With Force and Arms: A Tale of Love and Salem Witchcraft
Date: 2017-03-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical fiction; Witches -- Fiction; Trials (Witchcraft) -- Fiction; Salem (Mass.) -- History -- Colonial period; ca. 1600-1775 -- Fiction

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Title: With Force and Arms: A Tale of Love and Salem Witchcraft

Author: Howard Roger Garis

Release date: March 16, 2017 [eBook #54371]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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“I DREW MY SWORD, AND WITH THE HILT GAVE SEVERAL BLOWS ON THE DOOR.”

WITH FORCE AND ARMS
A TALE OF LOVE AND
SALEM WITCHCRAFT.
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS.

New York:

J.S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,

57 Rose Street,

11 Paternoster Building, London.

Copyright, 1908, by J.S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.

All Rights Reserved.

Copyrighted in Great Britain.

PREFACE.

The showman, crying his attractions, lifted up his voice at the flap of his tent. So, at this, the entrance to that which is within, those who stop to read may gain a hint of what is beyond. Only a little, though, to whet your appetite and make you wish for more, it is to be hoped.

So, then, this is a tale of love, of witchcraft, and of fighting. A tale of a brave man, and as brave a maid. Herein may be found the doings of witch-finders, Puritans and Indians. Also there is set down the struggle of two men for the love of a woman, and it may be learned who won. You may read of the lifting of the great rock, of the killing of the serpent, of the battle at the fort, of the trial of death, and the bursting of the mighty press. This much and more, until the tale is at an end.

The author hopes you, reader, and the many of you who make up the public, will like the story. He has tried to make it interesting. If it serves to help you pass a pleasant hour or two, the writer will have accomplished his purpose.

So, then, having had patience thus far, you may enter, and read.

H. R. G.

CONTENTS.

| PAGE
CHAPTER I.
The Governor’s Commission | 9
CHAPTER II.
Of the Scarlet Snow | 20
CHAPTER III.
The Trial | 32
CHAPTER IV.
How I Cast the Knife | 41
CHAPTER V.
Of the Stone by the Brook | 51
CHAPTER VI.
Lucille | 63
CHAPTER VII.
Of the Horseman on the Beach | 72
CHAPTER VIII.
The Battle at the Fort | 82
CHAPTER IX.
How the French Took Pemaquid | 96
CHAPTER X.
The Man at the Inn | 111
CHAPTER XI.
A Man and His Wife | 123
CHAPTER XII.
The Time of Peril | 130
CHAPTER XIII.
In Salem Gaol | 140
CHAPTER XIV.
A Sentence of Death | 150
CHAPTER XV.
Peine Forte et Dure | 161
CHAPTER XVI.
How We Broke Gaol | 172
CHAPTER XVII.
The News Nanette Brought Me | 183
CHAPTER XVIII.
How the Eagle Sailed | 192
CHAPTER XIX.
How I Found Lucille | 204
CHAPTER XX.
A Watch in the Night | 216
CHAPTER XXI.
Of the Voyage of Lucille | 227
CHAPTER XXII.
A Duel on the Sands | 240
CHAPTER XXIII.
Shadows in the Night | 256
CHAPTER XXIV.
How Simon Kept His Oath | 267
CHAPTER XXV.
In the Name of the King | 282
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Last Fight | 294
CHAPTER XXVII.
Simon | 306
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The End of Captain Amherst | 316
CHAPTER XXIX.
An Order from the King | 328
CHAPTER XXX.
Love, Honor and Obey | 338

WITH FORCE AND ARMS.

CHAPTER I.
THE GOVERNOR’S COMMISSION.

As I left the presence of His Excellency I encountered, in the doorway, a man who was entering with every appearance of haste. We came against each other full tilt. For the moment the shock threw us apart.

“Zounds! But you are a clumsy fellow!” he exclaimed, limping toward me, the expression of pain on his face showing that I must have hurt him. “Could you not look whither you were going? You stepped on my foot like a very horse,” and the words came testily.

He scowled as he prepared to pass by me.

My hand was on my sword, for he was most insulting.

“Sir!” I exclaimed, “for the pain I have caused you I am regretful. As for ‘clumsy fellows,’ look to yourself, sir!”

My weapon was out on the instant. He was not a second behind me. The steel blades crossed with a clash.

“What is this, sirs?” cried Sir William Phips, Massachusetts’s Governor, whose room I had just left. He hastened toward us.

“What mean you two, with your swords out in the Council Chamber, like a pair of swashbucklers over a card game? Put them up at once, you Captain Amherst; and you, also, Sir George. You are both at fault. This must go no further; do you hear? If it does, you may reckon with me on the quarter deck.”

My opponent and I were startled. Somewhat abashed, he whom the Governor called Sir George, sheathed his weapon, I following his action.

I looked at the man. He was tall and well built. His clothing was of good quality, with fine lace and ruffles; his sword a trusty blade, set in a hilt, studded with red stones. On his face there was a haughty look, yet withal, a trace of sadness. He gazed sharply at me, seeming about to put a question, but the Governor was beckoning him, and he passed me without a word, scowling darkly, into the chamber of His Excellency. Then I went out.

There came a time, afterward, when I wished with all my heart, that our swords had come into use, that day; a time when I would have given much to have seen him dead before me. But there was another way.

I felt within my jacket to see if my papers were safe, for on them, now, depended my good fortune. I had come to Boston town without friends, and almost on a forlorn hope, for England was no longer a safe place for me, with a relentless enemy following close on my heels at every step. My mission had succeeded better than I had dared to hope, and I was leaving now, carrying with me a captain’s commission, duly signed and sealed by His Excellency. I also had a letter of introduction to one, Samuel Willis, a tavern keeper at Salem.

Of the things which had come to pass before I found myself in Boston town, in the year of grace 1692, I will relate none for the present. At any rate here I was, Captain Edward Amherst, in age not yet a score and a half, in stature say a bit over six feet; in weight--but there, you will doubtless have more than enough of me ere I have finished.

Sufficient to say that I was a soldier by trade, and one of fortune, by necessity, and that I sought service in their Majesties’ American Colonies. I had left London eight weeks ago, bearing letters to Governor Phips, from old comrades in arms, some of whom had sailed the seas with him. Arriving in Boston I had put up at the inn, and had sought an audience with His Excellency, which interview was just over, with the ending I have described.

When I was ushered into the presence of Sir William I explained in few words why I came, and what I wanted. He extended his hand for my letters, and, when he had them, he gave me no more heed for a time, but read the missives. I watched his face as he scanned the pages, the while he kept up a running fire of comments.

“Ha! Tyler Anderson,” he said, “I know him well. He has a steady hand, and can use a cutlass famously. Sir Arthur Kent, too; a sly rascal with the women. Bob Frenchard; he never could get enough of fighting. John Powell; little Nat Edwards, also. Why, man, you might have all Boston as far as I am concerned, with these letters. You are very welcome, Captain. Now what can I do for you?”

“Much,” I answered, surprised and pleased at his welcome; and then I told him what I desired; a soldier’s chance to mend his fortunes.

“How would a Captain’s commission, on this side of the water, suit you?” he asked, when I had finished. “You tell me that was your rank before.”

“I would desire nothing better,” I said warmly.

“It is yours, then,” was the reply, and he drew out a parchment, partially covered with writing.

“You probably have heard of the activity of the French and Indian enemy on our borders,” said the Governor, while he prepared a quill. “We are about to proceed against them. You have come at a time when certain currents are like to drift you just where you want to go; into the thick of the fight.” Then he opened his ink horn.

I listened for a while to the scratching of his quill. It was some time before he had finished, and, looking up he handed a folded parchment across the table to me.

“There is your commission, Captain,” he said, rising. “As for your instructions, they are, in brief, these. You are to ride to Salem town, and enlist a company of one hundred men. Drill them well, against the time when we shall unite, and smite the French Philistine and his Indian allies, with fire and with sword. We will rake them fore and aft. An expedition against Canada is timed for this season next year. I hope it will be more successful than the one I led two years ago, for indeed that was a grievous failure, though, of a truth, it was against heavy odds.”

I had heard of the manner in which Frontenac had scattered Phips and the English fleet sent against him, but I held my peace; for failure is no happy subject with any man. Sir William told me in few words that Admiral Sir Francis Wheeler was expected to arrive in March, with his fleet from the Caribbee Islands. Governor Phips had undertaken to raise small companies of men throughout the Colony, to act with the Admiral on his arrival. This much he told me, then, bidding me a pleasant farewell, and wishing me success, he took up his quill again, to indicate that the audience was at an end.

My encounter with the man in the doorway passed from my mind, as I descended the steps of the Town Hall, and trudged along the street, to where I had stabled my mare Kit. With busy thoughts of what might be before me I led Kit out of the door, leaped into the saddle, and was off at a round trot, in the direction a lad pointed out as leading to Salem.

Of a truth, I was away now to seek my fortune in this new land, and, I hoped, with the promise of as many adventures as ever befell a knight of old. So, over hill and across dale I rode, soon leaving behind the pleasant town and the outlying farm lands. I had not gone many miles ere the snow, which had been threatening since morning, began to fall from the dull, leaden sky, piling up on the white covering of previous storms. The flakes sifted down, lazily at first, but soon began to gather more thickly as the wind rose, so I urged the mare on by spur and voice, determined to reach Salem by night, if I could. Now the snow came down ever quicker and faster. It swirled and swished, and blew in drifts, until I was fain to stop, look about me and see where I was. I pulled the mare up as I reached the top of a little hill, and peered through the clouds of cutting flakes for some sight of the road, which, it was evident, I had lost some time ago. Kit would have turned tail to the wind, but I pressed my knees against her sides, and held her to the blast. There was little hope in going back, perhaps less in proceeding.

But I decided to continue in the hope of coming to some shelter, and I patted the mare on the neck to set her going again. She lurched forward into a drift so deep that it well nigh covered my knees as I sat in the saddle, and my boots were filled with snow through their wide, gaping tops.

“Steady, girl!” I shouted, for, indeed, less voice could scarce have been heard. We were fairly lost now, and for the last hour had been wandering back and forth across country, I knew not how far from the road. I did not see a single landmark in the stretch of whiteness, my only hope having been that I might keep the right way. Kit began to back, seeking to rid herself of the cutting wind, and I had hard work to force her to stand. Should I turn to the left, to the right, or keep straight on? The wind seemed to blow less fiercely from the south, so I swung Kit about in that direction, pulled her to the left, and urged her on.

She responded nobly, and reared, rather than stepped out of the snow bank. Her fore feet struck solid ground, and then, feeling the hard road beneath her hoofs, she pulled herself forward. We had struck the right path at last, and, after hours of fierce weather-beating, like a ship at sea, lost in a storm, we were fairly homeward bound, on the way to Salem town.

I rode on more quickly now, settling my hat firmer on my head, and pressing the leather lining against my benumbed ears. My collar scarce kept the snow and wind from my neck, and every half mile or so I was obliged to drop the reins and, after feeling that my sword had not dropped off in some snow drift, knock my hands together to bring their fingers some little warmth.

Verily, I thought that the road would never lead me to the friendly tavern of Master Samuel Willis, who, as I had heard in Boston, provided refreshment for man and beast. And surely no two stood more in need of it than Kit and myself that cold February day.

A fiercer squall and gust of wind than any that had proceeded, fairly brought the mare to a stand. I lifted my hat a bit, held my interlocked fingers before my eyes, and peered ahead. Dimly, like a speck of black on a white sheet, that a dame might spread on the grass to bleach, I saw in front a house.

“May that be the tavern,” I quoth, and, with a heart that smote me a trifle, for she had traveled far and well that day, I dug the spurs into Kit’s flanks. She leaped through the drifts, and, at length, when she could make no more progress, I found myself before the snow-heaped steps of Salem Inn.

The wind, shunted off by a corner of the building, beat less fiercely at this point, and the roar was somewhat subdued. I drew my sword, for I could not reach the door knocker from where I sat on Kit’s back, and with the hilt gave several blows on the oak.

“Who’s without?” came a woman’s voice from within.

“A friend; Captain Edward Amherst,” I cried. “Open in the King’s name, if for no other reason.”

Now ere I had ceased speaking the heavy door swung inward, revealing such a warmth and such a snug, homelike appearance, and, withal, letting out such savory odors, that poor Kit whinnied in anticipation of what might be her share of the feed. As for myself, I threw one leg over the saddle, leaped to the ground, strode to the door, and went inside. I shouted to a stout serving man, snugly ensconced in the chimney corner, to look after the mare, and then I approached the blazing fire.

“The Lord defend us! Goliath and the Philistines are upon us!” cried out Mistress Willis, for she it was who had opened the door.

I turned toward her. Now, of a truth, I am not overly large. But, with a stout leather jacket on, my sword by my side, and heavy boots on my legs, I did look big to the good dame’s eyes. Yet I stood not so much over six feet, when in my woolen hose, and, in girth, full many a comrade, of times past, whose body rests beneath the bogs of Sedgemoor, in Somersetshire, was larger. Yet, in all modesty do I say it, there were none who were of greater strength in shoulders or arms, and that, with a wiry and supple wrist, stood me in good stead at sword play.

“Neither Goliath nor a Philistine am I,” was my answer, while I let the genial warmth get nearer to my bones as I cast hat and jacket into a corner, “but an Essex man by birth and breed. But, mark you, Mistress,” I went on, “if I do not get a mug of ale, and a bit of roast beef soon, I will be nothing at all, for I lost my road early this morn, and no bite nor sup has passed my lips since. Thus I am half starved. So bustle about----”

“Aye, ‘bustle about’ it is,” answered she, repeating my words, though in no great anger. “Bustle about is all I’ve done since sunrise. What with Willis away all day, attending on Dr. Clarke; with the snow, and only one serving man, I have scarce time to----”

“Peace,” said I, for I never loved a woman’s tongue when it ran in that strain, “peace, and bring the ale and beef. You may talk afterward if you like. I can listen better then.”

Mistress Willis looked at me a minute, as if she would reply, but she came to another conclusion, ceased her clatter, and bustled about to such good advantage that she soon had on the table a plate of smoking hot beef, and some cakes of yellow corn meal, with pats of golden butter. There was also a stone mug of good ale. I gulped down a big drink of it, and, when the flavor of it had mellowed me, and the warmth gone clear down to my toes, I did drink again, this time to the health of Mistress Willis. For, though I like not a woman’s tongue when they talk over much, I know the value of being in their good graces. And so I ate and drank, and ate again, until I felt the cold leave me, and the memory of the biting wind and driving snow of an hour before was forgotten. I leaned back in my chair, and looked all about me, while the fire in the big chimney place flickered and spluttered; the hickory logs smelling like sweet nuts, and cracking with the heat, as a teamster snaps his whip on a frosty morning.

I let my eyes take in the room, with the oak beams overhead, blackened by smoke, the heavy tables and chairs, and the clean sanded floor. It was getting on toward night now, and the wind had died out. I was alone in the room, but I could hear Mistress Willis walking about in the apartment overhead, and giving some orders to the servant. I rose from my chair somewhat wearied, wishing that the inn keeper would return, so that I might meet him, and seek my bed. I walked to the window, noting that the moon had risen, and that the snow had ceased. As I looked through the casement I started, and doubted whether my eyes beheld aright, for I saw a sight of more than passing strangeness, and one that, for a time, struck terror to my heart.

The snow, which had been as white as a fleecy cloud, was now as red as blood beneath the silver moon!

At the same time I saw, coming toward the inn, at top speed, three men who ran on, never once halting to glance behind them.

CHAPTER II.
OF THE SCARLET SNOW.

There was a clatter on the stairs as Mistress Willis came down, her face white as the snow had been. She saw the red mantle from an upper window, and came to stand beside me, with fright in her eyes.

Together we watched the three figures, her breath coming like that of one who had run far, her heart thumping against her ribs. For myself, the first start over, I recalled that once before I had seen snow like that. Learned men said small Arctic plants in floating clouds, or tiny insects, had dyed the white flakes crimson. Yet in the town of Salem, that night, that a red shadow of doom portended, was the dread in every heart.

Nearer and nearer came the three men. Their boots cast up the snow, blood red on top and white beneath, so that their path was marked like a pale streak of dawn athwart a morning sky. They reached the inn door, and burst into the room scarce stopping to raise the latch. The shorter of the three, whom I took to be Master Willis, by reason of his good-natured face, from which even fear had not chased all the jollity, cried out:

“Oh, Lord, deliver us! ’Tis the snow of blood, and the witches of the air have sent it upon us. Of a truth they be demons of darkness; those who will be on trial to-morrow,” and he fell to murmuring a psalm tune in a high pitched, quavering voice, crowding the while into the chimney corner, where he could not see the red snow.

Now I was sore puzzled by all that had happened, although I set but small store by the crimson flakes. The talk of demons of darkness, and witches of the air, came with an odd sound to my ears. The more so as I had heard that these New Englanders were a plain, practical people, much given to prayers and pious works. To hear Master Willis prate of mysterious beings, then, made me wonder what had come to pass. The three men, and the wife of Willis, were huddled together now, one of them occasionally glancing with awestruck eyes out of the window.

“There is one comfort, though,” muttered the inn keeper, “the witches will be no more after to-morrow, as their trial is set for then, and there will be a short shrift, when once the honorable judges have passed sentence.”

“’Tis none too soon,” put in Mistress Willis. “Had the doers of witchcraft been hung or burned to-day, this evil would not have fallen upon us. Who knows what else may follow. These are troubled times,” and she glanced uneasily out of the window again.

I had been forgotten in the sudden terror, and I stood in the far corner of the room, waiting until I might have some attention. Seeing that I was like to stay there some time without notice, so firmly had the fear laid hold of the company, I stepped from my place, and, as I saw the inn keeper’s eyes turn toward me, I spoke:

“Master Willis,” I began, but I had scarce uttered the words than the mistress screamed, and the three men turned, as if to flee from the room. Verily, I believe they took me for a witch. Had not the logs in the fireplace blazed up then, showing who I was, there is no telling what might have happened.

