstasy, must have their end. And 
 to poor Ruth, as the tardy morning crept up the eastern sky, 
 and shed a pale and ghastly light into the gorgeous chamber, 
 hope returned, and a sense of security and reliance in her own 
 firmness and fortitude. 
 
 It was not, however, in the proud mansion of the royal gov- 
 
THE CHARGES. 175 
 
 ernor, as in the humble house of her childhood, where the first 
 clamor, of the early cock summoned all from the light slumbers 
 of innocence and health, and the dawn never broke upon sealed 
 eyelids. 
 
 Here, though the usages of the yet unsophisticated colony 
 were matutinal and simple, the sun was high in the heavens 
 before any stir announced that the members of the household 
 were afoot, and about their wonted avocations. 
 
 And when the sounds of life were audible, after the silence 
 of the dark, no step or voice came near her door, until it was 
 well-nigh noon ; and from congratulating herself on her free 
 dom from farther persecution, she had begun to feel some ap 
 prehension that she was forgotten intentionally, and left alone 
 perhaps to be starved into compliance with the unholy will of 
 her tormentor. 
 
 But even as this fearful fancy suggested itself to her mind, 
 her confidence in the support of Heaven, her gratitude for the 
 Divine protection by which she had been shielded from perils 
 far more terrible to her pure soul than any dread of death, 
 were b no means diminished. 
 
 And, whereas she had knelt before to return thanks for that 
 protection which is never withheld from those who seek it 
 humbly ; she now mingled with her morning orisons an earnest 
 supplication that strength might be vouchsafed to her to resist 
 the temptations which she imagined to be gathering about her. 
 
 Little did she know what those temptations were, or what 
 the ordeal to which she must be soon exposed. 
 
 Just as the clocks were striking noon, a greater bustle was 
 audible without the dwelling than any she had heard since her 
 arrival. The measured tramp of infantry, the clatter of ac 
 coutrements and arms, and the word of command came clearly 
 to her ears above the hum and clamor of what seemed to be a 
 large and angry multitude. 
 
i76 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 She ran eagerly to the window in order to see what was 
 passing, but, looking out as it did upon the walled garden 
 only, it commanded no view of the streets, nor gave her any 
 opportunity of judging what might be the cause of the com 
 motion. 
 
 Not long, howeve-r, was she destined to remain in ignorance. 
 For suddenly the measured tramping ceased, and was followed 
 by the heavy clank of the grounded musket-butts upon the 
 pavement, as the men stood at ease. 
 
 A minute afterward, there was a stir through the house : and 
 the loud tread of many feet came up the staircase, and through 
 the corridor, and paused at the door of her apartment. 
 
 The key grated in the wards the door was thrown open, 
 and as the blood rushed back tumultuously to her heart, leav 
 ing her face as pale as death, a strange group was presented 
 to her eyes. 
 
 The first person who entered the room was a tall, thin, hard- 
 favored man, of sour and puritanic aspect, dressed in a closely- 
 fitting suit of black serge, with a broad, falling collar of white 
 linen, square-toed shoes, a steeple-crowned hat, and a long, 
 straight sword suspended from a girdle of unornamented 
 leather. 
 
 He carried in his hand several papers, to one of which was 
 appended a large seal, and wore an air of harsh and presump 
 tuous authority which spoke the puritanic magistrate, as clear 
 ly as the pinched, sour aspect and sanctimonious air of the 
 person who accompanied him, clad in a rusty suit of black, 
 with large surpliced bands, denoted the intolerant and fanatical 
 divine. 
 
 Behind these personages, a stout, blunt-looking man, with 
 hard features, relieved somewhat by an expression of dogged 
 honesty, paused on the threshold. 
 
 He wore a doublet of buff leather, with a bunch of keys 
 
THE CHARGES. 177 
 
 swinging from his belt, and a pair of bright steel manacles 
 hanging across his left arm 
 
 Behind him, again, appeared two privates of the governor s 
 foot-guard, with their red cassocks, and bright-barrelled mus 
 kets shouldered. 
 
 At first, the poor maiden stood aghast, and wonder-stricken, 
 at the appearance of these strange and unaccountable intruders ; 
 but soon perceiving, by the dresses of the two principal person 
 ages of the group, that they were of her own creed, and prob 
 ably of her father s political party, she began to fancy that they 
 were friends, and that their errand might be for her liberation. 
 
 " Oh ! you have come you have come to take me hence," 
 she cried, clasping her hands joyously together. "Praise to 
 thy name, Lord ! that thou hast heard thy servant s prayer 
 so early, and set her free from this tyranny." 
 
 The magistrate gazed at her for a moment, as if he did not 
 understand her ; but, in a moment, with a bitter and sardonical 
 smile distorting his grim lip 
 
 " Verily !" he replied, " we have come to take thee hence, 
 but whether it is cause for rejoicing seems to me somewhat 
 more than doubtful. For it is not to set thee free at all, but to 
 bind thee with chains, that we have come, and thy wrists with 
 fetters of iron." 
 
 " It is enough," answered the poor girl " it is enough that 
 you come to take me hence ; the heaviest chains, the deepest 
 dungeon were preferable to the noblest palace halls, where 
 one is subject to the vile solicitations of that foul fiend incar 
 nate." 
 
 " She hath confessed it! Lo! she hath confessed it, broth 
 er Boanerges !" exclaimed the magistrate, turning toward his 
 clerical associate and adviser. 
 
 " All glory be to Him, who saith out of thine own mouth 
 have I condemned thee ! " cried the fanatic, who rejoiced in 
 
 8* 
 
178 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the euphonious and singularly appropriate appellation of Boan 
 erges Bangtext. 
 
 " Fetter her fast, Mark Holdfast fetter her fast, ere the 
 foul fiend, with whom she hath confessed her unholy com 
 merce, interpose to preserve her." 
 
 The jailer, for such was the profession of the man in the 
 leathern doublet, advanced, but apparently with little goodwill 
 toward the task, and locked the handcuffs round her slender 
 wrists before she had recovered her senses sufficiently to 
 ask 
 
 " Of what is it, then, that ye accuse me ? What is that ye 
 say I have confessed ? Surely I have confessed nothing, but 
 that this base and carnal-minded governor would have forced 
 me to sin and shame." 
 
 " Avaunt ! Get thee behind me, Satan !" thundered the 
 preacher : " Leave turning the frail wretch, thou hast seduced 
 from that better way to which she was inclined ! And do you, 
 witch accused, cease from endeavoring to deceive, and think 
 not that denial can avail thee aught nay, rather shall it gain 
 thee torments only that shall extort once more the truth." 
 
 " Once more, of what am I accused ?" cried the unhappy 
 girl. 
 
 "~Qf witchcraft- of unholy commerce with the evil one 
 of rescuing by glamorous arts the bloody regicide, thy grand 
 father, from his pursuers of summoning up fiends with hide 
 ous howls and groanings, to daunt the stout heart of the true 
 believers. Of practising strange magic upon the most noble, 
 the vice-regal governor; and last, of working the strong man 
 Henry Cecil to amorous and lustful admiration of thy fleshly 
 charms, and so to rank rebellion against his rightful rulers " 
 
 " Have you done ?" she exclaimed, interrupting him indig 
 nantly, " or is there more of this foul mummery ? I see from 
 whose quiver this shaft has been culled ; and I see that the 
 
THE CHARGES. 179 
 
 aim is deadly ; yet is thine eye, O Lord, sleepless to mark the 
 innocent, and thy hand strong to save the pure of heart. Lead 
 me hence, men of falsehood and of blood ! Lead me hence, if 
 it be to die, this instant ! Better to perish at the stake this 
 moment, than to endure again the torture of that bad man s 
 presence !" 
 
 The priest cast up his eyes, and muttered what might have 
 been a prayer for mercy toward her obdurate and stubborn 
 heart, but what sounded far liker to a curse. The magistrate 
 turned up his hypocritic eyes in silence. 
 
 Firmly she passed out of that hateful chamber, the jailer 
 holding her firmly, but not disrespectfully, by the arm ; the 
 guard fell in around her ; and a few moments only passed be 
 fore she was in the crowded street, when all the force of the 
 escort was needed to keep back the infuriate and howling mob, 
 who, but for the armed soldiery, would have torn the unhappy, 
 pale girl piecemeal. 
 
 Men and boys, maids and matrons, gray -head grenadiers and 
 little tottering children, possessed by some strange frenzy, 
 passed, whooping, yelling, whistling, invoking curses on the 
 head of that innocent young victim, who smiled, as she passed 
 along, serene compassion on their blind and senseless frenzy ; 
 and still the tumult and the cry waxed louder and more furi 
 ous 
 
 " To the fagot and the stake ! Death to the witch ! Death 
 to the foul fiend s paramour ! Hurrah !" 
 
 Had there been far to go, the multitude which was increas 
 ing every moment, might well have prevailed over the guard ; 
 but happily the public jail was close at hand, and the iron 
 leaves of its dark gate was soon interposed between the un 
 happy Ruth and the brute populace. 
 
 Then, when the doors were closed and barred behind her, 
 the courage which had hitherto supported her gave way, and 
 
180 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 -. 
 
 she fell in a death-like swoon into the arms of the blunt jailer, 
 happy to lose the consciousness of her misery, if it were but 
 for one moment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE PATRIOTS. 
 
 IT was perhaps ten o clock of the morning following that on 
 which Ruth was led from the government-house to the com 
 mon jail, that her brother Gideon stopped at the door of an old 
 wooden house on the common, and looked about him rather 
 anxiously, as if he were uncertain whether he had found the 
 place of which he was in search. 
 
 It happened, however, that no person to whom he could ap 
 ply for information was passing at the moment ; and after 
 some slight hesitation he knocked at the old-fashioned hatch 
 door-way. 
 
 A fine and sonorous voice immediately replied desiring him 
 to enter, and as he did so he found a person, whose appearance 
 left him no cause to doubt that he had come aright, sitting alone 
 in a small parlor which communicated with the hall in which 
 he stood. 
 