Mistress Willis gave a sigh of relief while the tavern owner and his companions stared at me.

“Lackaday! I had clear forgotten you,” said the matron. “’Tis some one to see you, Samuel Willis.”

“Me?” repeated her husband.

“Captain Edward Amherst, at your service,” said I, bowing slightly. “I bear a commission from His Excellency Sir William Phips, and I was bidden to seek this inn, and to make it my headquarters for a time. I also have a letter from Sir William for you, Master Willis.”

“Ha! ’Tis a strange time to get a letter,” ejaculated mine host, taking the missive I held out. “And I can scarce break the seal from the trembling of my hand over this visitation of wrath that has come upon us.”

However, he managed, after several attempts, to crack the wax. Then, candles having been brought, he read what Sir William had addressed to him.

“You are very welcome, Captain,” said Willis, “though you come, indeed, at a grievous time. Sin, woe and misery are abroad in the land. We are threatened by the French and the Indians from without, and by horrid witchcraft within. ’Tis enough to make an honest man believe the end of the world is nigh. But, of a truth, you are welcome. We have been expecting that some military authority would be sent to Salem, to make ready for an aggressive movement.

“Rumor has already been busy,” he went on, “talking of the blow we are to strike at the enemies of the Crown in the American Colonies. How we are to swoop down, by land and by sea, on the French in Canada. I see by this that you are authorized to raise an hundred good men at arms in Salem town.”

“If it be possible,” I said.

“I believe it will be no hard task to get them,” responded Willis. “What think you, Dr. Clarke, or you, Master Hobbs? Though you are more versed in physic, doctor, and you in wheelwright lore, Master Hobbs, than in feats of arms. As for me, I can point a fowling piece, or a rifle, with no trembling hand, and at sword play I used not to count myself the worst of our militia,” and the inn keeper drew himself up proudly, and made one or two passes at an imaginary foe.

“Now that you know my errand, enough is spoken of it for the time,” I said. “Tell me, what bodes this talk of evils abroad in the land; of spirits and witchcraft? The red snow I count not for much, having seen the same happening in the north of France once on a time. ’Tis but passing; a mist of tiny Arctic plants, a flight of forest insects, even a glint of red sun through a hidden cloud may cause it.”

“Nay,” came in deep tones from Dr. Clarke. “Talk not lightly, young man, of that which you wot little. Know you, that this day I have been called in to minister to Elizabeth Parris, and Abigaile Williams, the daughter and niece, respectively, of our good Dominie, Samuel Parris. Verily the children be possessed by witches of the air, for their actions were most strange. They bore no marks, yet they continually cried out that witches ever thrust pins in their flesh. And Mistress Parris told me how pins were cast up from the children’s throats, though I saw not the instruments of torture, they having been removed before my arrival. Sometimes the children were at peace, and, on a sudden they would cry out that the witches were at them again though at no time were the spirits visible to me.”

“How did you then learn who the witches were?” I asked in some curiosity.

“’Twas easily done,” replied the physician, “for in their fits the children cried out the names of those who were tormenting them. They spoke of Tituba, an Indian servant in the same house with them, and of one, Marie de Guilfort, a maid, living not far off. These two, they said, had appeared to them, and thrust pins and needles into their bodies.”

“And what was done with the two thus accused?” said I.

“What would you have?” interposed Willis. “The law of our Colony prescribes death for all who, whether male or female, practice witchcraft.”

“Even so,” went on Dr. Clarke. “These two, having been named as witches, and Mistress Parris, affirming on oath, for the children, the witches were seized by the constables, and now lie in Salem gaol. To-morrow is the trial day in the Oyer and Terminer Court. And, if further proof was needed that the two were witches, this scarlet snow is more than enough.”

“That will pass,” I said, yet I wondered, with a strange feeling in my heart, what evils might portend. Little did I guess what perilous times were ahead; when no man’s nor no woman’s life was safe. When the false fear of witchcraft stalked abroad in the land like a horrid spectre, slaying, burning, hanging and crushing.

“See!” cried Hobbs, the wheelwright, pointing to the window.

The red glow outside was fading away, and the moon shone peacefully on the fast whitening snow. Slowly the angry red died out, seeming to sink down into the earth, and with it went some of the fears of those in the room.

“’Tis wonderful! Never before did my eyes behold such a feat of witchcraft,” said the inn keeper.

Then, as we watched, the scarlet covering disappeared entirely, leaving the scene as peaceful as the day had been stormy. It was close on to nine o’clock now, and Dr. Clarke and the wheelwright began to make plans for going home.

“I suppose, Hobbs, that you do not mind going around by the mill with me?” suggested the physician. “’Tis at best a lonesome place, and, though I have no fears, still one man may be no proof against witches. What say you, Hobbs?”

“If I go by the mill with you,” protested the wheelwright, “I will have to pass alone over the bridge whereon, only to-day, Tituba was taken. Nay, Dr. Clarke, I’ll go by the back road to my home, if it please you.”

“But, Hobbs,” urged the man of physic, “the road over the bridge is bathed in moonlight, besides----”

“Enough, I’ll not go,” replied the other. “Was it not near the mill that the other witch was observed to be plucking flowers last summer? Who knows but she has cast a spell over the place?”

Verily the two would never have screwed up courage to go home, had not Willis urged that he was about to close his tavern. So they were forced to make a start.

I peered out of the window to see which ways they took. Dr. Clarke continued in his endeavor to convince Hobbs that the road by the mill was the best, but the wheelwright was stubborn. Suddenly he turned and ran across the snow toward his home. Left there alone in the night, the physician faced about also, and, glancing behind him, as if he feared to see the Devil, he sped on toward the mill.

I was tired and sleepy after my ride, so, with a word to Willis I lost no time seeking my chamber; one of the few that the tavern boasted of. My head was filled with plans for leading men once more to battle. For I loved the strife of war, the clash of steel on steel, the smell of powder, and the shouts of foes and comrades. Well, I was soon to have my fill of it, though I dreamed not that I would have to fight with such foes as presently beset me.

The sun was shining when I arose in the morning, to dash cold water on my face and hands from an ice-ribbed basin in the corner, for the night had been cold, and there was no heat in the room. Yet when I emerged I found the sunlit air warm, and it seemed as if Nature had forgotten her fierce, boisterous mood of yesterday. Willis greeted me as I came from the stable, whither I had gone to see that Kit had had her full measure of corn.

“’Tis little you can do to-day,” he said, “for this cursed witchcraft has so laid hold of men that talk of war and fighting will scarce interest them now, even though the battle be against their mortal foes, the French and Indians.

“A magistrate and a jury will try the two witches to-day at the court house. Since you have nothing better to do come there with me. ’Twill be a sight, I warrant, you have never seen before. Nor have I, though stories of how, in days gone by, witches were tried in Boston have come down to me from my father.”

“Who are the two called witches?” I asked, when breakfast, for which I had a great relish, was finished. While I fastened on my sword, preparing to follow the inn keeper, he answered me.

“One, the elder woman,” he said, “is Tituba, an Indian slave, and there is little doubt that she is a witch. I make no bones but she is familiar with Satan, for I dare not look her in the eyes, yet I count myself afraid of little on this earth. The other, were she not a witch, I could well be sorry for, as she is beautiful to look upon; a girl almost. Yet it but proves how the evil one can use even beauty to gain his ends. Marie de Guilfort is the name of the young witch. She is a French Huguenot, who, with her cousin, Lucille de Guilfort, and the latter’s father, M. Louis de Guilfort, came to Salem some five years back. The old man died, not being able to withstand the rigors of our winters, and the two girls have since lived alone, with an old servant to see after their wants. Both of them are more than passing fair to look upon. Is it not a pity that in such a body, in one so young and lovely, there should be a soul sold to Satan?”

“You saw the purchase made, then?” I asked with some spirit, for I did not like the positive tone of Willis.

“What purchase?”

“Of the soul of the one you call Marie de Guilfort?”

“No man did,” he answered, half angrily. “Yet it cannot be doubted. For did not the child say that Marie tormented her with pins? And how could these be thrust, Marie not being present, unless the Devil helped her?”

I shrugged my shoulders, for I thought it was little use to argue with a mind that laid stress on such points.

“Will the child’s testimony, and that of the mother, be enough to convict the girl of witchcraft?” I went on, rather curious to know how they managed such affairs in New England.

“There will be other witnesses,” said Willis, “and enough to bring the matter to a close.” We were at the court house steps now, and I ceased my talk to observe what was going on.

The crowd was there before us. They pushed and swayed about the narrow doorway, moving first this way and then that. It was a strange assemblage. None in it was laughing. There was no jesting, no calling from one to another. Instead there was a calm quietness about it, a set, serious look on the faces that partook of a sense of a duty to be performed--one that could not be shirked. Into the room, with its high ceiling and dark oaken beams overhead, the people swarmed, making but little confusion. After some crowding and quiet jostling, Master Willis and I managed to obtain seats near the door. We had scarcely gotten into them before the tavern keeper, peering up, whispered:

“There goes Stephen Sewall, the clerk. Note how proudly he bears his ink horn and quills. He seems to know not any one now, though only yesterday he begged me to trust him for a glass of ale, and I did so. There come the jurors,” added Willis, “and, see! The prisoners! The witches!”

“I see them not,” I said looking all about. There were a few women present, but none of these seemed to be in custody.

“Farther to the left,” said Willis, “mark where Constable George Locker, and his companion, Jonathan Putnam sit?”

“Aye, I see.”

“Note the two women next to them?”

“Yes.”

“They be the witches. Lord prevent that they cast their eyes this way!”way!” and back the inn keeper shrank into his seat.

One of the prisoners was a young girl, as fair as one could wish. The other was an Indian woman, as dark as the brown bark of a pine tree. The maid sat with downcast eyes, and deadly terror written in every line of her shrinking form. The eyes of the Indian roved about, looking boldly at the people, as if she bid defiance to her enemies.

I noted that across from me a woman, or rather a maiden, sat with her head bowed on the rough bench in front of her. A cloak concealed most of her figure, and the hood of the garment was drawn up over her head. From this covering a dark ringlet of hair had escaped, and rested lightly on her white cheek. Her little hand, with the pink nails showing against the white flesh, grasped the edge of the seat tightly.

I nudged Master Willis, and asked in a low tone who she was. He did not hear me, for just then the court criers entered, calling loudly for silence. There was a pause, and then, slowly, and with becoming dignity, the dark gowned judges made their appearance.

“Their Honors, Judges John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin,” said Willis. “The trial will begin directly now.”

CHAPTER III.
THE TRIAL.

The cries of “Silence” by the constables were some time in being of effect, so anxious were the people without to get in. The efforts of those inside to secure places of vantage was also the cause of some confusion and noise, but, at length, order was obtained. The learned looking judges, with their wigs and gowns, whispered to each other, and then to the clerk. There was some passing of papers back and forth among them, and then Clark Sewall, clearing his voice importantly, read from a parchment he held:

“Indictment of Tituba, the Indian, and of Marie de Guilfort. The jurors for our Sovereign Lord and Lady, King William and Queen Mary, do present that you, Tituba, the Indian, and Marie de Guilfort, in the county of Essex, upon the 26th day of February, in the fourth year of the reign of our Sovereign Lieges, rulers, by the grace of God, over England, Ireland, Scotland and France, King and Queen, defenders of the faith; divers other days and times, as well as before and after, certain detestable arts called witchcraft and sorceries, wickedly and feloniously, hath used, preached, exercised, at and within the township of Salem aforesaid, in and upon and against Elizabeth Parris and Abigaile Williams. By which said wicked arts the said children are hurt and tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, wasted and tormented. And also for sundry acts of witchcraft, by the said Tituba and Marie committed and done before and since that time, against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady, their Crown and dignity, and against the forms of statutes in that case made and provided.”

All this the clerk read, scarce pausing for breath, and, when he had finished, a sound like a great sigh went up from the people.

“Terrible! Oh, most terrible!” whispered Willis.

“Out upon you,” I exclaimed. “’Tis naught but a lot of high sounding law terms. Master Sewall has a pretty trick of rolling them off his tongue.”

I glanced at the prisoners, who had been led to chairs on the high platform near the judges’ desks. She, who was called Marie, looked straight over the heads of the crowd, right down to where I sat. Her eyes roved on past me to the shrinking form of the maiden at my right. The latter raised her head, her eyes dim with tears.

While I watched her lips moved, as if in prayer, and she stretched out her arms to the beautiful girl on the stand.

“Who is the maid at our right?” I asked of Willis.

“’Tis Lucille, the cousin of Marie,” he answered.

Just then Lucille turned her head, and her eyes met mine. Full half a minute we gazed at each other, and though I know not the import of the message that came from her eyes, it was like one that would make me do her bidding, even though death stood in the way.

The indictment having been read the witnesses against the accused were called. The mother of Elizabeth mounted the stand, and began giving her testimony in a dull, monotonous tone.

She told how the two children were of a sudden stricken into fits one day, which illness Dr. Clarke was not able to allay. Then the children cried out that some one was thrusting pins in them. Dr. Jacobs related how he had been called in, and, finding no evident cause for the ailments, had concluded, with Dr. Clarke, that the girls were possessed by witches. How the learned men arrived at this conclusion they said not.

Then came strange testimony. Dr. Jacobs told how he had cautioned Mistress Parris to hang the children’s blankets near the fireplace at night, burning whatever fell therefrom. A great toad dropped out, the woman said, and a boy caught the reptile up with the tongs, and threw it in the fire. It exploded with a noise like gun powder, and the next day Tituba was found to be burned on the left cheek, which made it plain that she had changed herself into a toad for the purpose of tormenting the children. What further proof was wanting? If there was it would seem to have been furnished by the girls themselves.

They were brought into court, trembling and shrinking back. And then, suddenly, with mine own eyes, I saw them fall down in strange fits, the like of which I had never seen before. They cried that pins and knives were being stuck into them by Marie and Tituba. Though how that could be I fathomed not, for the hapless women never moved from their seats. But a murmer went around, and the judges, nodding their heads, looked grave.

Next Farmer John Sloan related how he was removing his hay from the meadow, using three carts.

“And, your Honors,” he said, “when I passed Tituba’s house one of the wheels touched her gate post, and she muttered an evil spell against me. After that the cart was overturned, though the road was without ruts. Coming from the field on the next trip the cart did somehow fasten itself between two gate posts, so that they had to be cut away ere the cart could be drawn through. Yet neither the wheels nor the sides nor any part of the cart did touch the posts.”

“’Tis enough,” broke in Judge Corwin. “Do you question the prisoners, Judge Hathorne. Let not the day of judgment be stayed. A great evil is upon the land, and must be purged away.”

Judge Hathorne asked Tituba what evil spirit she had familiarity with, and whether she had ever seen the Devil.

Then of a sudden she rose in her chair. She let her eyes rove over the room, while the whole assemblage, judges, jurors, and all save myself, cowered in their seats.

“Aye,” she shrieked, “aye, I have seen him. He came to me in his chariot of fire, and bade me serve him. I dared not say him nay. Also have I seen two rats, a red one and a white one. And they did command that I pinch the children. Aye, the rats did carry me to them like a spirit of the air, and I pinched them and thrust sharp pins in them. Aye, the Devil! the Devil! the Devil!”

And then the creature ceased, and shrank back in her chair, crooning away in her own tongue. The judges on their benches shuddered, and many near me whispered:

“She is a witch, indeed.”

Next their honors turned toward Marie, and a sound like a great deep cry came from the maiden near me. I half started from my seat, and had a mind to draw my sword, to do what I could to rescue the beautiful girl who seemed to me to be as innocent as the flowers. But even as I rose, scowling looks met me at every side. Some of the constables hastened in my direction, and Master Willis, with a quick motion, drew me back into my seat. Clearly the town folks were witch-mad, and would brook no interference with their doings. I listened to what the judge was saying.

“Are you a witch?” he asked of Marie. But she did not reply.

“Answer,” commanded the clerk. “Tell his Honor if you be a witch.”

Then in a voice that, though it was weak from fear, yet which seemed like the tinkle of a silver bell, sad and sweet, came the reply:

“I am no witch indeed. You who have known me since I have lived among you know me for but a harmless maid.”

“True enough; she was kind to me when my child was sick unto death,” said a woman near me. But the terror of the scarlet snow of the night before had seized on the minds of all, so that they could not see the truth.

“Confess, and ye die not,” said Judge Hathorne. He leaned over toward Marie, a trace of pity on his face. But Marie only looked down at her cousin, whose lips were moving in silent prayer. “Will ye not confess, and save your soul?” persisted the judge, in some anger at the manner in which the fair prisoner ignored him.

“I can speak in the presence of God, safely, as I may look to give account another day,” said Marie, “that I am as innocent of witchcraft as the babe unborn.”

There was a murmur in the crowd, but it was quickly hushed. The Indian woman was swaying back and forth in her chair, mumbling away, and now and then breaking out into a wild melody. Some near me said she was singing her death song as is the custom of that race.

The judges motioned the jury to retire, and, while they were out I sat looking at Lucille. Her body was shaking with sobs. Marie, on the contrary, did nothing but sit and stare away into vacancy, with wide, unseeing eyes, like a beautiful statue.

It seemed but a short time ere the jury was back again. Once more the constables proclaimed silence. The jurors took their seats. There were the usual questions and answers, and then the leader said:

“We find Tituba, the Indian, and Marie de Guilfort guilty of witchcraft.”

“And the sentence of this court is that you both be taken hence and hanged by the necks until ye both are dead, and may God have mercy on your souls,” came from the judge.

The fatal words scarce were uttered when Lucille rose from her seat. Her face was the color of the white snow outside. She reeled, and would have fallen, had I not sprang toward her, catching her in my arms, and carrying her to the fresh air without. I held her, hardly knowing what to do with the lovely burden, until some women, who had hastened from the court room came up and relieved me. Then like one in a dream I made my way to the tavern. I was aware of a multitude following the prisoners to the gaol, crowding about the unfortunates, as if rejoicing at their distress. Then I left the assemblage behind, and went into the inn, where I drank deep of the ale to try and drive from my mind the memory of what I had observed.