 He who had called on him to enter was an exceedingly old 
 man one who had exceeded by nearly twenty years the 
 te rm of threescore and ten allotted to humanity by the inspired 
 writer ; his hair, which he wore very long and flowing over 
 his shoulders was literally as white as snow, and as lustrous 
 as silver. His fine calm face was marked with many furrows 
 and deep lines of age ; but the eye was bright as some large 
 serene star ; and all the comely features were hard and calm, 
 
THE PATRIOTS. 181 
 
 
 
 and full no less of grand intellect and moral fortitude than of 
 benevolence and a certain proud humility. 
 
 He was dressed handsomely but very plainly in a suit of the 
 finest black broadcloth, faced with velvet of the same color ; 
 with black silk hose, and silken roses in his square-toed shoes. 
 A broad collar of exquisitely white linen was folded down over 
 the shoulders of his doublet ; and a small cap of black velvet 
 set lightly on his snowy hair completed his attire. 
 
 As Gideon entered, he raised his large, lustrous eyes from 
 a ponderous folio bible, which he was reading without glasses, 
 and looked at him for a moment with an inquiring expression ; 
 then seeing that the young man was apparently embarrassed, 
 he spoke to him with a kind and encouraging tone 
 
 " Ha !" he said, " this is well, young man ; this is very well. 
 You are somewhat before your time, and next to being quite 
 punctual, that is the best thing. I did riot look for you earlier 
 than eleven o clock. So you wish for a mate s birth in the 
 barge Good Hope. Of a truth, you are somewhat young for 
 such a trust, yet " 
 
 " I crave your pardon, sir," replied the young man, who had 
 been hitherto unwilling to interrupt one so many years his 
 senior, and of so reverend an aspect. " I think you are mis 
 taken, since you could not have looked for me, nor have you, 
 I imagine, so much as heard of me at all before." 
 
 " Then, certainly, I am mistaken," answered the old man, 
 with a pleasant smile. " I thought you were young Hugh, the 
 son of worthy Master Nelson. But since you are not he, pray 
 tell me who you are and in what I can assist you. 
 
 " To begin," said Gideon, respectfully, " in order to avoid 
 further error, permit me to ask if I speak to the ex-governor, 
 the good Simon Bradstreet ?" 
 
 " My name is Simon Bradstreet; and I was governor before 
 his majesty was misled to abrogate our Massachusetts charter." 
 
182 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 
 
 " My name is Gideon Whalley, replied the youth, with a 
 deep, reverential bow ; " and but that I come to you on a sad 
 errand, and a bearer of sad tidings, I were both proud and 
 happy to stand before a man whom I have learned of rny father 
 to revere so highly." 
 
 "Alas! all tidings are sad now-a-days. It is long since 
 there has been aught of joy sounded in Boston streets ; and I 
 heard that which made me sad but now ; how they have 
 trumped up a vain charge of witchcraft against some poor 
 young girl or other, and got the people mad between cruelty 
 and superstition, which still walk hand in hand. I have sent 
 out my man but now to learn the particulars ; and thence it is 
 that I am alone. I would fain therefore that your tidings had 
 been good. Sit down, good youth, sit down, and tell me all 
 that you have to tell, though I partly surmise even now to 
 what your tidings point. You are the son of Merciful, the 
 grandson of Edmund Whalley, one of the judges of him they 
 call Charles the Martyr." 
 
 " Even so r " answered Gideon. " My father has now fled 
 away, conveying the aged exile whither he may be safe until 
 this tyranny be overpast ; and ere he went he bade me come 
 and tell you all that hath befallen us, and then do as you shall 
 think good to direct me." 
 
 " Ay !" answered the old man thoughtfully. " Ay ! I heard 
 how Sir Edmund had taken orders to arrest your grandsire, 
 and, whatsoever I may think of the justice of the deed for 
 which they pursue him, I know that Edward Whalley is a sin 
 cere and upright man ; I heard that he had escaped his ene 
 mies, and I was glad." 
 
 " Then you have not heard all, Master Bradstreet," said the 
 boy, " or you would not be glad. You have not heard that 
 they have burned our house to the ground, at sight of which 
 my mother died of a broken heart in one moment," and his 
 
THE PATRIOTS. 183 
 
 voice faltered as he spoke, and he dashed away a tear with the 
 back of his hand from his clear blue eye "that they have 
 shot our poor servant Tituba, and carried off my sister Ruth a 
 captive." 
 
 While the boy was speaking, the old man s face had been 
 gradually lighting up with an expression of concentrated indig 
 nation ; but as he heard the last words the angry light died 
 away in a minute, and was supplanted by the keenest and 
 most painful anxiety. 
 
 " Your sister Ruth! a captive !" he exclaimed, speaking 
 rapidly in a half-smothered voice. "Who who? speak, 
 boy ! Who carried her off captive, and on what pretext ?" 
 
 " The governor, Sir Edmund Andross he who first burned 
 our house, and slew our mother. God s curse upon his " 
 
 "Hush! hush! swear not at all!" said the old man very 
 solemnly, pointing his hand upward. " Leave vengeance unto 
 Him. It is his : he will repay ! Yet this is very, very dread 
 ful ! But tell me on what pretext ?" 
 
 " A hostage for the surrender of my father, within three 
 days space. But for an officer they call Sir Henry Cecil, he 
 would have haled her hither, while our poor mother lay un- 
 buried." 
 
 " Gracious Lord !" cried the old man, now excited beyond 
 all bounds. " Poor boy, poor boy, you come to me for aid and 
 consolation, and I have but fresh coals of fire to heap upon 
 your head. It is your sister, Ruth, of whom I spake. It is 
 she whom they have charged with witchcraft ! I see, I see it 
 now ; he hath done this thing so to avoid delivering her up 
 when your father shall return. Tell me, boy, is your sister 
 fair?" 
 
 " Beautiful ! she is beautiful !" exclaimed the boy, aghast at 
 this new blow, " and sweet as the flowers of spring, and inno 
 cent and gentle as the saints of heaven !" 
 
184 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " Oh ! villain, villain, villain !" cried the old man, striking his 
 hands forcibly together, and speaking to himself, unconscious 
 for the moment that the girl s brother heard him. " Again the 
 old tale, insatiate, ruthless lust ! By terror, he would compel 
 her to sin and shame ; but this time, this time, help us only 
 thou most Merciful -this time he shall find his villany Pt 
 fault" 
 
 But Gideon had caught his words, and jumped instantly at 
 their full import. He sprang to his feet, with clinched hand 
 and flashing eye 
 
 " By the great God," he cried, in tones of solemn fierceness, 
 " who made and sees us both, were he ten times the governor, 
 he shall die by my hand !" 
 
 And, with the words, he would have rushed from the room, 
 intent on instant vengeance. But the old man caught him by 
 the arm, and said in accents so impressive that they awed his 
 rash anger into silence. 
 
 "Again! again! Is this your reverence? is this your 
 obedience ? Hast thou not read His awful mandate, Thou 
 shalt do no murder, presumptuous and wicked boy ? Insane, 
 moreover, as presumptuous and wicked ; for to do any violence 
 would doom her, you would save, past hope to the gibbet, if not 
 to the scaffold." 
 
 "But will the people," cried the boy in agony, "but will 
 the men of Boston endure to see this thing ?" 
 
 " I might reply to you," answered the sage, " that they have 
 endured more than this already ; that they have endured to be 
 themselves degraded, almost to be enslaved !" 
 
 " My poor, poor sister !" cried the boy, his high courage 
 giving away before this extremity of evil. 
 
 " The people, the men, as you call them, of Boston are they, 
 are the very men, who will clamor the most loudly for her 
 doom, if we can not arouse them " 
 
THE PATRIOTS. 185 
 
 "And can you, great God! Master Bradstreet can you 
 arouse them ?" 
 
 " By His aid who forsaketh not the just man at any time, I 
 trust that I can arouse them." 
 
 " And save Ruth ?" gasped the boy. 
 
 " And save Ruth, incorrupt and scathless." 
 
 " And will you will you ?" 
 
 " The Lord pardon you the question," answered the old man, 
 much affected. " I would give the last drop of blood that is 
 left in this poor frail body before one hair of her head should 
 be corrupted. But now, peace ! peace ! let us take council 
 together." 
 
 And for a few seconds he paused in deep thought ; then 
 suddenly 
 
 " When will your father be here ?" he inquired. 
 
 " This very night he promised to return," answered the boy. 
 " To-morrow he must give himself up in exchange for my 
 sister." 
 
 Again the old man meditated long and anxiously. 
 
 " Sir Henry Cecil ! Sir Henry Cecil !" he began again, 
 " said you not that he interfered in your sister s behalf?" 
 
 " But for him," said the boy, " Ruth would have been 
 dragged away from our dead mother s side. He is good, and 
 noble !" 
 
 " Yes ! yes !" said the old man pensively. " And he has re 
 signed his commission, they tell me. Yet the soldiers love 
 him. His family, too, are God-fearing folks, and friends of 
 liberty and the true cause. Yes ! yes ! he will help us." 
 
 At this moment the outer door opened, and a grave-looking 
 man entered the room. 
 
 " I have done your bidding," he said, " good Simon. I have 
 learned all. It is " 
 
 " I also have learned all ! This is Ruth Whalley s brother." 
 
186 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " But do you know that she shall be tried to-morrow ? and 
 that they are fitting up a gibbet even now ? and that the people 
 cry for her young blood ?" 
 
 "No! no! are they, indeed, so fierce in their malignity? 
 But they shall be frustrated yet, or my name is not Simon 
 Bradstreet. Hark you, good Andrew ! Go forth again and 
 send me hither Waterhouse and Foster, as quickly as may be. 
 And then go find Sir Henry Cecil, and pray him come and 
 speak with me forthwith and then go you, and take as many 
 of your friends as you can find, and spread it through the 
 crowd how Edmund Andross but two days since murdered 
 this poor child s mother, and now trumps up this false charge 
 against her to force her to become his concubine. Spare 
 nothing to excite their pity ; deal with the women chiefly ; and 
 if you can prevail with them to listen, move the good people 
 to come and ask me to speak to them." 
 
 " I will perform your bidding," he said bluntly ; and, with 
 out another word, departed. 
 
 " Fear nothing !" said the old man, taking the boy s hand 
 kindly in his own ; " fear nothing ; we will save her at all haz 
 ards. Only I wish this thing had fallen out a few days later." 
 
 As he spoke, the door was again thrown violently open, and 
 a sea-faring man rushed headlong into the room with an ex 
 pression of wild, eager joy in his bold, sunburnt face. 
 
 * I have seen it !" he cried. " I have seen it ! Glory to 
 God ! with my own eyes I have seen it !" 
 
 " Seen what, Charles Nelson ?" asked Bradstreet in vehe 
 ment surprise, but with his whole form dilating, as it seemed, 
 under the influence of some strong expectation. " What have 
 you seen ? speak !" 
 
 " The orange flag ! all glory be to God ! the orange flag 
 at the fore ! She is becalmed off Buzzard s bay. And when 
 I showed our friends the private signal, they hoisted it at once, 
 
THE COUNCIL. 187 
 
 but lowered it again in a minute. She will be here, if the 
 wind makes, to-morrow ; but beyond any doubt, the next day." 
 
 " The Lord hath stretched out his hand ; the Lord hatK 
 saved his servants ! Down on your knees, Charles Nelson. 
 Down on your knees, Gideon Whalley. Let us pray ! Let 
 us praise the Lord who has wrought this deliverance for 
 Israel/ 
 
 And though he knew not, nor could at all divine the mean 
 ing of that venerable man s strange words, the boy hesitated 
 not, but fell down upon his knees, and clasped his hands fer 
 vently together, so certain was he, from those impassioned 
 tones, that some great thing was indeed accomplished, and 
 praised the Lord in the strength of a confiding faith, ignorant 
 wherefore. 
 
 And in truth a great thing had been accomplished ; nor was 
 his faith in vain. Is it vain ever 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE COUNCIL. 
 
 THE morrow had arrived the fatal morrow ! 
 
 The court was assembled which were that day to decide 
 upon the fate of the young, the innocent, the beautiful Ruth 
 Whalley. O mockery ! O shame ! to speak of deciding that 
 which was determined so soon as the accusation was pre 
 ferred. 
 
 Had the accusers not been the creatures of the brutal and 
 licentious governors ; had the witnesses not been to a man 
 suborned to perjury ; had the judges not been to a man the 
 sycophantic nominees and pliant tools of Andross ; still was 
 
188 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the fate of Ruth determined or ere she was brought to trial 
 for fanaticism and superstitious awe, and credulous terror 
 than which there is no passion of the human heart so cruel 
 had maddened and hardened the hearts of the people, and to be 
 accused of witchcraft was in fact to be condemned without 
 trial to be slaughtered without respite or appeal. 
 
 But on that morning there had assembled beside the court 
 another and a nobler council. 
 
 In the rear of Simon Bradstreet s garden, and adjoining one 
 of the principal wharfs of the city stood a long, half-deserted 
 warehouse, with a private entrance from a blind and unfre 
 quented alley. Above it, in the third story, ceiled with the 
 rude, bare rafters, wainscotted with rough, unplaned boards, 
 lighted only by a skylight, for the three dormer windows, to 
 the sills of each of which was attached a large telescope, were 
 closely shuttered so as to exclude alike both prying eyes of 
 humanity, and the garish light of day, was a large loft sometimes 
 used by the old patriot as an observatory. 
 
 In that apartment was the patriot-council assembled. And 
 yet so singular and so desolate was the whole aspect of that 
 apartment, that, had it not been for the charts which hung 
 here and there against the panelling, and for the globes and 
 large telescopes which stood on elevated stands in various 
 parts of its ample area, it might well have given rise to sus 
 picion. 
 
 The sun had not long risen, when the party which I have 
 mentioned, came together in that place, so well fitted for that 
 purpose. 
 
 For that party consisted of the patriots, or liberty-men, of 
 Boston, and that purpose was the emancipation of their native 
 province at once from the domestic tyranny of the oppressor 
 Andross, and the bigoted and despotical sway of England s 
 second James. 
 
THE COUNCIL. 189 
 
 In the arm-chair, at the head of the board, clad as he was 
 on the previous day, sat Simon Bradstreet, worthy, by virtue 
 of his great intellect as of his long experience, to be the presi 
 dent of such a meeting. Next to him, on the right, sat stout 
 Charles Nelson, the bold, hardy seaman, who had brought the 
 glad tidings to old Bradstreet ; and below him, and opposite, 
 at the president s left, two well-known and much-esteemed 
 citizens, Foster and Waterhouse, who had been colonels in 
 the old Boston train-bands. 
 
 Besides these, several other aged men, magistrates of the 
 city, under the old charter, were seated at the board, and be 
 low them, two or three stout youths, among whom Gideon 
 Whalley was perhaps the most remarkable. 
 
 All these men were dressed simply, some in the garb of 
 merchants and lawyers, others in the every-day apparel of 
 artisans, mechanics, and sea-faring men ; and it was remark 
 able, that, at a time when all persons who laid any claim to 
 gentle birth or station wore swords as a part of their ordinary 
 dress, with one exception only, there was not a weapon of any 
 kind in the room. 
 
 That one exception concerned a person who occupied the 
 seat facing Simon Bradstreet, and whom I have not as yet 
 described. Nor, in truth, is any description of him necessary, 
 for it is none other than our old friend Sir Henry Cecil. 
 
 He was attired with his wonted elegance and care, although 
 no longer in a military habit. His long, curled, and perfumed 
 hair, his velvet coat with diamond buttons, his red-heeled 
 shoes, and gold-hilted small sword, presenting a singular con 
 trast to the cropped hair and plain, sad-colored clothes of the 
 steady burghers. 
 
 The council had, it would seem, been for some time in ses 
 sion, for Bradstreet was saying, apparently in conclusion of an 
 important debate 
 
190 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " We understand one another, therefore, perfectly. We may 
 depend fully on your influence and success with the soldiers, 
 Sir Henry Cecil." 
 
 " Under the circumstances you have stated, certainly !" re 
 plied the young gentleman. " But you must understand me 
 fully, too. I must be made certain beyond the possibility of 
 doubt, not only that William of Orange has landed in England, 
 but that he is acknowledged the king, and that James has fled 
 the land. I will support the government of England at all 
 hazards, nor will I stir a hand to aid any rising here against 
 the mother-country. I do not reflect upon those who may 
 wish to do so but England is my country, and England s 
 king is my king. I may wish that William were that king 
 rather than James ; and were I at home, might strive to have 
 it so. But being here, and knowing how a premature effort 
 may disconcert the wisest plans, I will be a good subject to 
 James until I shall know that William is my king de facto." 
 
 " You are wise, although young, Sir Henry, and you speak 
 very well," answered Bradstreet, calmly ; " and in all that you 
 have said, I think you are quite right but William of Nassau 
 is now William of England, that I know ; and ere this time 
 to-morrow you shall know it likewise. You would have known 
 it now, but that this rascal Andross has intercepted your des 
 patches " 
 
 " Indeed, indeed do you know that?" 
 
 " I know the man who has seen and read them." 
 
 " It may be so, indeed," answered Cecil, thoughtfully. 
 
 " It is so," replied the old man. " Andross is well assured, 
 even now, of the news which this vessel brings. She will be 
 boarded in the outer bay, and the messenger made a prisoner. 
 But he will be re-captured from the pinnace ; will he not, 
 Master Nelson ? The troops will be under arms ; but we 
 have troops also, ha ! Masters Waterhouse and Foster ? We 
 
THE COUNCIL. 191 
 
 will not ask you to stir hand or foot, Sir Henry, until you shall 
 have seen the proclamation of the kings William and Mary. 
 
 Then we will claim your services." 
 
 " And you shall have them. Let me but see that, and I will 
 answer for it that not a trooper shall draw a trigger on the 
 people." 
 
 " And if they do, may God help them !" said Waterhouse 
 sternly. 
 
 "And if they do, may God defend the right!" said Sir 
 Henry, solemnly. 
 
 " And which will be the right, Sir Henry ?" asked Foster, 
 with a smile ; not that he doubted or misunderstood the young 
 man, but that he saw a cloud on the brows of some of his con 
 federates, and feared any misconception. 
 
 " The cause of the king and the people !" answered the 
 noble soldier. "The cause of England and America! not 
 of Rome ! The cause of King William and Simon Bradstreet ! 
 
 not of King James and Edmund Andross !" 
 
 At these stirring and spirited words, there was an evident 
 disposition to cheer, among some of the younger men present; 
 but it was checked instantly by the graver and more wary 
 leaders. 
 
 " All then is understood touching this matter ?" asked old 
 Simon. 
 
 " All !" replied Henry Cecil ; and " All ! all ! clearly ! with 
 out doubt !" was re-echoed from every side of the apartment. 
 
 " And now," said Bradstreet, "touching this poor girl " 
 
 " Villain and tyrant as he is, I can not think," answered 
 Cecil, " that he will break his faith so basely. He pledged his 
 word to me, that on her father s surrender to the hands of jus 
 tice, Ruth should go free. I can not think " 
 
 " And for your thinking, or not thinking, shall my sweet 
 sister die ?" Gideon Whalley interrupted him rudely. But 
 
192 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 the young soldier looked at him with an eye both compas 
 sionate and full of grave dignity, and paused before he an 
 swered 
 
 " I understand your anxiety, good youth. But come what 
 may of it, your sister will not die, or I will not be living. I 
 shall deem it no wrong to interrupt the execution of your sister 
 on any sentence for witchcraft by the strong hand, let who 
 may be the king, or who may be the governor. And that not 
 because she is your sister, or because she is Ruth Whalley ; 
 for, as God is my judge, I would have done the same for any 
 one of those poor wretches who were so barbarously murdered 
 at Salem under the plea of law, had I been in the province. 
 Moreover, I have a hundred stout veterans, who have served 
 under me in other lands, and in hotter feuds than this is 
 like to be, who will stand by me to the last, if I give the 
 word, I well believe, in any cause, in any righteous cause I am 
 certain." 
 