’Twas but a few hours since I had reached Salem, yet I had seen strange sights. I had been near to death, I had been witness to the scarlet snow, and I had heard the words of doom pronounced. Truly events moved with no little speed in this new land.

The day passed, and I did not leave the inn. The darkness fell. There came a confused murmer from the centre of the town. Some men passed the tavern, running in the direction of the little hill, whence I had first found the right path, in my journey of the night before. They were hastening to the place of execution. I went to bed with a heavy heart. And I dreamed strange dreams of horrid witches.

I rose as soon as it was light, but, early as I was, the inn keeper was before me. He told me the two prisoners had been hung that night, and, though I desired greatly to question him concerning Lucille de Guilfort, I forebore. However, he spoke of her soon, telling me that she had been with her cousin to the last. The gaolers had to drag them apart, when they led Marie to the scaffold. After the execution Lucille had gone to her home in great distress, attended by some women folks, who vainly tried to console her. It made my blood boil to think of the matter, and, when my hand fell to my sword hilt, I felt that I would ask no better work than to lay about among some of these witch-finders.

But there was other work ahead of me. I must soon begin to plan for the raising of my men, as desired by Sir William.

CHAPTER IV.
HOW I CAST THE KNIFE.

I soon began to take up the threads of the life in Salem, since it was like that I would be there for some time to come. Now that I look back over it I am constrained to say that in no place had I ever found men and women who made of life so serious a business. Yet, with all, there was much to admire in them. The witch craze appeared to have passed, though it left scars behind, and sad remembrances for some.

I made the acquaintance of many who came to the inn, and learned much of the new land and its people. I resolved, as soon as the weather should grow milder, to look about and see what sort of soldier material I might expect among the recruits. I must also learn something of the country roundabout, as well as of the red men of the forest who inhabited it. Every day I sallied from the inn, and took long walks. The weather was growing mild now, and the snow was melting from off the hills and meadows.

There was some hunting to be had, and I often went out with a fowling piece, and came back with a brace of partridge or squirrels, that made dainty dishes, when Mistress Willis had broiled them over a blazing wood fire, or fried them in sweet butter to a delicate brown crisp.

Sometimes as I walked, or hunted or fished, there would come to me a memory of Lucille de Guilfort, as I had seen her that day in the court room. I had caught but few glimpses of her since, and then she had passed me by with a bow, and a little smile, albeit a sad one. Though to me she seemed the most lovely maid I had ever seen, I was to her, apparently, no more than any one else of the Colony. She bowed to Willis, as she did to me.

At times I would sit idly on a woodland bank, my gun across my knees, the squirrels playing, unharmed, and not afraid, in the trees above me. I pictured to myself Lucille. Her eyes were brown; her hair a deep blue-black, as a fine steel rifle barrel might be shaded. Her face was like--but what it was like, ’tis beyond me to describe. There was love in it, and her lips seemed made to kiss. Her voice was low and clear, like a bell, and made one long, when he had once heard her speak to hear her again.

But it was little use to dwell on such thoughts, I concluded, for, though I would have liked to see her every day, there was but one in seven when I might do so of a certainty. That was on Sunday, when she, with all the other colonists went up to the little meeting house, on the hill. There good Dominie Parris held forth, at no uncertain length on the trials and troubles of this world, and on the necessity of saving the soul from the Devil and the wrath to come. To my shame be it, perhaps, but I am afraid I paid but little heed to the minister, for, from my bench I could catch a glimpse of Lucille, and, sometimes, see her face when she turned about. Full many a Sunday I sat thus, greatly cramped in my body, for my legs ill fitted the small benches, though I felt repaid if she but turned her head once.

The dominie would read page after page of the scriptures, and then expound them at length, while, beneath the pulpit sat the clerk, turning the hour glass, when the sands had run from the top to the bottom. And, most often, it was two full turnings ere the sermon was finished. Another time it might be three, while, on one weary day (I was preciously sleepy too) I recall that the clerk turned the glass four times before the lastly was reached. Yet I sat through it all without a murmur, for such things a man will do sometimes, when he is not quite himself, because of a maid.

Once Cotton Mather, a great preacher from Boston, came to Salem, and his text was witchcraft. He warned his hearers to be on their guard against witches, who, he said, were abroad in the land. He referred to the scarlet snow, and to the two executions that had taken place in our Salem Colony. He also related such facts about witches, as had come to his knowledge, he said. He spoke so strongly of the powers of the witches, that the whole congregation almost was in great terror. Some timid folks double barred their doors that night, lest the witches should get in. This must have been a precaution of little use, for, if I had heard aright the witches did not stop at solid stone walls, to say nothing of oak doors. Oh, how foolish it all was, though it did not seem so then to many.

So the days went on. I had learned much of the Colony affairs, and made the acquaintance of the principal men. I had seen enough to know that a goodly company could be raised in Salem, and I dispatched a messenger to Sir William with that information.

But as to the throwing of the knife and what followed. I was idly strolling through the forest one day when I came to a place where two paths diverged. The left led on down past the common and to the grist mill, while the other went deeper into the woods. With scarce a thought I turned to the right, and walked on into the forest.

The last vestige of snow had gone save from the hill tops, and the air was warm with sunlight. The birds were beginning to fly northward, and, as I walked, a flock of crows passed over head, cawing to each other. There was but little of winter left, and that was fast disappearing.

On and on I traveled, paying small heed to my steps until I found myself in a sort of glen, the sides of which rose steeply on either side, while the trees, locking their branches above, made it twilight at noonday. I came to a halt and looked about me.

Glancing along one side of the ravine I observed naught save the dull brown of the shrubs and trees, some of which showed a little green as a forerunner of spring. Then my eyes took in the other side of the glen. I started in sudden fright, for what I saw made me weak-kneed, it was so horrible.

There stood Lucille, with her back against a tree, her soft gray dress contrasting with the deep brown of the bark. She was not looking at me, and I saw that her gaze was directed to a spot on the ground in front of her. Following her glance I saw with terror that the spot was of mottled yellow, brown and white. And then I knew it was not a spot, but a great snake, coiled, and ready to spring.

Its head waved sideways, with a slow, sinuous motion, and the forked tongue ever darted in and out, like a weaver’s shuttle. Lucille, I saw, dared not move. One hand was pressed to her heart, while the other clasped some flowers she had been to the woods to gather; and the blossoms were slowly falling from her nerveless fingers to the ground.

At first I did not know what to do. Move farther I dared not, lest I should startle the reptile, and cause it to strike the fatal blow, that, for some reason, it was delaying.

Had I a musket I might have shot the snake from where I stood, and I thought with regret of the fowling piece I had left at the inn. I had my sword, but it was folly to think of stealing upon the reptile, and trying to kill it with that. Nor was there much chance that any one would pass that way with a gun in time to be of service; for it was getting late, and the glen was seldom visited.

Perhaps it was a few seconds that I stood watching Lucille and the snake, but it seemed an hour. I could see her slender figure beginning to sway, under the baneful influence of the serpent, and I knew that I must act quickly. I half drew my sword in desperation, and then I put it back. For I knew that ere I could cross half the space between Lucille and myself, the snake would strike.

Now, among the Indians that frequently visited Salem, it was one of their feats to throw or cast the knife. They would poise a dagger or scalping blade on the palm of the hand, holding it in place with the thumb. Then they would raise the hand, palm upward. With a sudden movement, strong and swift, they would hurl the weapon from them, casting it unerringly each time. I have seen them bury it to the hilt in a buttonball tree, and in the body of a man, granting that it touched a vital spot, the knife would let life quickly out.

I had practiced this trick until, while not as good at it as the Indians, I had some skill. So, when I put my sword back, I thought of the knife, and I resolved to chance on throwing it at the snake. It was but a chance, for I knew that if the reptile was startled it would strike quickly, and I recognized the species as one whose bite was quick death. But I gripped the knife, and drew it from the sheath.

Slowly I raised the blade above my head. The spotted brown body was drawn back, now, and, as Lucille saw that the serpent was about to spring, a convulsive tremor shook her body. It must be now or never, I thought, and I breathed a prayer that the knife might be speeded on its way.

Then straight and swift I threw, the keen weapon leaving my hand like a shaft of light. On, on it flew, whirling about in the air, but making no sound. As an arrow from the bow it struck the reptile behind its ugly head, and, such was the force of the flying knife, that the steel edge cut through the snake’s neck, and pinned it to the earth, while the spotted body threshed about like a flail among the dried leaves.

Lucille sank down at the foot of the tree as I bounded forward, certain now that my cast had been successful. It was the work of but an instant to lift her out of the way of the flying body of the snake, for I feared that it might, even yet, strike out blindly, but none the less fatally. Lucille rested in my arms, her senses having left her for the moment, and I carried her to a spring near by, where I revived her with the cold water. She opened her eyes a little.

“You are safe now,” I said. She smiled faintly, then shuddered, and closed her eyes again. Presently she gazed up at me, and whispered:

“Oh, it was horrible! I shall never forget it!”

I calmed her as well as I could, and she soon recovered her composure. She declared that she was well enough to walk home, but I protested, and begged that she would allow me to get a cart from a near-by farmer.

“Oh, no,” she answered, “I could not stay another minute in these woods now. Let me go with you. I can walk, indeed I can; see,” and she stepped out bravely enough, but was forced to stop from trembling and weakness.

Then I insisted that she lean on my arm, which, after some hesitation, she consented to do.

“I was after some arbutus,” she said as we walked along, “and it only grows in the glen. I had plucked some when, just as I reached for a beautiful cluster, I saw the snake coiled before me. And then it seemed as if I could not move. My eyes grew heavy, and there was no life in me. It began to get dark, and then, and then--all at once I saw a flash of light, I heard the hiss of the reptile, and it grew all black, and I fell. The next I knew you were bending over me.”

“I thank God,” I said, “that I chanced by here to-day.”

“Aye, ’twas a most fortunate chance,” she answered.

“Mayhap it was more than chance--my fate,” I said softly, and she did not reply.

When I had seen her safely to her gateway I bade her good night. She held out her hand to me.

“I cannot thank you enough just yet,” she said. “’Tis the second time that you have been by when I have needed a friend.”

“I would it were ever so, madame,” I made answer, bowing. She stood idly plucking at the arbutus.

“Come some day and see me,” she said, which I might take as an answer to my words. “That is, when you can find time from your military duties, which, I fear, must be exacting to you.”

“If they were a thousand times more so, yet would I come,” I responded. She looked down at the flowers which she still held in her hand. Then, on the impulse of the moment she gave me a spray. I have it yet, faded and brown. For forty years it has been ever near me, and I would not part with it and its memories of the past for all that life holds.

“I shall be glad to see you,” spoke Lucille, after a pause, “though, perhaps, ’tis a slight welcome I can give in return for the service you have rendered me. Yet it will be from my heart.”

“None could be better,” I said. “I will come.” I could make no other answer. I wanted to be by myself and think of it all. For most strangely had this maid come into my life, and she had awakened strange feelings within me. Something much like love had found me off guard, for a surety.

CHAPTER V.
OF THE STONE BY THE BROOK.

I sat up late in the tavern that night, and to calm my thoughts I drew up some notices that I intended to post throughout the town, inviting recruits to join my little army. I judged that this would be a good time, since it could not be said when we would make the first venture against Canada, without waiting for the fleet. The weather was growing more and more mild every day now, and flowers and shrubs were beginning to show blossoms. The trees were in full leaf, when, one pleasant day, having after much labor written on several papers what I wanted to say I left the inn to put them up in conspicuous places.

They called upon all good men and true, who so might desire, to enlist under Captain Edward Amherst, to fight the French and the Indians. It was also noted that some skirmishes might take place before the arrival of Sir Francis with his men. The notices, which were posted on the door of the church among other places, also set forth that applicants would be examined at Salem inn.

Never had a day seemed so pleasant. Birds were singing away trilling the first few notes of mating songs. The trees waved their branches in the wind as it sighed through them. I felt in my veins the blood beginning to tingle, as the sap in the trees swells out the buds.

I finished my task, the while breathing in deep of the balmy air. I wanted something, I knew not what. To be acting, fighting, leading my men on. I wanted to walk, to run, to leap, to--in short, I suppose, to give way to that energy which health brings to every man.

I went on with little thought of where I was going until turning near where the old elm stands, down near the dead oak, I found myself in front of the house where Lucille dwelt. It was the first time I had been so near it since the night I brought her home from the glen. I was about to pass on, though I wanted to stop, but scarce dared to. As I dawdled past the gate, in two minds whether or no I should make bold and knock, I saw her in the garden.

It was too late to draw back now, had I wished to, for she had heard my step, and, looking up, she smiled.

“Good day, Captain,” she said.

“Good day to you, Mistress Lucille,” I made reply, and then there was silence between us, while I stood there as awkwardly as a school boy, though she was as cool as only a maid can be who knows that it is for the man to make the next advance. Not that she was altogether at her ease, for, by looking closely, I saw a faint tinge of red mounting upward in her cheeks.

“You see,” I began, “I come--I hardly expected your words the other day--I----” and, then, in desperation, lest I might turn and run in the very face of the enemy, I straightened up, drew my good sword and saluted her as I would my gracious Queen.

“You have commanded me and I am here,” I said.

Lucille raised her eyes.

“And it needed a command then, Captain?” she questioned.

“Not so, not so,” I hastened to exclaim, seeing that I had made an error. “A word, a wish, a look, from you, madame, were enough,” I replied in some confusion, almost wishing that I was back in Salem inn.

Once more silence crept between us, while, hardly knowing what I did, I opened the gate and walked in to stand beside her. I judge we must have been thus for near a minute ere she burst out laughing, and I, perforce, joined her mirth. That was an end to solemn silence then.

“Here,” she cried gaily, “if you will not talk you must work,” and she thrust a spade into my hand.

Then, at her bidding, I fell to with a will and dug where she pointed out. My sword clinked against the garden tool, and I hoped that none of my future soldiers would pass by to see in what manner of warfare I was engaged. When she thought I had dug enough she permitted me to stop, and right glad I was to do so.

“Now sit on the bench beneath the apple tree, while I plant these tulips,” was her second command.

I did as she bade me.

“Now talk,” she ordered.

“What shall I say?” I asked.

“Oh, anything, everything. The buds, the flowers, the sun, the Indians, the battles you have fought, the war we are to engage in. Why,” merrily, “there is no end.”

Then indeed I talked. Of what, I know not, save that ever I saw her sweet face before me, and her eyes looking to mine, until I would fain have stayed there in that garden forever.

’Twas strange how all my bashfulness had vanished, not that usually I am such a fool with the women. So we conversed of many things until of a sudden I noted that the sun was going down behind the hills. I jumped up from the bench where we had been sitting.

“I quite forgot it,” I exclaimed.

“What?” asked Lucille.

“My dinner,” I answered, aware of a gone and lonesome feeling below my belt. “I was to go back to the tavern for it, but, I--I--came this way, and----”

“You missed your dinner talking to me,” finished Lucille solemnly. “Welladay, Captain, I am indeed flattered. But there, you shall not say that I am a hard commander. Come in and sup with me. ’Tis true, I cannot make amends for the companionship to be found at the inn, nor can I boast of such cookery as can Mistress Willis. Yet if you will but deign to grace my humble board ’twill be of my best store that I will set before you,” and she dropped a bow to me that had much of sauciness in it, and stood waiting for my answer.

I protested that I could not trouble her, that I had no appetite, that I must be at Salem inn to meet any recruits that might come this first day.

“Very well then, Captain,” she said, with a stately bend of her head. “Since you prefer the inn to my poor roof so be it.”

’Twas then that I hastened to make a different meaning to my words, and I pleaded that I might even have a crust in her dooryard. That she would but suffer me to sit on the threshold, and see her eat. (My, but how the hunger gripped me then). Verily I was afraid she would take me at my last words. But at length with a merry laugh, she bade me enter the house, and, while I sat and watched the lengthening shadows, Lucille and the woman servant set the meal.

I forget what it was that I ate. Certain I am that I talked and looked at Lucile, more than I used my knife and fork, for I remember that when I reached the inn later I had to rout up WillisWillis, and dine again on cold meat. But, though the memory of the meal passes, I can see Lucille yet, as she sat opposite me then. And of the topics we conversed on, though they be in the dim, shadowy past, yet the sound of her voice is in my ears still.

That night when I went on my way to the tavern, I found myself humming a love song I had heard in England years ago.

The next day several men and youths appeared at the inn to enlist. I put their names down, and arranged for them to get arms, which would be sent from Boston. While the recruits were not much to boast of in looks they lacked not in spirit, which, after all, is the need of a soldier. Like some comrades with whom I have fought they seemed to go at fighting as they did at their religion, so that psalm tunes, rather than drinking songs and jests were heard among my men.

It was not long before enough had enrolled themselves at the inn, and then I began to drill them. I appointed as my lieutenants Giles Cory, a very muscular, though small man, and Richard Nicols, who had some notions of warfare. We marched the men back and forth on the common in front of the tavern, putting them through the exercise of arms. Soon they began to have quite a martial air and bearing, handling their muskets, matches and flints with skill.

Messages came from Sir William now and then, bidding me hasten my preparations. I had a goodly store of powder and ball. Flints, matches and guns we had enough of, and, also, two small cannon, with the necessary ordnance stores, which had been sent from Boston.

After dint of much practice I had my men in what I considered fair shape, and I took considerable pride in them. Sturdy fellows they were, most of them, stern of face, yet energetic, with a few daring spirits among them.

’Twas on a May day, when the air was exceedingly pleasant, that I strolled over the meadows, toward the little brook that flowed through the fields. Then, coming to the top of a little hill I saw, on the green slope, a squad of my soldiers. They were playing at games of strength, and, seeing me, stopped.

“Better this than idling at the tavern,” I said. “Keep at it, men, and let us see who has the strongest arms.”

“’Twas Lieutenant Cory, Captain,” spoke up Nicols. “He has put us all to shame so far. Look you,” and Nicols pointed to a heavy musket. “Giles did but grasp the end of the six-foot barrel in his hand, and yet he raised the gun out straight, and held it there at arm’s length without a tremor.”

I reached for the gun, and did the feat with little effort. It was an old trick, and one I had often done before while loitering about camp. But the crowd gaped, and, as for Cory, he seemed little pleased that a stranger in the town should have equalled his test of strength.

“What else?” I asked, smiling.

Nicols pointed to a barrel of cider that was on the grass.

“A trader brought it in his canoe a while ago,” he said, “and called on two of us to help him lift it from the boat. But Cory, with no other aid, raised it by the edges, and, holding it close against his breast, walked up the hill with it. Never have I seen a man do such a thing before.”

Now I was glad to see that my company was to be of men of this stamp, not slow to use their strength. For, when by the closeness of the fight, sword and musket are of little use, a strong arm is very needful, and stands one in good stead, as I well knew.

As a lad I had been fond of feats of muscle. But I had had no time to devote to it since coming to Salem. For with the gathering of my company, the writing of letters to Sir William, and the reading of his in reply, most of my hours had been taken up. Now, it seemed, here was a time when I might, without seeming to boast, show my men that their Captain was no weakling. So I glanced about that I might propose some new test; for to lift the barrel of cider, or the gun, I did not count as sufficient.

It chanced that on top of the hill that gently led down to the brook there rested a boulder. It was of good size, and, in weight perhaps 400 pounds, and it was bedded in the earth. To raise it, and cast it from one might be no little task, even for one who boasted of strong arms. Therefore, seeing no other test that would answer, I pointed out the rock to Cory.

“Can you lift and heave it?” I asked. “You are of goodly girth, and the stone is not of such great weight.”

Saying nothing Cory walked slowly up the hill, and I saw that he had cast aside his jacket and shirt, and stood naked to the waist. I marvelled as I looked at his arms and chest. The muscles were in bunches, and stood out like hanks of wool on a distaff. Then, as he clenched his hands and opened them, to feel if his sinews were limber, the muscles played beneath his skin, as ripples do over the face of a pool, when the wind ruffles its surface. Still the stone was heavy, and if he lifted it and cast it he well might be counted a strong man.

Cory reached the rock, and stood over it a minute. He looked on all sides, seeking a fair hold, and, when he had perceived two small projections near the ground, where a man’s fingers might catch, he spread his legs, and stood astride the rock.

“I make no boast,” he said, looking at me, “and if mortal man may lift the weight, then I will move this stone from its bed. Though, doubtless, it has not been disturbed for a hundred years.”

He shuffled his feet, seeking a firm and level stand, and then, with an intaking of the breath, he grasped the rock, and put forth all his strength into a mighty lift. His sinews and muscles stood out under the skin, and were like to burst through, but the stone budged not. Once again did Cory lift and strain, but no avail. He straightened up.

“’Tis like that no man can move the rock, Captain,” he cried. “Perchance it is buried a foot or more in the earth. Yet, if it is to be lifted from its bed I will do it,” he added. Once more he took hold.

This time his back fairly arched with the terrible strain, and the muscles in it made it as rough as a ploughed field. But, though he tugged, and pulled, until the water dropped from his brow, he moved not the rock.

“Enough,” I said. “It will surely prove too much for either of us. I must choose something more easy. Yet I will have one trial,” I remarked.

Now, then, I placed myself astride of the great stone, as Cory had done, and I grasped the two projections. I pulled upward once not with all my strength, for I wanted to try the weight. Then, of a truth, I feared I had set myself too great a task, for the rock seemed as immovable as the earth itself. But once again I lifted upward, and this time I strained every muscle I could bring into play. Still the boulder remained in its bed.

I thought toward the end of my last effort, that I felt the least movement, and this gave me hope that, if I kept on pulling, I might tear the rock out. Slowly I pulled upward again, straightening my bent body, as the stone gave, ever so little, in its ancient bed. It was now or never. I pulled and pulled, until, verily, I feared that my arms would come from the sockets.

There was a buzzing in my ears, and, above it, I heard the crowd of men, murmuring in astonishment. Up and up I lifted, until, with a great heave, I had fairly torn the boulder from the earth. Summoning all my efforts until I thought my head would burst from the strain I poised the stone above me. It shadowed me from the sun, and was like to crush me with its weight. I could scarce see beyond it, because of the bulk. Then with a last remaining bit of power, I hurled the stone from me, down the hill side, toward the brook. I had lifted the great rock.

As the stone left my hands the murmur of admiration changed to one of horror. Brushing the mist from my eyes I saw, at the bottom of the slope, Lucille right in the path of the bounding stone. She was walking along the brook, and had not seen me throw the rock. A shout from the men, for I was too dazed to cry out, caused her to look up. She came to a sudden halt.

On the great rock went, by leaps and bounds, from hillock to hillock, and she was in its course, unable, from very fear, to move out of the way. The stone was now scarce a fathom’s distance from her. In the next instant it must strike and crush her, and none of us could do aught to prevent it.

When we had all turned our heads away, that we might not see her killed, and my heart seemed like to burst through my breast, we heard a great noise. It was a roar and a rattle.

The flying rock had struck another, deep bedded in the side of the hill, and the impact of the blow had burst both into thousands of fragments. With a sound like a cannon shot, these had scattered all about Lucille, but not one had struck her. She stood trembling with fright, in the midst of the broken stone, while, scarce knowing what I did, I hastened down the hill to her. She was walking slowly away when I reached her.

“You were near to death,” I said, much unnerved, for, somehow, her life had grown very dear to me.

“The Lord is good,” she replied. “Now, Captain, take me home, for I am afraid yet.”

As we left the wondering crowd behind, I heard one say to another:

“’Twas a mighty lift, and none like it was ever before seen in the Colony.”

Also I heard Cory remark, though not without respect:

“Our sturdy Captain, who lifts great rocks easily, can be held by light chains, it seems. Even a maid’s word.”

And I felt that he spoke the truth, for I knew that I loved Lucille, as I had never loved before.

CHAPTER VI.
LUCILLE.

I count it not strange, nor to my discredit, that I had, and so soon and easily perhaps, fallen prisoner to Lucille. It was small time I had ever had for love, because my past life had been spent in strife of one kind or another. I was at great pains, sometimes, to escape death, and my thoughts, in recent years, had been in the way of how to strike the hardest blow, and how to take the lightest.

So, it need not be wondered at that, when I had looked a few times into Lucille’s eyes, I did what any other soldier, or man, would have done. I came to love her. It had grown on me, like the buds on the trees, or the flowers on the vines. Yet I had spoken no words of love to her.

Our conversation, when we met, was on topics far removed from the feelings that swayed me. The weather, a reference to the affairs of the Colony, to the war soon to begin, of the Indians, of that day in the woods when I cast the knife, and of that well-nigh fatal heaving of the rock.

Sometimes she spoke of herself, and of the sunny land she left to come to America. That subject was one to set her cheeks aglow, and make her eyes to sparkle. She told me of France, where she had been so happy as a girl, and I told her of some parts of it that I had visited. Of her reasons for coming to this bleak shore she said nothing, seeming to hesitate as we touched on that. All she told me was, that one day her father packed up such of his belongings as could be transported, sold the rest, and, with her cousin Marie and herself, had come to Massachusetts.

There had been many trials, the worst of all being when M. de Guilfort became ill, because of the rigors of the winter, and passed away. Once, when I told Lucille that her tongue found little difficulty with the English words, she blushed and seemed confused. Then, with downcast eyes, she said an Englishman had lodged with her father, in Paris, and had been her instructor. Whereat I wondered at her confusion, and, though I scented some mystery, I said nothing, being content to wait until it was made clear.

But I thought it strange that any man with English blood in his veins, should teach this French maid to say, “I love, you love, we love,” and yet let it end there. But, of a surety, I was glad that he had.

And so it came that I loved Lucille more and more every day. Sometimes, when I looked into her eyes, I forgot the errand that brought me to Salem, and I would have willingly cast my commission to the winds, for the privilege of being near her always. So it is when a man loves, not alone with wisdom. And as time went by my love grew.

From moody to gay, and back again to deep despair had my spirit moved, until, at length, I resolved to put all to the proof, and learn whether I had any cause to hope. So, one pleasant afternoon I put on what best garments I had, furbished my sword up, at great labor of muscle, and walked to Lucille’s house. With a hand that strangely trembled, yet with which I could, at any other time, have found the smallest nick in the wall with my sword point, I lifted the heavy iron knocker on the door and let it fall. It made a resounding racket, almost like thunder, I thought. The serving woman let me into the front room, and I sat in the window recess. I was just beginning to wish I had put the matter off until another time, when Lucille entered.

“Hast cast any more rocks, Captain?” she asked, smiling.

“Lackaday, no!” I cried, in sudden terror at the thought of one throw I had made, not far back.

“I ought to fear you,” she said, “for you are a very Goliath,” and she took a seat near the fireplace. Though it was not cold without, a little blaze was going and it cast queer shadows, which played about the room and on Lucille’s hair.

“My strength was like to serve me a sorry trick,” I ventured. “Had e’en a fragment of the rock struck you I should have cast myself into the sea.”

“Do not say that,” she responded, “it would have been no fault of yours. I should not have passed that way. I saw the men at their games, and might have known that there was danger for an onlooker.”

I made no answer, for I had none ready. I did but gaze and gaze at her, until my heart was like to thump its way through my stout jacket. Of a sudden she looked up, wondering, perhaps, at the silence, and then, seeing my eyes fixed on her she dropped her lids while the color came into her cheeks like the blush of morn on the petals of a rose. I could bear it no longer. Starting to my feet, my sword clattered against the casement. Lucille caught her breath, and seemed to shrink away from me.

“Lucille,” I said.

She did not answer.

“Lucille,” I cried again, and the name went from my lips huskily, for my throat was parched and dry.

“Lucille,” I spoke for the third time.

“Yes, Captain Amherst,” she made reply.

“Lucille,” I cried, and then, with an effort, such as even the lifting of the great rock had not cost me, I blurted out, like a schoolboy:

“I love you, Lucille, better than I have ever loved before. Better than life itself.”

It was out now. I crossed the room, and, standing before her, I held out my hands, pouring out my story in warm words of love. I cannot recall now, nor could I a half hour afterward, what I said. Only I know that as I spoke of my passion, Lucille seemed in a fright, at first. And her face, that had been flushed, grew pale, and her fingers plucking at her gown, trembled. Then, when my rush of words had somewhat subsided, I approached nearer and nearer to her, until I could hear her breath, and see her bosom rise and fall. I stretched out my arms, and, not waiting to see if she said yea or nay, I clasped her to me, my warm kisses falling on her lips, her cheeks, her hands.

I could only repeat over and over again that one phrase, “I love you;” until, fearful that she might weary of that strain, I paused.

She struggled from my encircling arms, then stood like a sweet flower, that the wind had tossed about. Yet never before had she looked so lovely to me.

“Have you no answer for me?” I asked.

She did not reply.

“Can you but love me a little?” I inquired softly, anxious now, indeed, as a man whose fate hung trembling in the balance. Then the answer came back, oh, so softly and sweetly:

“Yes.”

The darkness fell gently, until the ruddy fire shone out with casts of grim shadows over the room. I sat beside Lucille, and my heart was big with thoughts of love. The darkness was light to me now.

We talked of what the future might hold for us. Of how, when I had returned with honors, from the Canadian expedition, we would wed, and make our home in this new land. For a time we forgot the terrible tragedy that had brought us together, though it was like a little cloud in the otherwise bright sky.

The sweetness of her presence was all I thought of then, as I sat beside Lucille. I had never known before what it was to love truly. Many fair women had smiled at me and I had laughed in return, for I knew that it would end there. But now----

More and more dark it grew. Suddenly came a sound of galloping hoofs on the road without. Ere we had time to wonder who it might be, for few rode so furiously in that time, unless some danger portended, there was a knock loud and long at the door. Lucille and I had risen from our seats in alarm. The servant hastened to the portal with a candle, and we heard, as the oak swung back, the voice of a man:

“Is Captain Amherst within?” the messenger asked.

“He is,” I answered, walking to the entrance.

“Your pardon for this interruption,” began the man, “but I came in haste, with a letter for you from His Excellency, Sir William Phips,” and the horseman handed me a sealed missive.

Wonderingly I broke the red wax. In the dim light I read:

“Captain:--The Indian devils are pressing hard and close on our borders. Settlers from outlying hamlets have brought word that they gather in numbers on the North. It is said that de Vilebon, at St. Johns, is urging the red men on, furnishing them food and munitions of war. Could he be driven from his stronghold (mayhap no easy task) much good would be done the Colony. Proceed with your company, in all dispatch. Kill, burn and capture.

“Given under our hand and seal, the seal of His Majesty, the King.

Sir William Phips.”

Here was likely to be a sudden end to my love making, I thought. I turned to Lucille, who had followed me to the door. She had shrunk back into the corner, and in her eyes I could see a strange look of horror and fright, such as I had never seen before.

From Lucille I looked to the horseman. He stood at the very door, one hand holding the bridle. With the other he stroked his moustache, and his eyes never left the face of Lucille. By the light of the candle, glowing out into the darkness, I could see a mocking smile on his lips.

“Lucille!” I cried.

The horseman never heeded my exclamation, nor did he change his gaze.

“Sir!” I remarked, with a step toward him, my hand on my sword, “who, and what are you, that you dare to come----”

I might as well have been a thousand miles away, for all the heed he paid to me.

“I have found you, then,” he said to Lucille, with a sneer on his face and in his tones. She shrank back farther and farther into the darkness.

I half drew my sword out, determined to punish his insolence speedily, but, with never a look at me, making a low, sweeping bow, that included both of us, he leaped into the saddle, and was away down the road in the darkness at a terrific pace.

“Who was he?” I demanded, turning to Lucille. She put her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some sight that was hateful to her.

“He was--he was----” she began, her voice trembling. “Oh, Edward, mind him not. I thought he was some one I had left behind me forever. But I must have been mistaken. The candle light played me tricks.”

“But his words? What of them? What meant he?” I persisted.

“I heard nothing that he said,” she replied, as if in surprise, “but what of your message?”

“WHO, AND WHAT ARE YOU, THAT YOU DARE TO COME!”

Then, though I would have pursued my inquiries further, I was recalled, by her words, to the missive I held. Briefly as I could, I told her of its import. It meant, I said, that I should have to leave Salem very soon; in a day or two.

“It will be hard to go from you, sweetheart, when I have only just found you,” I whispered. I kissed her, and then, after a little, I went away, her caresses warm on my lips; the echoes of her voice sweet in my ears.

Out under the stars I thought of the horseman. Then, with a start, I recalled who he was. I had met him in the room of Governor Phips, in Boston, some months before. He was the man with the jeweled hilted sword, with whom I had so nearly fought, in the doorway, where we came together in no gentle fashion. Clearly there was some mystery here.

CHAPTER VII.
OF THE HORSEMAN ON THE BEACH.

There was little sleep for me that night. I had been expecting a message from the Governor, and so had my men in fair shape for a quick movement. Two days’ preparations, now, would put us in readiness for the expedition.

It was nearly morning when, having dispatched several messengers on horses to call in my company from their various homes, I lay down to rest. It seemed that I had been on the bed but a half minute, ere the sun came shining in through the window, and awakened me.

We had at Salem two sloops that would hold seventy men each. Of stores and munition of war there was a plenty. But guns had to be overhauled, and ammunition safely packed for transportation. My first care was to see that the boats were laden. Corn meal and flour, salted meats and fish, provisions of various kinds, and barrels of cider, were slung aboard by the crews, and stored in the holds.

In squads of two and three my men began coming in. I detailed my lieutenants to look after the muskets, as they were stacked in the company room at the inn. All the spare guns that would serve, were put on the sloops. Rests for the heavier and old-fashioned weapons, that were fired by means of a slow match, were provided, as well as spare matches. Bags of extra flints were also taken. The casks of powder, and pouches of bullets, were placed out of danger of fire in the magazines of the sloops. Throughout all Salem, that day, little was done or talked of save what pertained to the coming fight.

The children stood about the streets, forgetting to go to school and were not rebuked. With Cory and Nicols, I hurried here and there. Now, seeing to it that none but serviceable arms were taken, and again, looking to the muster rolls, or replying to the many questions that every one wanted answered.

The air was filled with martial sounds. Two boys, barely out of their teens, came up to me, as I was trying the locks of a musket. They saluted gravely.

“Please, Captain,” said the taller one, “put our names down, and give us each a gun.”

“What! To go to the wars?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” the younger replied. “The Indians killed our mother, and we want to kill some of them.”

“Not now,” I said kindly. “When you are a little older you may both go.”

They turned away, sorely disappointed. Indeed the spirit of battle seemed born in the children of this land, and they nursed it with their mother’s milk. There was much need of it, though.

About noon, two long teams of oxen were seen winding along the road from Boston. They drew heavy wagons, on which were two good sized cannon, in addition to the small ones we had. There was also a sufficient supply of ammunition, and I was very glad of this increase to our power.

Though it cost us no little labor to get these guns aboard, we finally accomplished it, and they were placed, one in the bow of each sloop, where they could do the most good.

When all this had been done, and it was well into the afternoon, I had a chance to sit down and map out my plans. Another letter, with more explicit instructions, had come to me from the Governor by the hands of a second messenger. In the meantime I had learned somewhat of the man de Vilebon, with whom I was to engage, shortly.

Soon after he came to Canada he saw the fierce fighting qualities of the red men, and, with much cunning, he made treaties with them, persuading them to become his allies. He promised them that the hated English would soon be driven from the land, the homes they had builded being allowed as plunder for the Indians. It was by such talk as this, and the manner in which he consorted in the daily lives and practices of the savages, that de Vilebon had won to his side many influential chiefs and their followings.