 " And will you give the word, Sir Henry ?" cried Gideon 
 Whalley eagerly. 
 
 " So surely as I shall see need for it. But I still hope, and 
 still believe, that without stroke of sword, or drop of bloodshed, 
 this great crime may be averted from the people this great 
 peril from your sister." 
 
 " Amen !" replied the venerable patriot, bowing his head in 
 approval. " Amen, so be it ! and in what does your hope rely, 
 for though you may hope and believe religiously in the faith 
 of divine things unseen, you are too wise I think, in the things 
 of this world, and its every-day workings, to hope much or be 
 lieve anything without warrant. In what, then, doth your hope 
 reside ?" 
 
 " In the might of the right in the overruling majesty and 
 weight of the English law in the honor of English judges. 
 I will myself be in court within an hour, who was a witness 
 
THE COUNCIL. 193 
 
 on the spot, and can adduce such evidence of this bad man s 
 daring guilt, and deliberate falsehood, that for their souls they 
 dare not convict her ! 
 
 " You lean upon a broken reed, Sir Henry," said Bradstreet. 
 " Think you that juries, whose fears have made them mad 
 men judges who have received the wages of blood, and 
 agreed to condemn the innocent before trial care one straw 
 either for evidence or law ?" 
 
 " Moreover, look at this, Sir Henry Cecil," said Waterhouse, 
 throwing a paper on the table. " I saw the original document 
 an hour ago, of which that is the copy. See if you can go 
 into court." 
 
 It was a council-warrant for the arrest of Sir Henry Cecil, 
 on charges of insubordination and high treason. 
 
 The paper fell from the hands of the young soldier, and he 
 gazed round the room in angry wander. 
 
 " His plans are well arranged," he said, at length. 
 
 " Whose plans?" asked Merciful Whalley, almost fiercely. 
 
 " The governor s !" replied Cecil. 
 
 " Here is the governor of Boston," said the Puritan, laying 
 his broad hand on the shoulder of old Simon Bradstreet. " As 
 I came up the bay, ere it was light this morning, returning 
 from New Haven, I boarded the good ship Two-Friends at 
 anchor. The wind that brought me up was too light to carry 
 her against the tide of ebb. I saw the messenger who bears 
 the glorious tidings. God hath looked down upon his people ! 
 This tyranny is overpast ! William and Mary are the kings 
 of England ! James Stuart hath fled without stroke of sword ! 
 Our charter is restored! and noble Simon Bradstreet is the 
 governor of Boston ! Letters, good master Bradstreet ! Let 
 ters, Sir Henry Cecil !" 
 
 And, with the word, he threw down several large packets 
 on the board. 
 
 R 9 
 
194 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 A moment was enough to satisfy Sir Henry. He cast a 
 quick glance toward the venerable patriot. 
 
 " It is all true," he said. " The Lord be praised. I am the 
 first to tender you my service and my sword," he continued, 
 taking off his hat and unsheathing his bright blade " I await 
 your orders." 
 
 " They are brief, Sir Henry, and easily obeyed," answered 
 the old man, with a smile. " You must tarry here all this day, 
 in concealment. He must not arrest you or your friend Whal- 
 ley, here, to-day, on any account, and to-morrow " 
 
 " He may arrest whom he can !" interrupted Waterhouse, 
 bluntly. 
 
 "Even so," replied Bradstreet. "And now, to make all 
 certain, go you, my good friend, and have your regiment ready 
 to act at a minute s notice. Let them be on the common well 
 armed at the first clang of the statehouse bells. You, Nelson, 
 know your duty ! You, Foster, have all the train-bands in prep 
 aration at midnight, but show no force until the signal ! Who 
 is to lead the soldiers from Charlestown and Chelsea ?" 
 
 " Shepherd, the schoolmaster of Lynn !" answered Water- 
 house. 
 
 " None better," answered Bradstreet. " Farewell, then, all ! 
 To your posts be prudent peaceful, and silent! So all 
 will certainly go well ! Ha ! what now, Andrew ?" he con 
 tinued, as the old servant entered the room cautiously, and with 
 a sad expression in his face. 
 
 "The court is dissolved the maid Ruth is condemned! 
 The governors assent is given ! She shall be hanged at noon 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " That she shall not," said Bradstreet. " At what time, 
 Merciful Whalley, will the Two-Friends weigh anchor ?" 
 
 " When the breeze rises, which it will with the evening 
 tide of flood at nine of the clock. She will be here in the 
 
THE PRISON. 195 
 
 morning twilight but the Rosebud, the pinnace, lies just be 
 low the castle. 5 
 
 "Will there be much wind, Whalley ?" asked Charles 
 Nelson. 
 
 " A topsail breeze I will a-warrant it ; and like enough a 
 capful !" 
 
 " Then I will answer for the pinnace," said the other. 
 
 " And I will answer, by God s grace," said Bradstreet, " that 
 before noon, Sir Edmund Andross shall hang no one !" 
 
 "Unless it be himself!" added Waterhouse ; and with a 
 grim laugh the council was dissolved. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PRISON. 
 
 THE night had set in dark and gloomy. The sky was over 
 cast with heavy clouds driving in from the seaward rapidly ; 
 and a thin small rain fell noiselessly, as is usual at the com 
 mencement of a blow from the southeast. The streets of 
 Boston were, however, if not crowded, at the least far more 
 frequented than was common at so late an hour, and in weath 
 er so inclement. For it was nearly midnight, and far from 
 abating, the storm appeared to increase every moment. The 
 people in the streets also seemed to become more numerous 
 instead of dispersing for the night ; and there was singularly 
 restless and uneasy state of feelings made manifest by every 
 word and movement of the gathering groups. 
 
 It was not exactly what would be called excitement, much 
 less was it turbulence or riot ; for there was no general noise, 
 nor indeed any loud talking ; but there was an air of gloom and 
 discontent very nearly universal ; and it would seem that the 
 
196 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 authorities had taken the alarm, for in addition to the ordinary 
 watch, who were out in their full strength, several small par 
 ties of soldiers were abroad, patrolling the streets, though they 
 interfered with no one ; and it was rumored that there were 
 douhle sentries at the guard-house, and that the men were 
 mustered under arms in the castle. 
 
 It was about the prison-doors, however, that the greatest 
 number of persons were assembled; and here alone there 
 might be said to be a throng ; and that throng somewhat loud 
 and tumultuous, though still peaceable ; indeed, what noise 
 there was, seemed to proceed rather from a confusion of eager 
 queries and replies, than from any riotous disposition of the 
 people; and the two sentinels, who walked to and fro. before 
 the heavy gates, had found no difficulty in keeping the space 
 clear, which they were stationed there to defend. 
 
 Midnight had struck some time, when a tall man, wearing 
 a slouched hat and wrapped in a thick cloak, made his way 
 through the crowd, not without some exertion, although he was 
 preceded by two peace officers, and followed by a subaltern s 
 guard. 
 
 As he entered the clear space, however, before the prison 
 gates, which was dimly illuminated by a large lamp, he was 
 recognised by the people for the governor, and room was made 
 for him immediately. There was no cheering from any of the 
 crowd, which was composed for the most part of well-clad, 
 substantial looking burghers an d mechanics ; but there was no 
 disposition to insult him shown by any one, nor did they man 
 ifest their disapprobation by groans or hisses. If they were 
 angry, it was with that calm, resolute, and determined wrath, 
 which is ten thousand times more dangerous, because it is so 
 silent and so thoughtful. 
 
 The regular formalities having been executed, the pass 
 word demanded and given, and an order from the proper mag- 
 
THE PRISON. 197 
 
 istrate displayed, the governor entered the prison-door alone, 
 his escort standing at ease, with their muskets grounded in 
 front of the gate, between the two sentinels and the people. 
 So long a time elapsed that the crowd, unexcited by any new 
 event, began to drop away one by one ; and then after a while 
 some whispered word ran through the scattered groups which 
 alone remained, and thereupon they also hurried away in the 
 direction of the harbor, and left the front of the prison, deserted 
 by all but the watchmen and soldiery. 
 
 Within that cheerless building, in a small stone cell, with a 
 single grated window, a pallet bed, one chair, and a small 
 table, whereon were placed a lamp, an open bible and a stone 
 jug of water, sat Ruth Whalley. 
 
 She had been brought thither sometime before noon, from 
 the court-house, where, in the space of less than three hours, 
 she had been tried, convicted, sentenced to die for witchcraft, 
 and left from that hour until now, alone and un visited by any 
 one but the jailer. 
 
 She was to die at noon on the morrow. 
 
 To die ! It is a dark and fearful thing to die, even for those 
 who are aweary of their lives ; who have proved all the dis 
 appointments, the vanities, the woes of human life ; who look 
 upward from a world of anguish and of sin, to one of immortal 
 purity and bliss. 
 
 What must it be then to one in the first flower of youth and 
 health, and beauty, with all the fresh world bright, before her. 
 
 Even when honored and beloved, full of years and glory, 
 surrounded by troops of weeping and adhering friends, it is a 
 difficult thing to die ! Even to him, who is powerless, friend 
 less, hopeless, alone on a foreign land, all human pleasures 
 melted and weighed and found wanting, still it is difficult to 
 die how bold the heart, how firm the faith soever, there is 
 
 yet something in the mysterious void, whence no voice hath 
 R* 
 
198 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ever come to tell its secrets something which the soul burns 
 to know, yet coldly shrinks from knowing ! 
 
 What must it be, then, to die, a death of agony, of shame, 
 of horror a felon s death on a gibbet? And that for one so 
 young, so tender, arid so untried, in the world s school of tor 
 ture ? What to look forward for long hours to such a fate, 
 alone, unsupported by a single friend, unwept, unprayed for, 
 unconsoled ? 
 
 Can mind of man imagine aught more terrible ? 
 
 Yet this was the condition in which that beautiful, pale 
 maiden had sate there alone since morning. Hearing the 
 strokes of the fatal bell, each stroke proclaimed that her life 
 was ebbing fast away, fast as the sands in the glass of time. 
 