One way the French took to incite the Indians was to pay for the scalps of the English settlers. There was a scale of prices, so much for a man’s, so much for a woman’s and less yet for the children’s. There were other reasons why the Indians preferred to fight with the French and against the English. The French almost lived with the savages, adopting their mode of dress, painting their faces with the brilliant pigments, and wearing the feathered head pieces.

Then, too, the Indians, contrasting us with the French, thought of them as brave warriors, who loved swordplay, and fighting, while we English, ’twas deemed, cared for nothing but raising the crops, which was, with the red men the work of their squaws.

So, I found to my sorrow, ere long, that the Indians loved the French and were glad to battle against us.

Among the settlers, now, there was much fear of a sudden night attack from the forest. Madockewando, Moxus and Egeremet, fierce Indian chiefs, whose names were but other words for carnage, treachery and horrid massacres, were with de Vilebon, we heard.

To these chiefs and their followers, the French had furnished not only guns, swords, powder and bullets, but even food, so that the savages had naught to do save fight, which they were ever ready for. De Vilebon had established himself at St. Johns, in Nova Scotia, where a fort of no mean strength had been thrown up. Approach by either land or sea was not easy, I learned from scouts.

Sir William wrote that few men defended the place now, though troops were expected in the fall. Could we but be successful against this fort, capturing de Vilebon, the spirit of the Colonists would be much strengthened, and a blow would be dealt the French forces that would teach them and their Indian allies a severe lesson.

My plan for the expedition was to sail to within a few miles of St. Johns, and land most of my force. Then the two sloops and their crews could sail boldly up to the town, and while menacing it from the sea by the boats, I could lead my men to the rear of the fort. I counted on the sea attack, if the cannon were rapidly fired, to create such a diversion as to detract attention from the rear, and while the enemy was engaged against the sloops, I could fall upon the fort with my force and storm it. So my plans were laid, and I called my lieutenants and made them acquainted with the way matters stood.

Two days, busy ones in truth, were spent in getting ready. I had seen little of Lucille in that time, though I much more desired to be near her than at the task with which I was engaged. But night, as well as day, was filled with work. At length, when I thought all was in readiness, and I had looked to my own arms, and had a new edge put on my sword, I went out one evening across the meadows to her.

She was waiting for me.

“You have only come to say good bye, I fear,” she said.

“Only for a time, dear heart,” I answered.

“Oh, Edward, if you should not return,” she whispered, softly.

“Would you care, then, so much?”

“Does the flower care when the sun goes down? Does it not droop at the close of day, and does it not smile when the light comes again? Do you know how I feel?”

“I hope so, dear heart.”

“Then ask not if I care. If you should not come back to me----”

The rest of the sentence was unfinished, for I had her in my arms, and her lips could not speak for the kisses I pressed on them.

Long did we talk of what might be held locked in the future, and yet the time I was there seemed woefully short. But I knew that I must go now, for we had prepared for an early start--Lucille promised to be near when the boat should sail, and with that I must be content.

“And now God keep you, dear,” she said bravely, though there were traces of tears in her eyes.

“And God keep you,” I said.

Neither of us knew how soon we would be in need of His care. I pressed a last good night kiss on her lips, and then, with the look of her dear eyes in mine, I went away.

With the rising of the sun all was activity about Salem inn. Many details remained to be looked after. The men, few of whom had before been with such a large expedition, were much excited.

There was a clattering of swords and muskets; good byes were being called out on every side; and some careful men were doing up extra pairs of socks that their good dames had provided.

“What canst thou do with that weapon, friend John Post?” called one man to another who carried an exceeding heavy and clumsy musket.

“Shoot an Indian or a Frencher for a surety,” answered John.

“Then thou’lt have to get a squad to help ye load and fire it. For if ye don’t the Indians would eat you up before you could put match to the powder.”

“Never mind, never mind,” responded he with the ancient weapon. “The gun did damage to the enemies of His Gracious Majesty, when thou wert hiding behind thy mother’s skirt. ’Tis a good arm, and will serve now as well as thou!”

A laugh showed that the would-be jester had not hit the mark, and John Post marched on, well pleased with his little skirmish.

There were other wordy tilts between the men. Some, having nothing better to do for the time, engaged in leaping, running and wrestling, so that the inn yard looked like a fair ground. At length I ordered the drum beat and the men fell in, after some confusion.

About one hundred in all had responded to the summons, and I formed them into two commands, giving Cory one and letting Nicols lead the other. I would have a general command over both, and had made arrangements to sail on board the larger of the two sloops. Truly it was a goodly sight that morning, to see the little Colonial Army marching out, each man with his musket well cleaned, and with his bundle of matches, or his pouch of flints and ammunition slung by a thong on one side. Stout and able-bodied men they were, too, much given to prayer. Yet they need be none the less well thought of for that. For I had heard of their earlier battles against the Indians, and I knew that a well rounded psalm tune stayed not the sword arm, nor weakened the trigger finger. And, as they stepped out to march from the inn yard to the sloops, Master Willis, who stood on the steps, did lift his voice up in prayer, and after that the deep tones of men singing was heard.

Of the God of Israel they sang, pleading that they might be led on to battle against the enemy, as were their fore-fathers of old, in the days of King David.

The sloops were soon filled. I walked to one side and met Lucille. Our parting was brief, for wind and tide served, and we must shortly lift anchor. The last words were spoken, and then, with a final embrace, I left her. I boarded the vessel and the sails were run up. They filled, and we began to gather headway. I stood in the stern, whence I could take a last look at the little town and the people on the shores. Amid the crowd I saw Lucille. She was looking earnestly after us, and when I waved my helmet in a good bye her hand signaled an answer. We were fairly off to the wars at last.

Suddenly, coming along the road at a furious gallop, I saw a single horseman. He waved over his head a paper. Even at the distance I knew him for the same man I had seen in the Governor’s room the day I received my commission, and for the messenger who had come from Sir William a few nights before. But it was too late to turn back now. The horseman spurred on to the beach and waved the paper frantically. It might be some message from Sir William, but, if it was important, a boat could be sent to overtake us. I snatched up a ship’s glass and turned it toward the shore.

“In the King’s name!” cried the horseman, leaping violently from the saddle.

“But I am away in the King’s name,” I called back.

Then, while I was watching through the glass, I saw the horseman turn about. Lucille had advanced from the crowd and stood, shading her eyes, to see the last of us.

As the man caught sight of her, I could see a cruel smile curl the corners of his mouth. Lucille suddenly shrank back, as she had that night when she saw the messenger in the hallway of her home, and she seemed frozen with fear, like unto the day the snake of the glen was in her path.

My heart misgave me, and I was half minded to turn back. Would that I had been of a whole mind! For, had I been, I would have leaped into the sea and gone to her. But I knew not, until afterward, who I left behind me there on the sea sands. Of the deadly enemy he was; who caused me to strike many a fierce blow for Lucille and for myself ere I conquered. And the warfare was not alone that of the sword.

And so I stood, watching the shore fade away, seeing the crowd grow smaller, while, as long as I could, I held the glass to my eyes, to catch the last glimpse of Lucille.

Then, with no very cheerful heart, I set to work to get matters arranged in soldierly fashion.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BATTLE AT THE FORT.

Thus we sailed away. Little of account marked our voyage and, at the end of the tenth day, we sighted the headland of St. Johns. In the meantime I had made no change in my plans, which were to make a feigned attack on the fort by means of the sloops, and, while it was going on, to bring my main force up and storm the rear.

Now that our journey’s end was at hand, we prepared for what was before us. The arms were removed from the chests they had been stored in. Ammunition was broken out, and all useless stuff put away below decks. In a short time we anchored in a little bay to the south of St. Johns, where the sloops might remain a day or two unobserved. From there I would lead my men for the detour. It was dusk when we had landed.

We camped that night on the shore. In the morning, when the sun shone slanting through the branches of the trees, we pressed on. Our march was through the virgin forest. Now we had to cut our way through dense underbrush, scaring from their nests the woodland fowl. Sometimes the sneaking figure of a wolf would be seen, protesting with a howl against the invasion of his home. Once a great bear, again a startled deer, crashed through the brush as we approached.

At night we lighted fires, to keep away the wild beasts, which we heard howling on all sides of us. And thus we pushed on until the third night when we camped in sight of the French watch-fires.

Then we ate a cold supper, nor did I permit any talk or laughter. In deep silence we made all in readiness for the attack in the morning. Guns that had been wet in fording streams were looked to, and the caked powder picked from the pans. Spare flints were placed in pouches, as were the bullets, while powder horns were freshly filled.

With the mournful hoot of the owls in my ears, I fell asleep. I awoke with the first streak of dawn. The sentinels were called in, the last word given, and we were ready for the attack. If Cory, in charge of the sloops, was on hand, all would be well. We marched to the edge of the forest, and just beyond us was the fort. It was with a heart that throbbed with some little excitement that I arranged my men in files, and gave the order:

“Forward!”

Out into the open we ran, and I called to the men to separate, that they might thereby offer a smaller mark to the enemy.

Looking toward the stronghold of the French, I saw, in the gray dawn, the sentinels on the ramparts. They looked down on us in wonder and then they shouted a warning and fired their muskets at us. The drum inside the fort beat the long roll of the call to arms. We were not to take them all unawares.

As we ran on, stooping to gain what little natural cover there was, dodging from side to side, I heard the dull boom and the roar of the sloops’ cannon, which told me that Cory was on hand.

The fort was now but a few hundred yards away, and I saw that it was a place of considerable strength. It was two stories in height, built of solid logs. The upper story overhung the lower, so that when the enemy came beneath the projection he could be attacked from above.

Outside of the fort was a stout palisade, made of young hickory trees bound closely together, after the Indian fashion. The fort could be seen above the palisade, as the stronghold stood on a little knoll. I could see that the mouths of six cannon were thrust toward us, and they seemed like to speak no gentle message.

We were clearly about to meet more than a match for our little force, yet I believe that never a one halted or wished to turn back. If we were to die, we would die fighting.

On we rushed. Within the fort all was activity now. The roll of the drum continued, and the flashes and reports on the side farthest from us told me that the fire from our sloops had drawn some answer from the grim fort.

I had hoped that the force at St. Johns was a small one, and that, by reason of the attack in front, I might get near enough the rear to carry the works. But a few minutes sufficed to show how little we had counted on the French and Indian fighting abilities. For no sooner had the cannon on our sloops and in the fort begun a noisy duel than a double score of men poured out from the lower part of the blockhouse and ran down the little hill to the stockade.

We were now within good musket range, and I called to the men to halt. Then I gave the order to fire. Our band, which had, though advancing at good speed, long been in readiness for this, let fly, aiming over the top of the palisade. It was a little too great a distance to do much damage, yet a few of the bullets that had a trifle more of powder behind them than others had, found a mark. I saw two of the French fall and roll down the hill, while a third was wounded and had to turn back. An answering volley from the fort did some scath among us and three men fell, one shot through the leg, and the others through the body so badly that there was small hope for them.

Among the men that now swarmed out from the fort like bees from a hive, I discerned the half-naked and painted bodies of savage Indians. They whooped horribly, and sprang up and down in the air, whirling about. They brandished their tomahawks around their heads, and some foolish ones threw them over the stockade, thinking, I suppose, that the weapons might strike us.

The smoke from the muskets now hid the scene from view, but when the wind had blown it aside I saw, by the white cloud that hung over the sea, that the sloops were doing their best. Yet I knew they could hope to inflict no damage, and the French were likely to find this out shortly. That the battle would go against us now seemed probable, but I knew our only hope was to fight on, even though the odds were heavy. I urged my men to reload quickly. Powder horns poured their black contents down the musket barrels. Then followed the bullet, in its greased leather covering, and, with a clang of the rammer on top of all, the load was in. The clicking of the powder pans as they were sprung open, and hammers raised, mingled with the hissing, spluttering sound of the slow matches.

Once more we fired, but this time most of our bullets rattled harmlessly against the stockade. The volley that answered us laid low two more of our men. Clearly this was but a losing fight, and so I resolved that a charge, an attempt to storm the palisades, must be made. Could we but gain entrance there, a hand to hand conflict might carry the day for us. Otherwise we could but stand and be shot at, doing little harm in return.

I passed the word to the men, and again they loaded their weapons. I counted to have them rush as soon as they had discharged their pieces, as then the smoke would hang over us and afford a sort of cover.

“Fire!” I cried, and the bullets flew onward.

Yells from within the stockade told that some had been hit, probably through the loops. Immediately I ordered all my men to drop flat on their faces. As I expected, the volley from the fort that replied passed harmlessly over our heads.

“Now for it!” I cried.

“Forward, in the name of the King, and for the honor of Salem!” was the answer from the men.

I was leading the advance, and in less than a minute it seemed to me, we were at the stockade. The men strove to climb over, but were fiercely beaten back by the French and Indians. Guns were used as clubs now, for there had been no time to reload on either side. Man after man of my little force was hurled backward from the top of the stockade, some suffering grievously. It was cut and slash and thrust with me, without stopping to take breath. I was on top of the hickory fence, supporting myself by a small foothold on a larger tree than some of the others. Those below me, inside the stockade, thrust at me, but I gave back as good as they sent, and my sword turned red.

A big Indian, hideous in paint, leaped to the top and struck at my head with his keen little axe. I dodged the blow, and the weapon buried itself to the middle in a sapling. Then, while he vainly tried to pull his tomahawk out, I raised my sword and brought it down on his naked head, shearing through his scalp lock and nigh cutting him to the chin. He fell back, ugly enough in his death agony, and his hand clutched the axe so strongly that it came out from where the wood clipped it.

Now there was a sudden rally to this part of the stockade. I had time to see that soldiers were pouring from around the front, or seaward, side of the fort, before I leaped back to the ground. This told me more plainly than a message that the sloops no longer sufficed to hold the enemy’s attention. The whole force of the fort would now engage us. I hastily retreated my men, until we had put ourselves beyond musket shot. Then we halted to take account of the damage we had received, and to plan how we might save ourselves from utter annihilation; for it would not be long ere we should have to battle against fearful and heavy odds.

Three of our men had been laid low at the first volley from the fort, and two at the second. Then, in the assault on the stockade, several had received sword thrusts, which must eventually cause their deaths. A few suffered minor hurts, and four were killed outright, so that, in all we had been deprived of eleven men. I looked toward the fort. There seemed to be some movement inside, and presently the great gate swung open. Half a dozen naked savages came out uttering their war cry. Then, while my heart turned faint with horror, I watched the Indians approach the bodies of our dead that were just without the palisade. There was a gleam of steel flashing in the sunlight above their earth-pillowed heads, then the bloody scalp trophy was snatched from them; from some ere the breath of life had departed. One poor fellow, Peter Rankin (he had been next to me when we stormed the stockade), had received a cut in the breast from one of the tomahawks. He yet breathed when his hideous tormentors stooped over him. As we looked on in anguish we saw Rankin rise to a sitting position. The Indian never paused. His knife described a quick circle, and the blood red scalp was torn off. Then the savage, mercifully, though he did not intend it so, thrust his knife into poor Rankin’s heart, and a groan went up from my men.

But in the midst of it a rifle cracked. The Indian threw up his hands, one holding Rankin’s scalp, and, with a screech, pitched forward, dead. I looked around. Samuel Hopkins, the best marksman in the Colony, had, with his gun, crept forward in the grass when he saw the Indians come out. He it was who had taken swift vengeance on Rankin’s slayer. The groan of the men was turned into a wild cheer, and the other Indians fled in confusion to the protection of the stockade, slamming the gate behind them.

“There is one devil the less,” said Hopkins as he came back among us, and several of his comrades silently pressed his hand.

But it was high time that we looked to ourselves. The hill about the fort was black with the French and Indians now. We were outnumbered four to one, and it would be useless to continue the fight longer. How to escape was now the question. I had an idea that they would not advance, and attack us for a little while yet, as our strength was not fully known. They would naturally suppose that we had some reserve, and probably would not charge us until they saw what this amounted to. If we could get to the coast, board the sloops and sail away all might yet be well; save for those we had lost. Bitterly as I hated to return to the Colony without having accomplished our object, I knew that it was the best we could attempt. Perchance we could not even succeed in this.

After a hurried consultation we concluded that our only hope was in fleeing along the north side of the fort. On that face it was the least heavily cannoned. Also there was a little gully, which, if we could enter, might afford some protection from the fire. Once in this, though we had to pass a hail of lead, we could gain the shore and signal the sloops. It was, at best, but a dangerous and hazardous undertaking, yet we must act on that or some other quickly if we ever hoped to see Salem again. It was with anxious spirits then that my men began to load their guns again for what might be our last struggle. I had them leave behind such of their accouterments as could be dispensed with, to enable them to travel light. With a rapidly beating heart, though it pulsated not with fear, I gave the word.

We started off on the run, as if we intended once more to advance to the assault. Then, when within good musket fire distance, we suddenly swerved to the left. It was well that we did so, for there was a shout from the forces in the fort, and, at the same time a belch of flame and smoke, followed by the roar of a cannon that had been pointed so as to cover us, had we kept on our course. The shot with which the gun was loaded, tore up the earth.

Seeing that this firing did us no harm the men in the fort ran to the north side to pick us off as we passed. The rifles began to crack, and the bullets to sing about our ears like angry hornets, but my men held their fire for closer quarters. Now we were abreast of the northern wall of the stockade. It took some little time, however, for the enemy to get to the loop holes, and, by a good providence it happened that the cannon on that side were not loaded. Running at top speed we pressed on. One man fell behind me, shot through the head; another stumbled at my right hand, pitched on his face, and, with a gush of blood from the mouth, was dead. Three or four were hit but kept on. We had entered the little glen now, and were somewhat screened from the musket fire. Just ahead I could discern the sea, and, calling encouragingly to my band, I pressed on. Ah, if only the sloops were at hand.

“Cory! Cory!” I cried. “Bear off to the right of the fort! Cory to the rescue!”

Whether he heard me at the time I know not, but a dull boom from one of the sloop’s cannon told me that some on board were still alive. I reached the shore and halted to let my command pass me. The fire from the fort could reach us here, and every minute it was becoming more deadly. Several men were killed. Little clouds of dry sand, caused by the striking of the bullets, rose all around us. I glanced to where the sloops floated. The sails were set and they forged toward us slowly. There was a chance that we might yet be saved. Panting from their run the men drew up on the beach. Nearer and nearer came the vessels.

“To the rock, Captain! To the rock!” Cory cried. “We can take you off there!”

Then I saw that on our left hand there was a small headland of rock, which jutted out into the sea. It went down straight into the depths of water, and the top part overhung so that a skillful pilot might sail a small sloop beneath, and receive his passengers from the rock above, if they would but drop to the deck.

“To the rock, men!” I called, understanding Cory’s plan.

They heard me, but now a new danger presented. The French and Indians were making ready to unbar the northern gate, and pour out upon us. Even as I looked I saw the first of them coming from the stockade. I called a score of the best marksmen, and had them take each a spare loaded rifle from their comrades. The other men hurried on, and reached the rock. Cory directed his sloop beneath, and I saw that in a short time the men could drop to the vessel’s deck. Then the rush of the Indians and the French began. The air resounded with the yells of the savages.

“Kneel down!” I cried to the score.

They dropped as one man, and the enemy, thinking we were begging quarter, whooped in derision.

“Fire!” I shouted, and I could see, when the smoke had cleared, that the enemy had halted in confusion. About half of them had fired in return, but we had killed eight of them, while only two of our men died. I looked around, and saw that but a few men remained on the rock. Cory’s sloop, receiving its load, had passed from beneath. The other vessel came up quickly to perform the same office.

Casting aside the discharged guns the recruits leaped to their feet, and ran toward the rock. But the enemy had again rallied, and came on with a rush. Once more my band knelt down and delivered the last volley at short range, as they stood on the rock. The sloop was now beneath. One by one the men, taking advantage of the confusion in the enemy’s ranks, dropped to the deck.

“Jump, Captain!” called out several.

“I go last,” I answered, drawing my sword.

There was one huge, and fiercely painted, Indian in the lead, having outstripped his fellows. Only two of my men were left on the rock now. The Indian halted when a few feet away, and fired point blank at me. I felt a sudden sting as the bullet went through the flesh of my left arm. Then, uttering his whoop, the savage cast aside his now useless gun, and, shaking his uplifted tomahawk, rushed at me.

“Jump, Captain,” called one of my men. “We are all off now.”

The Indian raised his sharp little weapon, and it glittered in the air above me. While he hesitated only for an instant to concentrate all of his force into the blow with a quick motion I passed my sword through his body under his upraised arm.

The savage fell forward, dragging the sword from my grasp. I was in no mind to lose my bit of steel, so, placing a foot on the Indian’s still quivering breast, I managed, with some use of force, to draw out the blade. Then I turned, the bullets singing all about me, and leaped from the rock, landing square on the sloop’s deck.

There was a shout of disappointed rage behind us, and several shots pattered in the water around the sloops. Then the friendly breeze and tide carried us out of harm’s way. We had failed to capture St. Johns, and the power of de Vilebon was unbroken.

CHAPTER IX.
HOW THE FRENCH TOOK PEMAQUID.

A stiff breeze soon carried us beyond reach of any shots from the fort. But we were in sorry plight. The men were weary, some were badly hurt, and all were in low spirits from the failure of our expedition. A new danger threatened us now. The sloop I was in had received a cannon ball near the water line, and, the sea being somewhat rough the water came in, so that it was necessary to man the pumps.

I sent some of my men to help the skipper at this task. The master of the craft told me that if the sea got much higher we would founder, and it was with anxious eyes that I watched the weather all that afternoon. But when the sun went down beneath the waves, in a glory of gold and crimson, our hearts were lighter, for we heard the sailors singing, as they trimmed the canvas:

“Red in the mornin’,

Sailors take warnin’.

Red sun at night,

Is sailor’s delight.”

Then, too, the skipper managed to get a spare sail over the rail, and, when it was bound with ropes, it somewhat stopped the gaping hole in the sloop’s side, and the water came in less freely.

Homeward bound. Of the days which followed we had little heart to take note, for our defeat was bitter upon us. On the tenth day after the battle at St. Johns, we came opposite Pemaquid.

At this place Governor Phips had begun to build a fort, and he had sent a small garrison there. The commander signaled to us as we sailed by, and I ordered the sloops to come to anchor until a boat could put off from the fort.

I was somewhat surprised to receive from one of the garrison a letter, addressed to me from Sir William. He told me that, expecting I would stop at Pemaquid, in the event of success or failure, he had sent the message there to intercept me. And the import of it was that I was to take command of the fort, holding it with the men there, and with such of my own men as would volunteer for the service. We might expect to be attacked at any time, Sir William said.

Now, though I was heart-weary to be back in Salem it was no part of a soldier’s duty to complain, so I briefly told my men of the Governor’s letter. Then I proceeded to find what command I would have.

Of those of my original company only fifty were able to be of service. But I might not count on all of them, for, of the Salem recruits, only those who volunteered were to stay. So I mustered them in line, and gave the word for those who wished to fight no more to step aside. I was not a little pleased when only eight withdrew from the ranks. With the garrison already at the fort this gave me a command of one hundred and fifty men.

A few days sufficed to repair the sloops, and they left for Salem, bearing a letter from me to Sir William. When the sails were low on the horizon we turned to getting the fort in shape to withstand an attack. The work was less laborious than that we had recently been accustomed to, and we were all glad of the respite. In time we had the place in as good state as it could be put.

One day, toward evening, as I sat in the gateway of the fort, I saw, out in the woods, a man approaching. His steps were not rapid, and, at times, he appeared to stop to gather strength. His actions were so strange that I sent one of my men out to see who the stranger was. The two met, and my man, linking his arm in that of the other, began to help him toward the fort. When they came within hailing distance, Roger Toothtaker, whom I had sent, called:

“Ho, Captain, ’tis none other than our old comrade, George Burroughs, who was left for dead at St. Johns.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Burroughs, faintly, “that’s who I am.”

Surprised as I was to see Burroughs, I had him taken to my own apartments. He recovered a little when I gave him some rum, and I left him with some of his townsmen, while I went to see that the sentinels were properly posted. Ere I had finished my rounds I was recalled by an urgent message from him. He was sitting up when I came to him, and it seemed to me as if he had not long to live.

“Look to your fort, Captain,” his first words were, “within a week these woods will be filled with the painted and bedecked imps of Satan, led on by the French, as cruel as themselves. And the sea beyond will float three sloops of war bearing the French ensign.”

“How came you to know all this?” I asked, thinking that the man was perchance delirious.

Then he told. First, how, when he had seemingly been left for dead before the French fort, he had only been stunned by a spent ball. How he had escaped the death meted out to the other wounded he did not know, but it probably was due to the shot fired by Hopkins. Burroughs went on:

“When you had gone in the sloops the Indians discovered me and I was taken prisoner. Kept within the fort I overheard the plan of the French to march against Pemaquid and surprise the garrison. Then I resolved to make my escape, and carry you a warning. Many days I waited for the chance before it came, but at last, one night I managed to elude the guard, and found myself without the palisade.”

Here Burroughs became faint, and we had to give some spirits to revive him.

“I struck for the woods,” he continued after a pause, “keeping as near to the coast as I dared. Oh, but it was a wearisome journey. After many days of hardship and starvation I fell in with a band of friendly Indians. They guided me as near as they went to this place. A day’s journey back I fell over a cliff in the darkness, and cut my leg so badly on the sharp rocks that I feared I could not go on. I well nigh gave up in despair, but I managed to rig up a crutch made from the limb of a tree, and pressed forward, hoping to be in time. The distance which should have taken a day was three times that to me, for I could only hobble along. When I caught sight of the fort through the woods I was not able to go farther, for I had eaten nothing for three days save berries. But thank God, I have come in time.”

The man ceased speaking, and fell back on the rude bed so deathly pale that I thought it was all over with him, brave fellow that he was. After some time we brought him back to his senses, though he was so weak that I knew he could not last long. Then I left him, bidding the men to see to his needs. Away from the room, with its smoky candles, and its suggestion of death in poor Burroughs’ face, out under the stars, I paused to think over what I had heard.

If we were to be stormed from land and sea at once, there was little time to prepare for it. We must act promptly, and, with that end in view, I called the garrison together by beat of drum and told the men what I had heard from Burroughs. I said that it must be a considerable force that could successfully attack the fort, and, although our position was not of the best from a soldier’s standpoint, it would not do for us to give up without a fierce fight. And a fierce battle it was likely to be, for Burroughs had said that at least two hundred Indians, led by Baron de St. Castine from Penobscot, would be accompanied by the French force under Iberville. The latter would attack us from the sea, while the Indians would assault the land side.

It showed the spirit of my men, when, after I had told them all this they gave three hearty English cheers and dispersed. It made my heart feel much lighter. For a little while longer I walked up and down in the open. The scent of the woods came to me, and with it the varied noises of the beasts and birds therein. I looked up to the stars and whispered the name of Lucille. When would I see her again. Perchance never if the French and Indians overwhelmed us. Then I was likely with my comrades to find a grave in these same woods, and be forgotten by all. But I did not let these gloomy thoughts hang over me long. I had my sword by my side, the battle was yet to be fought, and I was too old a soldier to give up the fight before a blow had been struck. So with this change in my ideas I sought my bed.

In the morning I was told that poor Burroughs had died during the night. He had not been in his senses, and ever murmured of the terrible journey he had taken to warn us. He died, the men said, shouting:

“Here they come, boys, the Frenchers and the Indians. Now strike for Salem and the King!”

Burroughs’ death had been looked for, yet it dampened my spirits a bit. However, I felt better after breakfast. I reflected that bridges need not to be crossed until they lie before one, also that to borrow trouble is to have a bad creditor. So I hurried about, here and there in the fort, to see wherein our weakness lay.

I made several changes. I had all the inflammable material stored in a safe place, and strengthened the magazine by binding logs on the more exposed part. Then having seen to it that the cannon were all in good order, with a supply of powder and balls at hand, I began drilling the men. They practiced at gunnery, for we had plenty of powder, and it was as well to let any sulking Indian scout know that we were prepared. One of the last thing I did was to write a letter, embodying all my adventures, and address it to Lucille. I arranged that if I was killed it should be forwarded to her. Then there was little to do but wait for the foe. It was not a long delay.

Scouts who had been sent out came back on the eve of the sixth day after Burroughs’ death. They reported that they had seen the fires of the Indians, who evidently were using but little of their usual cautiousness. It was some relief to know that action was at hand, for nothing so saps a man’s courage as to sit in idleness and wait for the unknown.

We had taken every possible precaution. I doubled the sentinels, and the cannon were ready loaded. And the next night, when the watch was changing, the Indians came. There were a few shots fired aimlessly, and then followed the war cry. It rose and fell on the night air, echoing from the hill, and resounding throughout the silent woods. We might expect the battle in the morning. I ordered two cannon, loaded with small shot, to sweep the bushes before the fort. Though we probably did little damage, yet it told them we were awake.

There was little sleep for any of us that night.

Every one was on the alert, for we knew that early dawn would set the Indians at us. So we sat in the darkness and watched the fires which the Indians kindled beyond rifle shot.

I watched the stars grow dim, and a gray darkness steal over the blackness of the night. A cold wind sprang up, and whistled mournfully through the trees. The owls hooted, and the wolves howled. Then the gray-black became lighter. All the stars were blotted out now, and there in the east was a pale streak, which gradually grew larger and larger. The dawn was come. With it came the frightful yells of the savages, and the crack of their muskets and rifles. They began the attack on all but the side of the fort toward the sea, but most of their bullets found marks only in the solid logs of the palisades. My men replied, yet, likewise, did little execution. I saw de Castine moving about here and there among his Indians urging them on, and I called to two of my best marksmen to try to pick him off. Once a ball chipped a piece from his sword scabbard, but he only looked toward the fort and bowed in mockery.

The woods seemed alive with the red men, and several, with better rifles than their fellows, approached near enough to fire through the loops. I had three men wounded this way, one so badly that he died in a short time. Another was made blind by log splinters knocked into his eyes by a bullet. Yet we had not been idle. The cannon were of little use, so scattered was the foe, but once a knot of them gathered at the left of the fort, about one of their number who had been hit. It was a chance that one of our gunners did not miss, and a charge of small shot from the cannon was sent hissing into their midst. When the smoke lifted five dark forms stretched out on the ground showed what execution had been done. After this the savages remained quiet for a time. It was now noon, so I ordered a hasty meal served to the company. We were interrupted in the eating by a loud cry from one of the sentinels in the fort.

“A sail!” he shouted. “Hasten, Captain; there are ships approaching!”

I ran to the lookout, and there, approaching under a stiff breeze, were to be seen two sloops; and the decks were crowded with armed men. I could see, also, that on board were several cannon and mortars. Now, indeed, was our fight like to be most desperate.

I ordered the cannon facing the sea to be run out of the ports. Then, bidding Cory to look to defending the land side, I waited for the sloops to come within range. Within a half hour they had stood in nearer to shore, and we let fly at them. A few splinters knocked from the bow was all the damage we did to one. But the other fared less well, for one of our shots slivered the main mast near the deck. A cheer went up from our company. In reply the sloops fired two broadsides, and badly smashed one corner of the fort, besides injuring four men, and killing one. The vessels now drew around a point, and out of range. We could see them preparing to land the men and the cannon. I made no doubt that Iberville was there in charge of the force.

It was not long before two of the mortars were in position to fire at us, some of the balls falling very near our magazine, and I was fearful lest that be set on fire and explode. The battle now began in earnest. The Indians seeing that the French had arrived, renewed their attack, so that we were between two fires. It was rattle and bang on all sides of us, and above all rose the fierce yells of the Indians. But our men stuck well to their work.

I had to divide my forces, and this left both sides of the fort rather poorly defended. Several times we were most desperately put to prevent the Indians from swarming over the palisades. They sent several blazing arrows on top of the fort, but the logs were green and would not burn readily. All the afternoon we fought, only managing to hold our own, and when night came, our situation was most precarious.

The French continued to blaze away at us with the cannon, and we could see that they were landing more guns, so that the morrow promised to be full of peril for my little garrison. I dared not make a sally, for my force was too small, and yet we were little in shape to withstand a siege. As the darkness grew deeper, the rattle of the muskets and the boom of the cannon, and the thud of the balls on the wooden walls of the fort ceased. Desperate and weary, the men sought food and rest.

As for me, I was gloomy enough. I saw no hope but to fight on to the last. Many had been hurt; several killed. Help might come from Boston, but it would scarce reach us in time now. I turned over various expedients in my mind, and had dismissed them all, when a sentinel called out:

“A white flag, Captain!”

I looked out through a loop, and saw an Indian on the clearing in front of the fort. He had a stick, to which a white rag was tied. Approaching without the least sign of fear, he knocked at the gate and entered boldly when I bade a man let him in.

In his hand, besides the flag of truce, the Indian carried a letter. It was from Castine, addressed to me.

I was told that unless the fort surrendered at break of day, it would be stormed. We could not hope to hold out, Castine wrote; and, after a resistance, he feared the Indians could not be restrained from practicing their cruel tortures. A speedy capitulation was advised.

I tore the letter into fragments, and scattered them to the wind.

“Go,” I said to the Indian messenger. “Tell your leader that I refuse. We will fight to the last.”

“Hu,” muttered the red man, and he went out into the night that was approaching.

He could no more than have delivered my answer when a sentinel, from the seaward side of the fort, hastened to me with the news that there was considerable activity among our foes, and that several guns were being landed from the ships, and being brought to bear on the fort.

“Let them do their worst,” I cried, as cheerfully as I could to the men who were near me. “We will beat them yet. Will we not?”

Now, indeed, I expected that a hearty cheer would be my answer. Instead, there was only silence. I looked at the men.

“Are you Englishmen?” I asked, scornfully. “Are you going to give up before the battle is over?”

“Aye, we be Englishmen,” muttered a sailor. “We be true Englishmen, but of what is the use to fight all of France, and the Indians, too? We are but ninety men now, and perchance, if we yield we may get safe conduct to Boston or Salem town.”

I would have pierced the fellow with my sword had he not leaped back. Then I looked at him. I knew him simply as Simon, one of the sailors. Yet, as I gazed at him more keenly, I recognized him as a man who had followed my adversary, Sir George, into the Governor’s room, in Boston, the day I had received my commission. I recalled, also, that Simon had ever seemed to be near me; when we voyaged in the sloops, and when we stormed the fort at St. Johns. He was like a man appointed to watch over me, for no good purpose. And he had gained some hold over my men, for, when I looked from him to them, to see if his words found echo in their hearts, there was no one who said nay.

“You are all cowards,” I cried, but there was no answer.

Then, when I could command my voice, I asked whether it was the wish of the garrison to surrender, and, with almost one accord, they said it was. It was a bitter cup to drink of.

I slept not at all that night, and, several times, I was half minded to rush out, all alone, and fight, single handed, until I was slain. But life was sweet, and, shameful as it was, I resolved to give up the fort. I had none to defend it, and we might be treated as prisoners of war, to be exchanged, in due season. There was nothing else to do, so, with sorrow in my heart, I ordered the white flag run up, as the sun rose. Then came Castine and Iberville, the leaders, who had been waiting for the signal.

To Iberville I handed my sword. I could not but gaze with longing eyes on the bit of steel that had served me so well. Now I was like never to see it nor feel it in my hand again.

But Iberville, noting my wistful glance, after he had held the weapon in his hand a moment, poising it as one who well knew its worth, said:

“’Tis a pretty blade.”