 It is a strange thing, that it is often the weakest and frailest 
 natures which support trials, not moral only, but physical, such 
 as are generally supposed to require physical power to sustain 
 them, better and with more fortitude than sterner and more 
 hardy characters. 
 
 So it was with Ruth Whalley. 
 
 At first she had been stunned by the suddenness of the false 
 charge, the mass of perjured evidence, the cruel and iniquitous 
 proceedings, the dark, disgraceful sentence she had been 
 stupefied and unable to comprehend that she was indeed to 
 die to die a felon s death on the morrow. Slowly and 
 gradually the dreadful truth dawned on her and for a while 
 she wept, wept bitterly in terror and regret in terror of her 
 awful doom, regret for the vain promise of her untimely-ended 
 youth. 
 
 But it was not long that she yielded to that weakness. She 
 called to mind the glorious promises of the Redeemer, and she 
 turned the eyes of her mind witli a gaze so steady to that ex 
 ceeding great reward, which the Almighty has himself re 
 vealed, as awaiting those who are prosecuted for his sake, 
 
THE PRISON. 199 
 
 that all the terrors of the brief passage from time into eternity, 
 all the weak ties that bound her to this earthly sphere, were 
 unseen and unheeded. 
 
 For all the proffered consolations, to all the kind inquiries 
 of the blunt but kind-hearted keeper, who wept for her as if 
 she had been his own child, she had but one answer 
 
 " She needed nothing she feared nothing she was ex 
 ceeding happy." 
 
 So passed the day, neither fast to her nor slowly, so steady 
 was her pulse, so confident her gentle spirit. 
 
 She had eaten of her prison fare ; she had taken her leave 
 of this world ; she was in peace with all mankind ; she put 
 her whole trust in the mercy of her Redeemer ; in a few little 
 hours she was once more to be with her dear mother, never 
 again to sorrow or to sin. 
 
 Why should she not sleep soundly ? 
 
 She had bound up her beautiful fair hair, and was about to 
 seek her lowly pallet for her last sleep save one ; but she had 
 yet to undergo one trial. 
 
 The door of her cell opened and closed suddenly, giving 
 admittance to a tall man, whose form and face were both 
 muffled in the folds of a dark cloak. 
 
 But muffled as he was, Ruth knew him on the instant as by 
 a fearful instinct, and shrank back with dread into the farthest 
 angle of her prison. 
 
 " Do you fear me, pretty Ruth ?" said her tormentor. 
 
 " Should I not fear you ?" answered the hapless girl. " You 
 who, for your mere pleasure, have slain or banished all my 
 kindred ; and now have slain me also with a lie." 
 
 " Hard words, Ruth !" said the governor, for he it was who 
 had come to trouble her last hours. " Do you not fear to use 
 such terms to me ?" 
 
 " What should I fear I who shall die to-rnorrow ?" 
 
200 
 
 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " Ay ! die, and that before another sunset." 
 
 " What, I say, should I fear ? you can do me no ill more 
 than you have done." 
 
 " Perhaps, I can do you good." 
 
 " Perhaps," she answered calmly. " But if you can, you 
 will not. Wherefore, I pray you, trouble me no farther. If I 
 have wronged you, you have your revenge to triumph over a 
 weak girl is pitiful ; I pray you leave me." 
 
 Even the insolent and brutal Andross was staggered by her 
 gentle and serene fortitude ; and it was a moment before he 
 was collected enough to ask her in a voice half-trembling, 
 half-admiring 
 
 " Do you not fear to die ?" 
 
 " No ! Can you say as much, and truly ?" 
 
 " You must, I think, desire it, that you dare thus taunt one 
 who has the power to smite or to spare." 
 
 "There is but O.NE who hatli that power; and to him I 
 have resigned myself already. If it be his will that I perish, 
 thou, vain man, hast no power to spare. If he stretch out his 
 arm to save I shall not fall for all thy writing." 
 
 " Dost thou desire to die, then, that you so scorn me ?" 
 
 " I scorn no man, no creature of his hand," she answered 
 calmly ; and then added, " What I desire signifies nothing 
 but no living thing desires to die that is in health and reason." 
 
 " Ha ! you relent, pretty one ! I thought your boasting was 
 too loud to be lasting," answered the tyrant, with a coarse and 
 triumphant laugh. " And would you do aught, my sweet saint, 
 to escape hanging ; you may yet go free, if you are wise and 
 gentle." 
 
 " I would do aught," she answered, " that is lawful. See 
 ing that I have no right to advance my appointed hour by one 
 minute. But this avails nothing. You have not come this 
 night to spare me." 
 
THE PRISON. 201 
 
 " By my honor ! by my soul ! I have come for no other 
 purpose ! You are too young, too fair, too innocent, to die. I 
 have come to spare you." 
 
 Her pale cheek was flushed for one moment, her eye was 
 kindled with a ray of hope. She clasped her hands, and 
 spoke, no longer firmly, but in a tremulous and agitated voice 
 
 " You can not no, you can not be mocking me !" she said. 
 " No man could mock a woman at such an hour as this. 
 What must I do, that you shall spare me ?" 
 
 " That which I asked of you, the last time we met," he an 
 swered triumphantly ; and, as he spoke, he drew nearer to 
 her, confident that she was on the point of yielding. " Grant 
 me that, and you live ! refuse me, and you die ! Your an 
 swer ?" 
 
 " I would have died then, by my own hand, rather than 
 yield, or grant it ! Are you answered ?" 
 
 " Ha ! is it so, proud wench ? he cried, furious at finding 
 himself frustrated, when he deemed success certain. " By 
 Him who made me, you shall yield it now, and yet die to-mor 
 row. There are no knives here, whether for my heart or your 
 own." 
 
 And with the words, he rushed furiously toward her. 
 
 Hopeless of aid, and in extremity of terror, the miserable 
 girl uttered a shriek, so loud, so full of agony and horror, that 
 the stout soldiers started at their posts without the gates, and 
 trembled. 
 
 And though she looked for no aid, it came, instant, in time 
 to save. 
 
 The door flew open, and the stout jailer entered, quiet and 
 grave, though with an angry flush on his blunt brow, and a 
 fierce spark in his deep gray eye. He held in his left hand a 
 heavy partisan ; and two large horse-pistols were stuck in his 
 leathern girdle. 
 
202 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " Sir Edmund Andross," he said firmly, " my prisoners aro 
 under my charge and my charge alone, until the time arrive 
 when I must yield them to the sheriff. Until that time come, 
 no man shall wrong them." 
 
 "Aa//. ? " exclaimed Andross, haughtily. " Shall to me? 
 Are you mad, fellow ? know you to whom you speak ?" 
 
 " Yes ! shall to you, Sir Edmund, when I am in my place, 
 and you out of yours. Mad ! no, I trow, not I. And for know 
 ing I know well that you are an English governor, and I a 
 Yankee jailer. What of that ? I do my duty : you have for 
 gotten yours. But enough of this lock-up hours are past; 
 and you stay here no longer. I think your honor" and he 
 laid an ironical emphasis on the word "had better withdraw 
 peacefully. If not, I call the prison-watch, and enforce your 
 departure." 
 
 Andross scowled on him furiously ; but though his soul was 
 full of fierce and fiery hate, and threatening words were burn 
 ing on his tongue, he had enough of reason left to perceive 
 that he was powerless and in the wrong ; and enough of self- 
 control to restrain his feelings in the hope of avoiding scandal. 
 
 He turned therefore slowly on his heel, and moved toward 
 the door. " Advance your light," he said, " and show me the 
 way, sirrah. And, be you sure, that I shall remember this 
 night s work." 
 
 " And I am sure that I shall not forget it," answered the 
 sturdy officer, doing as he was ordered quietly, but keeping a 
 quick eye to the other s movements. 
 
 Andross strode forward haughtily in dark silence, until he 
 reached the threshold, then he turned round, and shook his 
 finger at the maiden, who had fallen on her knees, with clasped 
 hands and upturned eyes, in gratitude to Heaven for that de 
 liverance from peril worse than death. 
 
 " Girl," he said, " make your peace with God ! for in his 
 
THE " TWO-FRIKNDS." 203 
 
 presence you shall stand, ere the sun sets to-morrow." There 
 was a bitter and sardonic smile on the scoffer s lips as he 
 spoke ; and he added with a sneer " What answer you to 
 that ?" 
 
 " Amen !" she replied, looking at him calmly, " and may He 
 pardon you, whose name you take in vain !" 
 
 If a look could have slain, there would have been no hang 
 man needed to wreak Andross s vengeance on that gentle head 
 upon the morrow. 
 
 But it fell harmless as the curse which quivered on his lips 
 unspoken ; or recoiled on his own head, urging him on to deeds 
 of fresh madness, and greater desperation. " Whom the gods 
 destine to destruction, they first deprive of reason," said Rome s 
 sage how sagely, let every felon s fate bear witness. 
 
 The door of Ruth s cell closed behind him. No trouble 
 more came nigh to her that night. Innocent, she slept sound 
 ly, and in her dreams was happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE " TWO-FRIENDS." 
 
 IT was yet dark, although morning was nigh at hand ; a 
 thick, gray mist hung over the city, and filled the streets and 
 narrower thoroughfares with wreaths of turbid vapor. But 
 over the wharfs, and on the surface of the water the fog was 
 packed so densely that it was not possible to see the largest 
 object at the distance of twenty yards. 
 
 Still, in despite" of the inclemency of the weather, and the 
 impossibility of descrying anything to seaward, there was a 
 
204 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 considerable crowd collected on the docks and that apparently 
 in eager and anxious expectation. 
 
 But hour after hour passed away, and the dawn grew gradu 
 ally brighter, and the sky clearer overhead, without the murky 
 fog diminishing in the least below, or anything occurring to 
 justify or account for the eagerness of the people. 
 
 Yet as the day grew more apparent, and the sun rose, the 
 number of persons who gathered down to the water s edge 
 increased; and not their numbers only, but their eagerness, 
 although they were perfectly quiet and orderly. 
 
 At length, there came a quick fluttering motion in the air, 
 a long cool breath, and the mist waved and shook like the 
 folds of a vast curtain. Then again all was still. A minute 
 passed thus, and then, in an instant, a strong fresh breeze 
 poured in, and the fog was dissipated in the moment. 
 