“Aye,” I answered, bitterly. “It has found sheath in many an English foe, both French and Indian.”

His face, that had held a smile, went dark in a second. I expected nothing less than he would lunge at me. But he seemed to recover himself, though with an effort, and said, graciously:

“Perchance it may again.”

And he handed me back the sword.

I was too surprised to give him thanks. Soon we were deep in the details of the surrender. It was arranged that I was to march out at the head of my men, and we went on board the French vessels, as prisoners. We were to sail for Boston, to be exchanged for some French hostages held captive there.

It was not long before we left Pemaquid in the distance, a French garrison being in charge. The voyage was without incident, and, one day in July, I walked ashore at Boston town, with my command. Sending word to Governor Phips that I would call on him the next day, I made a hasty meal, secured a horse, and was soon on the road to Salem and to Lucille.

I could but contrast that ride with a similar one I had taken some months back, when the snow was drifted deep over the path. Much had happened since then. I had fought and loved, and fought, and still was loving. And the love was of more strength than all the battles.

I spurred the horse on, while over and over in my heart I sang but one song, and the name of it was Lucille.

CHAPTER X.
THE MAN AT THE INN.

At length the friendly tavern of Master Willis came into view. When I had reached it, weary and travel-stained, I dismounted, calling for a stable lad to see to the horse. I would but stop, I thought, to get a change of raiment, snatch a hasty bite, and hurry on to greet Lucile.

“Have the dead returned?” quoth Willis, joyfully, as I strode into the big room.

“Nay; ’tis myself in the flesh,” I answered, “as you may know, when I tell you that I am most woefully hungry. Some meat and drink, I pray you, for I must away soon again.”

The tavern keeper bestirred himself to much advantage, and it was not long ere there was plenty on the round table. I drew up a chair, and, while I lingered somewhat over the food, I had time to look about the familiar apartment.

In one corner I noticed a man seated. His legs were stretched out in lazy comfort, one foot crossed over the other, while, with a riding whip in his hand, he switched at his boots. He seemed not to notice me, so that I had a chance to take a good look at him. Then I knew him for the same man who had ridden down to the beach, the day the sloops sailed; the mysterious messenger of the night, the man with whom I had nearly come to sword strokes in the Governor’s room. I own I was startled, for I could not help feeling that something portended of no happy omen.

Once he caught me looking at him, but he said nothing until I had finished. Then he rose, lifted his hat from his head, and snapped his whip so that it cracked like a pistol shot.

“Good day to you, Captain Amherst,” he said. “May I have the honor of a few words?”

As he finished he smiled, and, though I could not tell why, I hated him for it.

“As many as you wish,” I answered, “but I am pressed for time now. Will not another occasion do? I----”

“Some other time might serve,” he interrupted, “but I am on the King’s business, and you know that ever presses us men of the sword.”

Not very graciously I led the way to my former apartment, from which I had been absent so long. Wearily I sat down, pointing to another chair, opposite, for my visitor. He took it, doubled the riding whip in his hands, and, with a slight bow to me, said:

“I have been waiting for your return, Captain Amherst,” and he seemed to hesitate over the name. “I have waited ever since you sailed against St. Johns.”

“Then you had a wearisome delay,” I responded, little heeding my own words, for I was in haste to be away. “One, I fear, not much to your profit or pleasure.”

“I did not look for profit,” was his reply. Then he spoke slowly, and with a mocking, sneering tone. “But it was pleasant enough, tarrying here--with Lucille!”

I sprang to my feet and half drew my sword, for there was more than insult in his words; there was a threat.

“Lucille!” I cried, leaning forward and peering into his handsome, sneering face.

“Aye, Lucille,” he answered coolly, and he never glanced at me, but played with the buckle of his sword belt.

“We had many happy hours together,” he went on; “she and I, while I was waiting for you.”

“Damn you!” I shouted; “what means this! Know you that----”

“Aye, I know,” was his response, and then he looked me full in the face. He seemed to drop his jaunty, careless air, as, at midnight, a dancer casts aside his mask. “I know,” he repeated slowly. “I know you, and I know Lucille.”

My sword was out in an instant, and, with its point, I menaced his heart. But, with a coolness that I could not help admiring, he never moved, nor did he seem at all alarmed.

“Draw, sir!” I cried out. “Draw, in the devil’s name, or I’ll run you through where you stand! The Governor is not here now to stay our hands. Who are you, crossing my path so often?”

“There is time enough to draw my sword when I have finished,” he replied, never taking his eyes from my face. “So if you will but put up your weapon, perchance there may be no need to take it from the scabbard again, Sir Francis Dane!”

If he had struck me I could not have been more startled than at the sound of that name. My knees grew weak from very fear, and I sank back into my chair, while my sword which I had held outstretched, clattered to the oak floor.

That my secret had been laid bare, after so many years, when I supposed it safely buried across the sea, shook me as a tempest might a sapling.

“Have I touched you with the point?” asked the stranger, as he cut the air with the little whip.

“Yes! A thousand times, yes!” I cried, and I leaped at him, and would have run him through on the instant with my sword, which I recovered from the floor, had he not nimbly sprang behind the bed.

There he stood, his face working with emotion, his eyes glaring, and his hand clasped so tightly on his sword hilt that his knuckles went white with the strain. I lunged at him again and again, fiercely, blindly, almost, until, in very shame at thrusting at one who had no weapon out, I stopped and stood breathless, like one who had run far.

“Why do you stand there, silent?” I panted. “Are you a man, or----?”

“Perchance a witch,” he replied, with an air of easy assurance. “I hear there be many hereabouts. Indeed, no later than yesterday three were hanged on the hill yonder.”

I started, in sudden fear, for his words brought back to my mind the witch trial, some months past.

For a space there was silence in the chamber, and I could hear our breaths, as we stood gazing at each other. Then he spoke.

“Well, what is it to be?” he asked. “Peace or war?”

“War!” I cried. “War to the end, now that you know what you do!”

“Very good, then,” was his answer. “But, perchance you will hearken to me for a little. Proclaim an armistice, as it were?”

I nodded, as one in a dream, for I seemed to be asleep, watching all these things transpire, but taking no part in them.

“What would you say,” he went on, “if I told you that I held a warrant from His Most Gracious Majesty, King William, for the apprehension of one Sir Francis Dane, or, as he is known now, Captain Edward Amherst? The charge being high treason.”

“What would I say? Why, that you lied most damnably.”

“Have a care!” he whispered, rather than spoke, and his hand fell to his sword hilt with a quick motion. “Have a care! I have suffered much from you. Do not tempt me too far.”

“I am no traitor,” I said proudly, “for I have but now returned from the defense of Pemaquid, which, though it fell was only given up in the face of heavy odds, and because the garrison would not stand by me. I am no traitor. Ask the men who tramped the woods and sailed the sloops with me.”

“Then this must be in error,” was his sudden exclamation. He threw a parchment to me across the bed, behind which he still was, and, while I unrolled it he came out, and sat in the chair again. I recognized the royal arms of England.

“Read,” he said. And then he settled back in his chair most comfortably, as one disposed to listen to some pleasant tale.

I read. True enough it was a warrant for Sir Francis Dane, formerly of the army of “that arch-traitor” Duke Monmouth. All the way through I read the scroll, my heart growing heavier as I proceeded.

“Does it suffice?” he asked.

“Aye,” I answered, moodily.

I turned toward him.

“It is enough,” I went on, pacing back and forth. “But, look you, sir, I know not your name. Not that it matters greatly.”

“I am Sir George Keith, at your service, and at that of His Majesty,” he said, smiling and bowing low.

“Well, then, Sir George Keith, what is to prevent me from destroying this warrant? From casting it into the fire, thus----?”

With a quick movement I tossed the parchment into the blazing pile of logs on the hearth, Willis having kindled them, though there was little need of warmth.

The sheepskin burned in a sudden puff of flame, but Sir George never turned his head to see what became of it.

“It was but a copy,” he said.

“Then what is to prevent me from killing you?” was my next question.

“Would one tainted with treason, add to his crimes and attack the King’s messenger? Or if he dared, that same bearer of the royal warrant might have somewhat to say touching on the killing. I am no schoolboy to be frightened by words!”

I knew he spoke the truth, and I sat down again.

“Perchance,” went on Sir George, “I may weary you with the tale, but I will relate it, and if I tire you I pray your pardon.”

Then while the shadows grew long outside, and the darkness settled deeper and deeper over the earth, I listened as one not fully awake, who hears a voice afar off.

“There is little need,” said Sir George, “of telling that which you know better than I do. How you were of the personal guard of Monmouth, and how, when the last battle went against him you fell into the hands of King James’ men, that day on Sedgemoor field. Of your trial before his Worshipful Honor, Judge Jeffreys, and his merciful sentence that you be sold as a slave, instead of being hanged, as you, and all that army of ragamuffins deserved, I need not speak. You recall how Lord Cordwaine begged that you might be given to him so he could sell you into slavery. You managed to escape from prison, none knew how, before Lord Cordwaine had secured you, and you fled.

“The noble lord reported his loss to His Majesty, and, being in great favor then, the King granted a royal warrant for you, that, wherever you could be found, you might be brought back to England as a traitor, to be dealt with as Lord Cordwaine might elect. That was seven years ago.

“Of your wanderings in that time I have heard a little. How, having sold your sword to prince after prince in Europe, you finally came to America, and offered your services to His Excellency, Sir William Phips, under the name of Captain Amherst. I have had a long search for you.

“Do not think that I followed you over seas all these years merely to gratify the revenge, or satisfy the whim of Lord Cordwaine. He might rot in hell for all I cared,” and Sir George, with a vicious snarl to the words, doubled his riding whip until it snapped in twain.

“No,” he proceeded, “I sought you for myself; for my own ends.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom whither he might be drifting. He had no more of the careless air, and his tone had changed to a low, intense and rapid one.

“Can you call to mind,” he asked, “when the last charge was made at the ditch that proved so disastrous to Monmouth’s forces?”

“Yes,” I said, my memory going back to the fierce struggle between farmers and religious fanatics on one side, and trained soldiers on the other.

“Do you remember how, when a dark haired lad, aye he was but a boy, opposed you as you urged your horse on?”

“Yes,” I answered, as one awaking from a sleep.

“Then,” came from Sir George suddenly, “call to mind also how you cut him down with a single stroke, though you might have disarmed and spared him, for he could not have prevailed against you. His life’s blood dyed the marsh, and he was trampled under foot, a shapeless mass. Do you recall that?” The words were hurled at me with every look of hate.

“It was in a fair fight,” I said, somewhat sorry for the lad. “I had to save myself. It was give and take, no quarter asked or granted; no time to parry.”

“I saw the blow. I marked who gave it,” went on Sir George. “Had not my horse fallen under me then you would ne’er have dealt another. A sudden surge in the battle carried me from you, but I knew I could remember your face, your form; and I vowed----,” a strong emotion seized the man,--“I vowed your death when once more we should stand face to face. Now after many years that time has come. For--for----”

He seemed to choke with the words.

“Was he----?” I began softly.

“He was my only brother,” he replied, “and his death broke my mother’s heart, and sent my father to an early grave.”

“’Twas the fortune of war,” I answered, but I had no heart to mock his grief.

After a pause he went on.

“When the prisoners were taken,” he said, “I sought among them for you. One day, to my joy, I saw you penned in with others like the cattle you were. I hastened to the King to beg one boon: that you might be given or sold to me. But Lord Cordwaine, curse him, was before me, and he had chosen you among others that the King gave him. His Majesty dared not, for reasons of policy, offend Lord Cordwaine, by making the change.

“I begged and pleaded with the lord that he would give you to me, but he was short of purse, and had made a bargain to sell you as a slave. I had not money enough or I would have been the buyer.

“Then came your sale to the slave dealer, and your escape from prison, before Lord Cordwaine had delivered you to the purchaser. He secured a royal warrant for your arrest, wherever you might be found, on the charge of high treason. Fearful that you might escape my vengeance I besought Lord Cordwaine to let me serve the document. Glad that he was not to be out of pocket by the arrangement he consented. Since then I have followed you from place to place, always arriving just as you had gone. I lost track of you when you sailed for this land, but now I can reap my reward.”

I know not what prevented me from springing at him then and ending it all. I wish I had. Perhaps it was his devil’s coolness, or his mastery over my feelings that held me to my chair. He proceeded after a pause, not heeding that I had risen as he began again.

“When King James fled,” he went on, “I managed to acquire some influence at the court of William and Mary. The warrant was renewed, though Lord Cordwaine, to my joy, died in the meantime, and I knew I could have you all to myself when I found you. So I continued my search, and now I have found you--and Lucille.”

“What of Lucille?” I cried. “Would you drive me mad by harping on her name, as if you had a right to use it? Speak, man. What are you to her, or what is she to you? There is some mystery here, of which I have had enough. Now out with it, or, warrant or no warrant, I’ll run you through as I would a dog.”

“What of Lucille?” repeating my words in a sneering tone. Then changing suddenly: “This of Lucille. That I love her better than life. Aye, I love her more than I hate you, and God knows that hate is as wide and as deep as the sea. I love her; I love her, and she loves me! For Lucille de Guilfort is my wife!”

CHAPTER XI.
A MAN AND HIS WIFE.

I was like a man who saw death before him when I heard his words. Lucille his wife, when but a few short months ago she had promised to be mine. She had let me woo and win her, knowing that she had no right--that I had no right!

“Oh God!” I cried; and then I stopped, for I did not know what I might pray for; her death, or his or my own. Yet with it all I loved her; more than ever.

A great grief or a great joy stuns for the moment. So it was with me. My heart’s dearest idol was shattered; crumbled into dust, and, instead of pain, there was a numbness and a feeling that I had never known before. I raised my hand to my head as if I would brush away cobwebs from my eyes.

“Lucille,” I began, in so strange a tone that I started at the word, and the silence seemed broken by my tone as by a thunder clap.

“Lady Keith,” corrected Sir George, smiling.

There came to me a faint hope like a star dimly seen amid a storm sky. Perchance he had forfeited the right to call her wife. What else could mean her shrinking from him, her fear when they had met, and I had been near to see? Oh, if it could but be true! My eyes saw clearer, and my hand became firmer.

“I have no privilege to ask,” I began, yet I hoped for an answer, “but I had been led to believe otherwise of--of--Lu--of Lady Keith.”

“Aye, I suppose so,” was his answer, in a biting tone. “I am in little mood for the telling, yet I will relate how it came to pass; for there have been strange goings on since Mistress Lucille became Lady Keith.”

Then as we two stood there, each with deadly hatred of the other in his heart, he began:

“I met Lucille and fell in love with her some five years ago. I first saw her in Paris, where I had gone in quest of you. There I lingered unable, because of the witchery of her eyes, to leave. We met often, for I contrived to prevail on her father to let me give her lessons in English. And you may guess I lost no opportunity of giving her lessons in love at the same time. Well, my suit prospered, and in a year we were wed, both as happy as lovers proverbially are.

“Then one day, ’twas a small matter, to be sure, but there was a story that some court lady had been found in my bed chamber. Only a trifle, for she had been there to gain my friendship in a matter concerning some titled personage, and called rather early, that was all. But Lucille heard of it, and, as I could not deny that the lady was there, why, my wife assumed that I had tired of her charms. She flew into a great passion, and when I had imagined she would pout a bit, and seem offended, she was most grievously angered. Hast ever seen her in a temper?” he asked suddenly.

“No,” I said sharply. “Go on.”

“Oh, but she has one, for all her fair face,” he sneered.

It was all I could do to keep the point of my sword from his throat.

“Proceed,” I choked out.

“Well, this small matter to me proved a large one for Lady Keith. And her father, it seems, took it to heart also. They were of noble blood, the de Guilforts, almost as good as the Keiths,” and he stroked his moustache with an air of pride.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, Mistress Keith was in a great temper. She defied me to my face; told me I had dishonored her. You know how women are. To be brief, M. de Guilfort, with my wife and her cousin, suddenly left Paris, when I had been called to London on a false report that you had come back. When I returned to Paris, expecting to find all the affair blown over, and a pair of loving arms and ruby lips to welcome me, I found a vacant house; a cold hearth.

“I did my best to trace them but failed. Then, like a man without hope, hating yet loving, loving yet hating, I went to the wars, and finally came to America. And here, thanks to the fates I have found both my enemy and my love.”

“Is that all?” I asked, for I wished to hear the end before I killed him.

“No,” he said bitterly, “not all. When I became attached to the army of the Massachusetts Colony, the first act of Governor Phips was to send me with a message to you here. I little guessed who I should find Captain Edward Amherst to be, much less did I hope to meet with Lucille in Salem town.

“When I galloped to her house that night, not finding you at the inn, I saw, in the dim light, she whom I had been seeking so long. I had no eyes for you then beyond a glance. But when I had ridden away, not desiring to press matters at once, your face came before me, and I knew I had found one other I had been in search of. I shouted aloud for joy.

“I hastened to Boston, where I had left the royal warrant, and I returned with all speed. You had already sailed with the two sloops, though I tried to hail you from the shore to which I galloped. However, I thought that you would return, and, when I looked and saw Lucille, I hardly cared whether you came back or not.”

“Is that all?” I asked again, softly. For I saw, of a truth now, that one of us was like to die; and I did not think it would be me.

“Not quite all,” he said.

He paused to cast a hasty look at me, then he went on.

“While waiting for you I had time to renew my acquaintance with my dear wife,” he said mockingly.

“And--and have you persuaded her that you are a true and loyal husband?” I asked, hesitating bitterly over the words.

“Nay, curses on it,” he cried. “Why, man, ’twould be laughable, but that I am more in love with her than ever. Fancy a man in love with his wife a second time, yet not allowed to greet her, to call upon her, save in the presence of a serving maid, not to take her hand, to kiss----”

I started forward, with what intent I know not, for the memory of those kisses I had pressed on Lucille’s lips came back to me. I felt that one of us, for the sake of the honor of Lucille, must die.

“Then your second suit is not favored, as was the first?” I inquired.