 The fair, broad bay lay visible in its beautiful expanse be 
 fore the eyes of all, with the great orb of the new-risen sun 
 hanging, mighty globe of lurid fire, upon the eastern verge of 
 the horizon, and shedding a long stream of crimson light over 
 the dancing ripples. 
 
 Afar off, on the bosom of the deep, there was however a 
 dark, inky shadow, rushing in rapidly toward the shore the 
 growing roughness of the waters lashed into life by the stiff 
 and increasing breeze ere long that inky shadow was broken 
 by spots and flakes of white foam, which became constantly 
 more regular and more continuous, until at length they came 
 rolling in, line after line, of tall, snow-crested billows. 
 
 Over the surface of the roughened bay, many a white sail, 
 many a toping hull was discernible, fishing-boats beating sea 
 ward, coasters close-hauled, or running in before the wind ; 
 but only one large vessel, if the Rose frigate be excepted, 
 which lay motionless, before the castle, at a single anchor, 
 with her yards accurately crossed, and every rope in its place, 
 
. THE "TWO-FRIENDS." 205 
 
 but not a speck of canvas to be seen, nor any sign of movement 
 or activity upon her guarded decks. Just as the mist cleared 
 off, however, and the sun lifted his gorgeous head above the 
 glowing waters, the dull roar of an unshotted gun broke the 
 silence, and up soared to the gaff-end the snow-white banner 
 of St. George with its resplendent cross of red, up to the mast 
 head rushed the fluttering pennon, and both streamed out be 
 fore the joyous blast triumphant and invincible. 
 
 The other ship was a tall merchantman, coming in gallantly 
 with every sail set that would draw, into her native harbor 
 her white canvass bellying in the breeze, and the foam heaped 
 beneath the bows like the froth of a cataract. 
 
 She was perhaps a mile distant from the shore when she 
 was first descried ; and every moment brought her nearer to 
 the shore, and increased the eagerness and excitement of the 
 people. 
 
 " It is she, sure enough," cried out an old sea-dog, who had 
 been contemplating her with a careful and knowing eye. " It 
 is she, by those new cloths in her maintopsail ?" 
 
 " The Two-Friends ?" asked a grave citizen. " Are you 
 certain it is she ?" 
 
 " Yes, master, it is she sure enough.* 
 
 And the words the Two-Friends spread rapidly through the 
 concourse, and were greeted by a hum of applause, and then 
 by a regular and partial cheer. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had the slight tumult which this news 
 created in some degree passed over, but a fiercer and more 
 stirring excitement succeeded it. 
 
 A sharp, rakish-looking pinnace, with the pennant of a man- 
 of-war flying from her mast-head was seen darting like a fal 
 con on her prey, as close to the wind as she could lie, across 
 the course of the merchantman as if to intercept her ; although 
 she was so far distant, and the merchantman was coming in so 
 
206 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 rapidly, that it seemed more than doubtful, whether she would 
 not weather her pursuer, and come into port before her. 
 
 Every moment rendered this possibility more probable ; and 
 ere long the fact was evident to those on board the pinnace, 
 as was proved by a sharp flash a puff of white smoke from the 
 larboard bows, followed by the roar of a heavy gun, though no 
 missile was projected from its muzzle. 
 
 Still the tall ship stood on unheeding. 
 
 Another flash from the pinnace another puff of white 
 smoke, and a ball skipped from ridge to ridge of the curling 
 waves scarce twenty feet before the cut-water of the Two- 
 Friends. 
 
 Still she regarded not the summons, but stood onward, 
 scarce now a quarter of a mile distant from the crowded 
 wharves of Boston. 
 
 In the meantime, between the ship and the docks, a very 
 large, light-laden schooner had for some time been getting 
 under way, in the most lubberly and unseamanlike way that 
 can be imagined ; she was apparently very short handed, for 
 only one man and two or three boys had been seen upon her 
 decks, yet she had no less than five boats towing in the water 
 behind her, one of them a sharp clipper with her tiny masts 
 stepped, and her sails flapping idly in the wind. 
 
 Some merriment had been excited among the crowd, while 
 the large ship was at a distance, by her lubberly movements 
 and dull sailing, but now that events were thickening, and 
 something strange was apparently in progress, the attention of 
 the multitude was diverted from her, and few persons observed 
 that although yawing and keeling about strangely, she was 
 steering a course, which, if she held it much longer, must 
 bring her into collision with the Two-Friends. 
 
 Meantime, the pinnace had again fired a shotted gun ; and 
 
THE " TWO-FRIENDS." 207 
 
 this time a large rent in the ship s maintopsail showed that 
 the shot had been aimed directly at the object. 
 
 Alarmed by the firing, the frigate s crew now came passing 
 up through the hatchways, and her decks were crowded with 
 blue-jackets. The next moment her drums were heard beat 
 ing to quarters. 
 
 Still the Two-Friends held sullenly and obstinate to her 
 course, taking no notice of the firing of the pinnace, except to 
 show two or three English ensigns in various parts of her rig 
 ging, and a large orange flag at her maintopmast, as if it were 
 a private signal. 
 
 It would, however, seem that this private signal had more 
 than a private meaning ; for the instant it appeared a long, 
 loud cheer of joy ran along the crowded wharves, and up the 
 streets, and was re-echoed faint and far from the centre of the 
 city, and from the heights of Charlestown, and from the brow, 
 bloodless then, of Bunker s Hill. 
 
 At the same instant, flash after flash, roar after roar, a whole 
 broadside burst from the batteries of the pinnace. 
 
 Sails flew in wild disorder, yards fell, a topmast toppled 
 down, and unable any longer to neglect warnings so pregnant, 
 the Two-Friends backed her sails and lay to, to await her 
 captor s pleasure. 
 
 Meantime the pinnace lowered her boats, and some ten or 
 fifteen men, well armed with boarding-pike and cutlass, might 
 be seen scaling the tall sides of the merchantman. 
 
 Before, however, the crowd on the docks had time to think 
 upon what was passing, the clumsy and ill-managed schooner, 
 as if by accident, ran foul of the ship on the opposite side from 
 the pinnace. 
 
 Then, in an instant, grapplings were thrown on board, and 
 at least three hundred men, rushing up from below, burst like 
 a living torrent over the schooner s bulwarks, ran up the rig- 
 
208 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 ging, dropped from the yard-arms to the deck of the Two- 
 Friends, and for a moment all on board was confusion and 
 dismay. 
 
 A few pistol-shots were fired, and cutlasses flashed in the 
 air, and shouts were heard on board ; but all resistance was 
 at an end in five minutes ; so thoroughly were the men-of- 
 war s-men overpowered. 
 
 Then the crowd was seen to rush back on board the schoon 
 er, leaving the ship at the mercy of the pinnace, with her 
 crew hailing eagerly and deprecating hostile measures. 
 
 On the deck of the frigate, meanwhile, all was tumult and 
 confusion ; sail after sail was let fall, and sheeted home, her 
 cable was cut, and in the shortest time conceivable she was 
 under way, and in pursuit of the schooner, which, having cut 
 away her boats, was beating slowly out to sea. 
 
 For a while the abandoned boats tossed about carelessly on 
 the waters, until the pinnace had passed them unheeding, and 
 the frigate, her cable cut, and a sail or two set, was swung off 
 in an opposite direction. 
 
 Then the clipper-rigged boat showed for the first time that 
 she had men on board her. For her sails too were trimmed, 
 and right before the wind she came bounding to the shore, un 
 noticed and unhindered. 
 
 And yet she bore the prize for which all were playing. 
 
 As she came within eye-shot of the docks, a tall man stood 
 up in her bows waving the orange flag, and again peal upon 
 peal outburst the thundering acclamations, " till every steeple 
 rocked, and the fair hills re-echoed the shouts of an enfran 
 chised people rejoicing in their new-born freedom." 
 
 Another moment, and the man stood upon the docks with 
 Nelson by his side. The latter tossed his cap into the air, 
 and shouted 
 
 "William and Mary are your kings Simon Bradstreet 
 
THE MUSTERING. 209 
 
 your governor ! Shout, boys of Boston, shout ! England and 
 liberty for ever ! and down with James Stuart and Sir Edmund 
 Andross !" 
 
 There was no need to repeat the order ; for such a cry arose 
 of triumph and rejoicing, as told the tyrant and his minions, 
 that their reign in America was ended. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE MUSTERING. 
 
 SCARCELY had that last shout risen on the air, before the 
 long roll of the English drums was heard beating to arms. A 
 gun was fired from the seaward bhstion of the castle, and sig 
 nals were exchanged rapidly with the frigate, which, immedi 
 ately leaving the pursuit of the schooner, altered her course, 
 and made all sail homeward. 
 
 In the meantime Nelson and his companions hurried through 
 the dense streets to the abode of the old patriot governor, bear 
 ing the messenger of good tidings on their shoulders. There 
 the old man with Sir Henry Cecil, and Waterhouse, and Fos 
 ter, were in session, and many others with them, both officers 
 of the provincial train-bands, and magistrates under the old 
 charter. 
 
 The proclamation of William and Mary was immediately 
 laid before these worthies, and there was not a moment s doubt 
 now of the truth of the good tidings, which had so long been 
 anticipated. 
 
 " You see, Sir Henry," said the old man, " that I pledged 
 myself to nothing but what was strictly true, and which the 
 
 event has borne out./ 
 8* 
 
210 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 " And you shall see, my excellent good friend," replied Sir 
 Henry, " that I pledged myself to nothing that I will not per 
 form. I said that I would answer for the soldiers, and I will." 
 
 " But what must we do first, Master Bradstreet ?" exclaimed 
 Waterhouse. " This Andross is a man of nerve ; and is re 
 solved doubtless to carry the matter on unto the end. The 
 soldiers are Englishmen, and will obey their officers, and do 
 their duty to the last. .If we act not at once, it may well be 
 that we shall be all surprised severally, and made prisoners 
 ere a blow is stricken." 
 
 While he was speaking, Bradstreet had been employed wri 
 ting eagerly upon a strip of paper, although he appeared to 
 write every word that his friend uttered. When he ceased 
 speaking he turned round, and handing the paper to his serv 
 ing man, said, " Make all haste. Give it to no one but him 
 self. He is at his post." 
 
 Then turning to Waterhouse, he answered, " Yes. You 
 are quite right, my good friend. What orders have your men ? 
 and yours, Foster ?" 
 
 " To be ready for action at a moment s notice," replied Fos 
 ter. 
 
 " And to muster upon the Common, at the first clank of the 
 statehouse bell," cried Waterhouse. 
 
 " How many firelocks ?" asked Cecil. 
 
 " Five hundred," was the prompt reply ; " and eight hun 
 dred pikes !" 
 
 " That will do," said Sir Henry. " That will do. They 
 will not feel their honor hurt in yielding to such odds." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said Bradstreet, " you had better make 
 all speed to the common, or your men will be there before you." 
 
 Then, as he saw the wild and astonished looks of the offi 
 cers, he added, 
 
 " The time has come, the statehouse bell will sound ere you 
 
THE MUSTERING. 21) 
 
 are there. As soon as you have mustered your men, Colonev 
 \Vaterhouse,you will send a hundred men with a captain hither 
 to escort us to the town-hall. Hold the rest of the men firm, 
 assailing no one, but if assailed, yourselves resisting to the ut 
 most. How now, Green ?" he added, as a stout powerful man, 
 somewhat above the middle age, entered the room hastily, with 
 his faced flushed, and his dress disordered by the haste with 
 which he had come from the docks. u What is the matter ?" 
 
 "The frigate has returned to her moorings," he replied, 
 " and has run out her guns, and cleared her decks. I think 
 she will fire upon the town. I fancy she waits only for a mes 
 senger from Andross." 
 
 " Then let no messenger go off to her. You vnnd your 
 sturdy shipwrights, can take heed of that," said Bradstreet. 
 
 " And what if any one land from her?" 
 
 " Make him your prisoner ! Arrest him in the name of 
 King William, even if it be Captain George himself. There 
 is your warrant, sir," and he gave him a sealed paper as he 
 spoke. " Now," he continued, " here is a task of a little 
 peril who volunteers for it?" 
 
 "I I and I," exclaimed several voices in a breath, the 
 foremost and most audible of which was that of Merciful 
 Whalley. 
 
 " No, no. You will not do at all, good Merciful," answered 
 the governor elect ; " for you are angry, and not without a good 
 cause ; and angry men make evil councillors. Besides you 
 mistake ; there is no active danger in it, and I think that is 
 what you look for." 
 
 " Verily you have said it, Simon Bradstreet," answered the 
 Puritan. " Place me in the first rank against the Philistines. 
 It is there I fain would be." 
 
 " I warrant it," said Bradstreet. " But what I want now, is 
 one to bear the copy of this proclamation, which your good 
 
212 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 friend Solsgrace, here, has well nigh finished, to Sir Edmund 
 Andross and summon him to yield his power." 
 
 " I will do that, Master Bradstreet," replied Sir Henry Cecil. 
 
 " We can not spare you, Sir Henry. You are not to be risked 
 so lightly. For he were sure to apprehend you on the instant, 
 and we want you to deal with the soldierly." 
 
 " I will bear it, my good friends," said an old man rising 
 fully from the board. " I need not tell you that I will not be 
 angry. My years will bear me witness for that. And, for the 
 rest, if he takes my life there is no human being in whose 
 veins my blood runs, nor will there be any left to mourn me." 
 
 " My good friend, Sturtevant," answered the governor, " most 
 thankfully do I accept your offer, riot for the reasons that you 
 give. But simply because in all Boston there is no man so 
 well qualified as you to do this duty. I will beseech you to 
 set forth at once, without loss of time, for ere long ha ! there 
 it goes," he continued, as the keep sound of the bell from the 
 town hall broke out, first in slow, measured, awful tones, in 
 creasing still in volume, and thickening on the ear, and quick 
 ening into one continuous and startling clangor there goes 
 the voice that shall stir every heart in Boston, in America. 
 You, Gideon Whalley, you, Simeon Langdale, go with good 
 Master Sturtevant unto the governor. He is in council now." 
 
 No more words were required. The embassy went forth, but 
 went on a fruitless errand. Meanwhile church after church, 
 and steeple after steeple, took up the song of freedom, till leagues 
 and leagues away, far into the heart of the great continent, the 
 joyful tidings were sent forth. 
 
 The villages around poured one continuous stream of men, 
 all armed with pike and match-lock, wielded by hands inured 
 to deadly strife with the wild beast or wilder Indian, into the 
 capital of the Bay Province. 
 
 The drums beat through the streets the boys ran to and 
 
THE MUSTERING. 213 
 
 fro with clubs and stones, and doors were barred and shop 
 windows closed, and all was tumult and confusion. 
 
 Meanwhile the captain of the frigate came ashore in his 
 barge to confer with Andross, and was made prisoner in a 
 moment. 
 
 About the same time the messenger returned to Bradstreet, 
 from the governor, refusing to give up the reins of power, and 
 asking for a conference. 
 
 " It is of no avail. We will go forth to the town-hall, and 
 read the proclamation," replied the good old man. 
 
 And with the words the conference broke up, and they 
 passed out into the street. Just as they reached the common, 
 the English regiment came up with its drums beating, and its 
 colors flying, and its superb and serried lines resplendent in 
 all the pomp and pageantry of warfare stout hearts as ever 
 wielded weapon, brave hearts as ever dared the shock of bat 
 tle. But there, directly in their course, lay unexpectedly, the 
 Boston train-bands. Three times their force brave men, 
 and disciplined, and used, a part of them at least, to Indian 
 warfare. 
 
 Sternly they met each other front to front. No word was 
 spoken, no order given, but on both sides the lines halted, and 
 gazed on each other face to face, for a deep, breathless pause 
 of several minutes ! Then suddenly, yet steadily, and as if by 
 a simultaneous, and preconcerted movement the muskets rose 
 on both side to the level. Every eye in each line was glan 
 cing over the polished tube. Every finger was on the deadly 
 trigger. Another moment and blood had flowed in torrents. 
 But ere that moment came, Cecil sprang forth from the side of 
 Bradstreet, and as he stood with his stately form aloft and his 
 clear voice commanding them to " Hold for your lives" the 
 peril passed away the crisis was over! 
 
214 THE FAIR PURITAN 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE STRUGGLE. 
 
 NEVER, perhaps, though Cecil was an eloquent and able 
 speaker, accustomed for years to address bodies of men and 
 bend them to his will by the persuasive force of words, never, 
 I say, had he spoken witli such energy, such fire, such melt 
 ing pathos as he did at this perilous moment. 
 
 His words, not in long, wearying sentences cloying the 
 hearer s understanding with their very sweetness, but in short, 
 terse Saxon phrases, forcing their way wedge-like into the 
 apprehension of the dullest brain, and carrying conviction with 
 them. 
 
 Beloved, as no other officer of the regiment, by his com 
 rades, loved and respected by the men, in more than an equal 
 ratio, there was not, perhaps, a man in the world, who would 
 have been listened to by those bold martialists on such a 
 subject. 
 
 For his words, had they been unsuccessful, were such as 
 would have gained for him, beyond a doubt, the appellation 
 and the punishment of a rebel, the deed to which he incited 
 them was no less than mutiny. 
 
 " Hold," he cried in those deep and impressive tones which 
 penetrate the heart more deeply than a trumpet s clangor. 
 " Hold, men and brothers. You, men of Boston, lower your 
 muskets, ground your arms, I command you ! You, fellow- 
 soldiers, hold, I entreat you, hold ! If you would spare your 
 selves endless anguish ! if you would save your souls the guilt 
 of causeless bloodshed ay! Ravensworth, I said causeless. 
 
THE STRUGGLE. 215 
 
 For who are you but Englishmen, but the king s soldiers? 
 And what cause is it that ye would maintain, but the cause of 
 your country and your king ? 
 
 " Brothers, and fellow-soldiers, you have known me for 
 years, both in peace and in warfare, and well ye know that 
 not to earn a kingdom would I descend to a falsehood. Now, 
 mark me, this, which you think a civil and a public rising, is 
 but a poor domestic quarrel. Were this the time, were this 
 the ground of battle betwixt the cause of England and the 
 freedom of America, God is my judge and witness that as an 
 Englishman my every energy should fight for my king and my 
 country. Not for that grand, that holy, that most divine of all 
 earthly things, a nation s freedom, would I lift hand against 
 my own, my glorious country. Brothers, will you unsheath 
 your sword against her, for a poor minion s cause, in a de 
 pressed and fallen tyrant s quarrel ? Ye stare on me, with 
 eager eyes, and astonished faces, as though you understood 
 me not as though you would ask me, Who is the minion ? 
 who the deposed and fallen tyrant? Sir Edmund Andross, 
 the err-governor of this Bay Province ! James Stuart, the late 
 king of England ! Ay ! start not, it is so ! England has risen 
 to a man church and state, peers and commons, army and 
 navy ay! fellow-soldiers, that very navy which once he 
 led so well have turned from the last Stuart in his madness 
 Nay! his own children have forsaken him. He hath fled 
 from the land, without the stroke of sword, basely abandoning 
 his sceptre, even as he did wield it cruelly. England is a free 
 country. England has chosen her a free king a king not of 
 monks, and cowls, and rosaries but of stout-stricken fields, 
 of camps, and of armies. Anon !_w.ill call on you to lift your 
 voices with him to the God of battles, who has given to you a 
 soldier s king of England in William of Nassau!" 
 
 The truth fell sensibly upon their hearts. Rumors of what 
 
216 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 was in progress had reached the officers long months before, 
 and they were in some sort prepared, for that which was to 
 follow. 
 
 With the army the bigot king had ever been popular 
 Andross was hated as a tyrant and a martinet. What cause 
 had they to strike, to bleed for him ? 
 
 Well satisfied with what he saw, Cecil proceeded, and as 
 he went on, every breast went with him, and the good cause 
 was won. 
 
 " These men of Boston," he continued, " are here in arms 
 at my call, mine, and the governor s. Ay! comrades, start 
 not at the word the governor s. Edmund Andross is such 
 no longer. The good, the noble Bradstreet is now the gover 
 nor of Boston ! and these good men are here, with English 
 arms in their stout hands, and English blood in their brave 
 .hearts to strike, if needs be, for the liberty of England ! Will 
 you, natives and sons, sworn soldiers of her soil, strike parri- 
 cidally against them ? Will you. men of England, tlo battle to 
 enslave England, against Americans who are here to strike, 
 one blow for the freedom of their own America, in striking for 
 the freedom of our England ?" 
 
 " No, no ! not we ! we will not !" shouted a thousand manly 
 voices. No ! never ! Cecil for ever ! Cecil and England !" 
 
 " Speak to us! speak to us, Sir Henry! What would you 
 h ive us do ?" 
 
 " Ground your arms, brothers ! The muskets which you 
 carry are King James s. Ground your arms ! Strike your 
 colors !" 
 
 Before the words had well left his lips, the butt of every 
 musket rang upon the pavement, and the proud color which 
 had never bowed before the foeman s fire, was lowered to the 
 earth. 
 
 The officers had lost all power over the men had they 
 
THE STRUGGLE. 217 
 
 desired to exert it. But few there were who did so. There 
 were two or three of their number, personal friends of An- 
 dross, who would, if they dared, have done battle in his 
 cause. 
 
 But the immense majority of numbers arrayed against them 
 now, with the conviction that a victory even, would avail them 
 nothing, since in the end all England would be arrayed on the 
 other side, held them speechless and motionless. 
 
 Only when the men had lain down their arms, and Cecil 
 had ceased speaking, the major of the regiment advanced, his 
 officers all following his example, stepped out from the ranks, 
 and walked directly up to Sir Henry Cecil. 
 
 " May we take this all this, I mean, that you have spoken 
 as true upon your word of honor ?" 
 
 " Upon my word and honor, as a man and a soldier," replied 
 Cecil. 
 
 " That is sufficient," answered the other. " I tender you 
 my sword, Sir Henry. I am King James s soldier, not King 
 William s !" 
 
 " Keep it, sir ! keep it, and use it for King William as gal 
 lantly as I have seen you use it for King James, or promise, at 
 least, you will never draw it against the King of England ! 
 One word more, gentlemen the governor is there among the 
 people, he will show you, if you are unwilling to take my 
 word, the king s proclamation and his own commission." 
 
 " We are well satisfied enough, with your word, Sir Henry 
 Cecil, which no man ever doubted!" exclaimed several of the 
 younger officers ; but the mayor and several other of the supe 
 riors desiring to be fully satisfied, went up to Simon Bradstreet, 
 and convinced beyond the possibility of doubt by the produc 
 tion of the papers, tendered their swords again, and were again 
 requested to retain them until such time as the oath of alle 
 giance to King William could be duly and legally administered. 
 T 10 
 
218 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 Meanwhile, Cecil, fearful of losing time, had again har 
 angued the men with words of fire, and bade those who would 
 be soldiers of King William take up their arms again, and dis 
 play once more England s royal colors. 
 
 And as a single man the regiment resumed its arms, and as 
 the blazoned standard floated again on the free air three 
 deep, full-mouthed huzzas, the glorious cheer of England, 
 whether gay festive board, or on the field of death, rose on the 
 air__ three cheers for King William William III. of Eng 
 land." 
 
 Just at this instant, having heard that which was in prog 
 ress, Andross came galloping down the street on a superb 
 black horse, in his full array as the royal governor, with a 
 dozen officers, his own particular friends and followers, behind 
 him. 
 
 He was prepared, as he came down, to put himself at the 
 head of the soldiery, strike a bold blow for his king, and, if 
 need be, die boldly in the cause which had made him. 
 
 But all was lost before he reached the ground, and, as he 
 perceived it, he turned to the nearest of his followers, and, ex 
 claiming " All is lost here ! our only hope is in the castle and 
 the frigate ! one bold charge for the castle !" he set spurs to 
 his charger, and made a desperate attempt to cut his way 
 through the crowd. 
 
 But as he did so, a tall man dressed in black clothes rushed 
 forward and caught his charger by the bridle. 
 
 " Hold, man of Belial !" he exclaimed. " Hold, man of 
 blood ! We have a score to settle, and in God s name let it 
 be settled now !" 
 
 And ere the words had well passed his lips, the score was 
 settled. 
 
 For with the speed of light Sir Edmund Andross snatched 
 
THE STRUGGLE. 219 
 
 a horse-pistol from his holster, set its muzzle to the man s 
 brow, and drew the trigger with a firm finger. 
 
 One flash, one loud report, and Merciful Whalley, for he it 
 was the only man who fell in that bloodless revolution 
 Merciful Whalley was but a clod of motionless and senseless 
 clay. 
 
 But not unavenged was he in his fall, nor was his score 
 long unsettled with his foeman. For his bold charger reared 
 at the close flash and report, and the dead man clinging to the 
 rein with the tenacity of death itself, stumbled and fell head 
 long. 
 
 Ere Andross could regain his feet, he was seized, disarmed, 
 bound, a captive to the people he despised, and the man he 
 hated. To his proud spirit a doom worse than death ! 
 
 Meantime the proclamation was read to the people from a 
 balcony, peace was restored, and with the loss of but one life 
 that glorious revolution was accomplished. 
 
 Within three hours the frigate was mastered, the fortifica 
 tions yielded, the castle taken, without a single shot. 
 
 Boston was free, and William of Nassau was king of Amer 
 ica and England. 
 
220 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE DEATH-BELL. 
 
 HOURS had passed like minutes during the progress of that 
 fierce and terrible excitement. 
 
 None know or can imagine, save those who have been en 
 gaged in such scenes, how the mind is whirled on from point 
 to point, forgetful of all, in that passionate and spirit-stirring 
 tumult of all that is dearest and nearest to its best affections. 
 
 So was it now with Henry Cecil. 
 
 Had any man told him, the previous night, that ere the next 
 day s noon he should have forgotten Ruth Whalley forgotten 
 her love, her innocence, her truth, her peril, he had told him 
 he lied. 
 
 Yet it was so. In the heat of the revolution, which, if he 
 had not wrought, he had at least hurried to its close in order 
 to preserve that sweet girl from a felon s death he had for 
 gotten all all but the zeal of his present purpose. 
 
 And the moment was now at hand. The fearful prepara 
 tions were all made. The minister had prayed with his vic 
 tim, the last hymn had been chanted, the funeral service of the 
 dead had been performed over the living, who should be living, 
 soon, no longer. 
 
 And Ruth was resigned and calm as ever. The last drop 
 of gall, the last pang to her fond and trusting heart, was in the 
 conviction that forced itself upon her soul, that Sir Henry 
 Cecil that her soul s idol had abandoned her. 
 
 But that black drop she had plucked from her heart, that 
 last anguish she had confessed. 
 
THE DEATH-BELL. 
 
 221 
 
 And now she sat alone in her narrow cell ; alone, for the 
 last time, with her ears listening, as mortal can listen under 
 such circumstances, only for the sound of that awful bell 
 which should soon announce the last hour of time, the first of 
 eternity with her eyes fixed and straining, through the 
 small, iron-grated loop-hole, on that far heaven, wherein she 
 hoped ere long to live in bliss for ever. 
 
 At that same moment, pride in his heart, and glory in his 
 eye, Sir Henry Cecil stood beside the aged governor upon the 
 ramparts of the castle, gazing over the bright bay and the 
 fair province, which his own skill and manhood had dared so 
 much and done so much to enfranchise. 
 
 Suddenly, he turned as pale as death, he staggered, he 
 would have fallen headlong from that steep parapet, but for 
 the ready hand of Bradstreet, which caught him on the brink 
 to the descent. 
 
 " Great God !" cried the old man, " what ails you ?" 
 
 " The bell ! the bell !" cried the young man pointing, pale, 
 conscience-stricken, and in agony, worse than the agony of 
 death toward the city, " the death-bell ! Ruth sweet Ruth ! 
 our negligence has slain thee !" 
 
 Headlong down the steep stairs of the bastion, the young 
 man rushed, rallying his forces as he went his stout com 
 panions followed him. Horses stood at the gate saddled and 
 housed for war, with pistols in their holsters and half a dozen 
 men of Foster s troop of horse, lounging about, ready for in 
 stant action. 
 
 To summon them, to leap into the saddle, to spur through 
 the echoing archway of the fort, was but an instant s work ; 
 but many a minute passed before they reached the esplanade 
 of the prison-gate, and all the while that fearful bell was 
 clanging in their ears and chiding them, as it seemed, for 
 
 their delay ! 
 T* 
 
222 THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
 They reached the esplanade, the gates of the jail were 
 open, and through the iron portals, solemn and slow, filed out 
 the dark procession. 
 
 But they were yet in time ! 
 
 A faint shriek burst from the white lips of the lovely girl, 
 as she beheld her lover ; for such in her hour of anguish her 
 heart had confessed him, spring from his horse and rush to 
 ward her, while his attendants quietly overpowered the resist 
 ance of the sheriff and his officers. 
 
 But ere his ready dagger had severed the bonds which fas 
 tened her fair wrists, she had fainted in the excess of surprise 
 and joy. 
 
 When her eyes again opened to the light, she lay in her 
 lover s arms, in the apartment of the blunt keeper of the prison, 
 with none but friendly faces gathered around her. 
 
 Reader, my tale is ended and dead must be your heart 
 and feeble your imagination if it can not supply the rest if it 
 tell you not that the first ship which sailed for merry England, 
 bore over the laughing waters, their every peril, every trial 
 ended, Sir Henry and his fair young bride; if it tell you not 
 that ere many months were passed, a stately castle in one of 
 the fairest shires of fair England was proud to claim as its 
 mistress, Ruth Whalley, the Fair Puritan; Whalley and 
 Puritan no longer ! 
 
 END OF THE FAIR PURITAN. 
 
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