“Nay,” he replied bitterly. “Why, ’tis town gossip now that she loves you, for no one is aware that she is my wife yet. A pretty tale, is it not? How the French maid fell in love with the Captain that casts great rocks as though they were butbut pebbles.”

“You lie, damn you!” I cried. “She did love me, perhaps. But it was before she knew she had no right.”

“No right?”

“My life upon it, she did not know, Sir George. She either believed you dead, or knew that she was no more bound to you than to the veriest beggar.”

Yet, though I spoke the words boldly, there was both pain and fear in my heart. When a man begins to doubt a woman there is no middle way. But I could not, with honor, do less than defend the name of one I had loved--nay, of one I loved still.

“Oh, a truce to fine words,” was the reply. “All women are alike; off with the old, on with the new. Since she has found you she has no use for me. I might as well talk of my love to the trees or to the rocks as to Lucille, my own wife, since you have kissed her.”

I started.

“Ha! That was but a chance shot, yet it struck,” he cried; and he laughed, though it echoed more like a wail than a sound of merriment.

“But I love her,” he went on. “Oh, God, how I love her! I love her so much that I will, for the sake of it, be cheated of my revenge. With you away I could have hope. But now----”

Outside the wind blew in mournful gusts, for a storm was brewing.

“Hark you, Sir Francis Dane,” he continued. “I will not call you by that name, though, for you have forfeited it. Listen, Captain Amherst; if you will but consent to leave the Colony, leave Lucille, and go away, I, in turn, will forget my brother’s death, my vengeance, and you. The royal warrant shall be destroyed, and you may walk the earth a free man, fearing not any one. Only go. Leave Lucille to me. I can win back her love. See, I will write now a full and free pardon for you, and will transmit it to the King. Will you go?”

It was dark by this time, and the flickering flames, dying amid the ashes, like a hopeless love, faintly illuminated the apartment, as we stood facing each other.

It was strange, when, for the moment I stopped to think of it. Here was a man pleading with another for what was his right. Pleading to be allowed to woo his own wife. Begging that I would give up my love and go away so that his suit might be unhampered. Verily I had never heard of such a thing before, though I knew that love was a strange master. Sir George was asking of me with words what I might expect to be required by the sword. Yet, though I had no right to the love of Lucille, his wife, he did not draw, even as I moved back, and stood on guard.

Whereat I marveled, for he was not a man to accept lightly the dishonor I had put upon him.

CHAPTER XII.
THE TIME OF PERIL.

Of what use to stay in Salem now, that my love had come to such a sorry end? Yet I did not like that he should triumph over me, nor would I purchase my freedom at the price he offered.

To stay? To go?

“I will remain here,” I said, after a moment’s pause. He made a gesture that showed his displeasure. “But mistake me not, Sir George, Mistress Keith shall see no more of me. I stay, not on her account, but my own. Now, enough of womenkind. With you it seems I have a score to settle yet.”

Sir George nodded his head.

“You have made threats,” I went on. “You feel aggrieved; you consider me your enemy, and I, no less, you mine. The Danes are not accustomed to shun danger; to permit old scores to be unsatisfied; to leave an enemy behind them. Therefore I stay, Sir George.”

He made as if he would go, but I stood before him. He was looking beyond me with a curious glint in his eyes, and, though I was directly in his path, he did not seem to notice me.

“Draw, sir,” I commanded, gently. “Let us see who of us shall go or stay; who of us shall die? There have been enough of threats. Draw, sir; I pray you.”

Still he looked beyond me as if at some vision behind the oak walls, until stung by his indifference I came so close up against him that his arm touched mine.

“Will you not fight?” I cried, peering into his eyes that refused to see me.

He said not a word, but ever continued to gaze away.

“Come,” I sneered, “will you do me the honor to cross swords?”

“Not with a traitor,” was his sudden answer.

“Nor I with a coward,” I exclaimed. I snatched up the broken whip and struck him full in the face with it. The blow raised a red weal from his eye to his chin.

I have seen wild beasts aroused, and raging Indians mad with the lust of murder, yet I never saw such a look as came into the face of that man when I struck him. Verily I shrank back somewhat, and my sword went up on guard. But with a fierce mastery of the passion that must have been tearing at his very heart, Sir George moistened his lips with his tongue, and hoarsely whispered:

“Are you mad? No man ever yet struck me and lived after it. But the sword of a gentleman and a soldier is too good for such as you, traitor that you are. I will not sully my steel with your blood. Think not, though, that you will escape me. Die you shall, but in such manner as no man died before;” and, ere I could stop him he had rushed from the room, and I was alone.

There was half a thought in my mind to follow him, but I did not care to engage with him on the open highway, and I knew I would meet with him again. That he meditated some evil to me I was sure. What it might be I could not say.

Well, I would be off now to see Lucille after my long absence. I stopped with a jolt, as suddenly as does a trooper whose horse balks at a hedge. Lucille!

“Ha!” I cried, gaily. “Nay, Lucille no more, but Lady Keith. What a fool I’ve been to let her see that I loved her. What a fool any man is to love a woman. What fools men are, anyhow, at all times.

“Bah! Lucille! And she took my kisses.

“What ho! Well, ’tis many a stolen kiss a soldier has, and mine had been purloined favors, though I knew it not. Why, then, should I give her up? She loved me, even her husband admitted that. And why had not I, whom she loved, a better right, to her than he whom she loved not? With some there would have been but one answer to this. A clash of steel, and, right or wrong, he who loved and won, would have her whom he fought for. Why not I? What if she was his wife?

“Should love recognize limitations of earthly honor? Why not cast honor as men saw it to the winds? With Sir George out of the way I would have naught to fear from his warrant, and his wife--bah! the words went bitter in my mouth--his wife could then be mine. I had no doubt that in a combat with him I could be the victor. We had quarreled, I had struck him. If he was a man he must fight after that. Then a meeting early in the morning, a clash of swords, a lunge, a feint, a trick I knew well, having had it from a master of the art, and that would be the end. The end of all save my happiness with Lucille.

“No!”

I spoke the word aloud. I had not sunk so low as that. It would be sad indeed if love gave such license. There was but one way out of the matter. If I stayed in Salem I must fight Sir George, and all would say that I had slain him that I might take his wife.

Love would be sweet, with Lucille to share it with me, but not love with dishonor. Therefore I must go.

Heigh-ho! This, then, was an end to all my dreams. Nothing left to battle for save life, and that was scarce worth the struggle. I tried to banish the memory of Lucille from me, but I could not. Her whisper that she loved me sounded in my ears loud above the din of the fights I had passed through. One right I had still. To love her in secret, to know that she loved me, and, knowing that, to let it be the end.

It was night now. There came a knock on my door, and Willis entered.

“What, not gone?” he asked. “Why, I thought you were in haste to be away.”

“So I was,” I answered, with a short laugh, “but I have changed my mind now. Much haste oft means a slow journey. I’ll stay here with you. Let us have some wine up, Master Willis. ’Tis so long since I have tasted any that my throat has forgot the flavor. Bring plenty, for when a man has been to the wars there is need of some cheer on his return, even though he comes conquered instead of a conqueror.”

He brought the wine, and we drank together, I not so much that I wanted the drink, but companionship.

“How goes the witchcraft here, Willis?” I asked. “I heard ’twas broke out again, as I came through Boston.”

“Hush,” he said, glancing around as though he feared some one would hear me. “Verily it is most horrible. The townspeople have gone mad, it seems. Scarce a day goes by that some poor woman or man is not accused of being in league with the devil, or banded with witches to work evil spells. The Colony groans under the terrors, for nearly half a score of people have been put to death after being convicted of witchcraft.

“Neighbors have denounced and testified against neighbors; fathers against sons, and daughters against their mothers.”

“Why, ’tis worse than I dreamed,” I said.

“Aye, it is bad enough,” responded Willis, glancing behind his chair, as if he expected to see a witch perched on the bed post.

“There are strange tales told,” he went on, “of how witch meetings are held on the common, and those who have been witness to them say they see the forms of their acquaintances riding athwart broomsticks or fence rails in the air.

“Let but a cow be taken sick, and straightway ’tis said that the animal is bewitched. Then the owner goes before the judges and swears some poor dame has cast an evil spell on the beast. The woman is taken and put in gaol, and little enough as the evidence is sometimes, she is condemned and hanged. Oh, I promise that you will see horrors enough if you stay here long.

“Why, no further back than six days one man was accused because he was so strong that the witch-crazed people said he must have had help from Satan to lift the weights he did. He was taken, tried and executed.”

“I am like to suffer then,” I said, laughing. “Do you recall the big stone by the brook?”

“Heaven forbid,” said Willis. “But do not laugh, Captain. It is no small matter when half the townsfolk are crazed, and the other half ready to follow where the first lead. Surely you must have noticed how distraught the people were as you came along.”

“Nay,” I answered, “I was thinking of other matters. But I remarked that the few friends I passed in the road seemed not to know me. But what does it signify?”

“Much,” proceeded Willis. “Much in very truth. No man’s life nor liberty is safe now. It is a perilous time. Why, Salem gaol to-night holds two score poor wretches, whose only fault is some one has said they are witches.

“And more. The Governor has sent a special court with judges and constables and soldiers to attend to the trials. They are fearsome ordeals, too. It is ordained that if the accused one will confess that he is a witch that one may go free, for, it is said, that being a witch, by confession in the presence of a minister, the spirit of Satan is abashed, and leaves the body. But many will not confess, maintaining, even on the scaffold that they are innocent, and all such have been put to death. So many have been executed that there is fear in many hearts.

“Some are tried by water. They are thrown into the mill pond, and if they sink they are free from the accusation of witchcraft. Little good it does the poor souls though, for they never live to know that they are innocent. A true witch will float, ’tis said, and all such are killed.”

“Do you speak the truth?” I asked, for I could scarce believe what I heard.

“As I live,” answered Willis. “It is a time for every man to look to himself, especially if he has an enemy. Many of the witch trials, I believe, are but vents for the enmity which cannot be satisfied in other ways. A few of the accusers, however, seem in earnest, claiming that their maladies and troubles are spells of their enemies, and the afflicted ones call out the names in great agony.”

“Bah! Willis,” I said. “You are chicken-hearted from staying too much at home.”

“Wait and see,” replied the inn keeper. Then he left me.

I did not want to go to bed yet; there was no sleep in me; so I resolved to walk out to let some of my busy thoughts fly away, if they would. The moon was up, a big round silver disk, larger than the head of a cider barrel. It cast long shadows across the road and fields.

As I tramped on toward, I knew not where, nor cared, I found my steps leading, unconsciously, to the home of the woman I loved.

I half turned back. No. I would go on. Not to see her. Not to clasp her in my arms, as I had hoped to do. Never that again. I would but pass by on the other side. It was to be my farewell.

There was a light burning in the house when I came up to it. I fancied I could see through the window in the glare of the candle Lucille. Yes, there she was. Like a thief in the night I crept nearer until I could discern her face. Her head was resting on her hands; she seemed waiting for some one. I prayed it might be me, yet she must wait in vain.

Nearer I went. She turned, and gazed out into the night, straight at me. But I slipped into the shadow of an oak tree, that by no chance she might see me. She was more beautiful than ever. Oh, why had she not told me all that was in the past, before she let me love her.

The wind rustled through the trees, sighing like a lost soul, a most mournful sound. I stretched up my hands to the sky; I reached them out to the woman I loved. Both were beyond me.

Once more I looked at her. She had risen from her seat. She stooped over the candle, so that the glare showed me her fair face, the ringlets of her hair, the soft curve of her throat, all her loveliness.

“Lucille!” I cried, but the word was tossed back to me by the wind.

“Lucille!” I whispered, but a moonbeam stole her name away.

“Lucille!” She snuffed the candle, and it went out in a blur of darkness, so that the night swallowed her up, and I was left alone.

Then with the bitter heart of a man who has no sweetness left in life I came away.

As I took the road to the inn I thought that once or twice along the path, half hidden by the trees, a form followed me. I stopped, and looked intently at the black shadow.

An owl hooted mournfully, a frog croaked in a near-by pool, and a cricket chirped pleasantly from the grass.

“’Twas the owl,” I said, and I passed on.

Again I heard a dry twig snap as if some heavy animal or a man had stepped on it. This time, as I halted to looked about I heard not far off the howl of a lone wolf.

“It was the wolf,” I muttered, “after a stray sheep,” and I walked on, for the night was chill, and I was not warmly clad.

I had reached the inn, and hurried to my room. Then I looked from the window, and I saw passing across the fields the figure of a man.

“Ho,” I whispered, “it was no wolf then.”

But I looked again and saw that the man was Sir George Keith.

“Aye, it was a wolf,” I said.

CHAPTER XIII.
IN SALEM GAOL.

I dreamed that night I was back in Pemaquid, with the cannon pounding away at the fort, bringing the stout timbers down about my ears. I fought the fight over again, and suddenly awoke in the gray dawn of the morning to hear a thundering summons at my door.

“Hello!” I cried, springing from bed, and seizing my sword. My eyes were heavy with sleep, and I thought the Indians were upon us.

The knock came once more, and it did not sound so loud to me when I had shaken off some of the slumber.

“Who’s there?” I called again.

“’Tis I, John Putnam, constable of Salem town under His Most Gracious Majesty, the King,” was the reply.

A nameless dread, a chill, seized me, though I knew not the reason for it. As the constable’s words died away I detected the sound of moving feet beyond the oak door that separated us. I thought at once that Sir George had sent the royal warrant for treason to be executed upon me.

“Wait,” I cried, wishing to gain a little time. Then for an instant I reasoned with myself. What should I do? Give battle now, trusting to break through the ranks of those the constable had brought with him, and, if successful, flee? Or tarry and see the affair through? I did not like to run for it on the first appearance of danger. Perhaps after all I could find a way of escape. So in the next instant I had made up my mind to take my arrest quietly.

I had an idea that the fighting I had done in behalf of the Colony would stand me in good stead, and serve to gain me a pardon from the court.

Once more the summons came.

“We’ll not wait much longer,” was the warning from without.

“Then enter,” I called, flinging open the door. I stood face to face with a half score of men, all armed, who well nigh filled the little hall. John Putnam, the constable, was at their head.

“Your errand?” I inquired, shortly, thinking I knew it as well as he.

“I have a warrant, a royal warrant, for your body,” began the constable pompously.

“I know it full well,” was my answer.

I noticed that the bodyguard, accompanying Master Putnam, looked one at the other at this. A burly red-haired farmer, who clasped his flint-lock as he would a club, whispered to the man next him:

“Mark you that, neighbor Passden? There is Satan’s work. He hath informed the Captain in advance of our coming, and of the royal warrant, which our worthy constable has not even yet removed from his jacket pocket. Saw you ever the like?”

“Hush! Not so loud,” murmured the one addressed. “Aye, ’tis fearfully marvelous. But speak not of it, or he may cast a spell of the evil on us,” and the two shrank away.

I heard the whispers, but knew not what it all meant. I looked at the constable, seeking an explanation.

“I hold a warrant,” he went on, “against you, Captain Edward Amherst, charging you with certain detestable arts called witchcraft.”

“What!” I cried. “Have you lost your senses, Master Putnam?”

“Nay, hear me out,” he protested, drawing a parchment with a red seal dangling therefrom, out of his pocket. The men closed up around me.

“You are charged,” the constable continued, slanting the document, so as to catch the light of the rising sun from an east window full upon it, “charged with practicing witchcraft, and sorceries, wickedly and feloniously, upon and against Deliverance Hobbs, Benjamin Proctor and John Bly. All of whom last night made depositions of the facts before our gracious and most worthy Honor, Justice Hathorne. And I hereby arrest you, Captain Amherst, on this warrant. You will be arraigned for trial this day at the court of Oyer and Terminer, to be holden here by Justices Hathorne and Corwin. You are, therefore, my prisoner.”

The constable folded the warrant together, and I noticed, when too late, that he had been gradually edging himself nearer to me. Suddenly he sprang at me, and threw his arms around mine, pinning my hands to my sides. I had been stunned by the quick change from what I had been expecting to that which I never dreamed of. But when I felt the hands of the constable upon me, his arms about my body, my resolve to submit quietly flew to the wind, and I nerved myself for the coming struggle.

I spread my arms apart, and easily forced off the hold of the constable. Then I turned quickly and picked Master Putnam up as if he had been but a small barrel of cider. I cast him out of the door, so that he fell against the crowd of men, and some of them were knocked down, none too gently, I fear, by his flight through the air.

Then I drew my sword from the scabbard, and stood ready to defend myself, but they were a trifle wary now about advancing. For perhaps a minute I stood thus, holding them at bay with the point of my weapon.

But one man unobserved had crawled into the room behind me. Of a sudden I felt something fall over my head and slip down about my arms. It was a rope noose, and it was quickly pulled taut, so that my hands were fastened to my sides. I was helpless in an instant, with no chance to use my sword.

“At him now, neighbors!” cried a big farmer, casting his flint-lock to the floor. “The Lord of Hosts is on our side, and He will enable us to prevail, and overcome the mighty disciple of Satan.”

“Aye, at him now, at him now! Kill the witch!” cried others.

On came the crowd with a rush, seeing that I was fast bound and helpless. However, with a kick from each foot in turn I disabled two of the constable’s guard as they sought to fall upon me, but the others were too many to cope with, and they forced me down by sheer weight and numbers. More ropes were brought and soon I was tied as neatly as a fowl trussed for roasting.

Without a word they carried me away in that sorry fashion, Constable Putnam limping along in the rear of the procession, for it appeared he had been somewhat hurt when he went out of the door so quickly.

I was taken to Salem gaol, and when it was reached, the iron studded door swung open, and I was thrust among two score others, suspected of witchcraft, who were waiting trial. A groan went up as I was added to their company. The door banged shut, hiding from view the pleasant sun, which was just rising, and drowning the songs of the birds.

My captors placed me on the floor with no gentle hands, and went away. Some of the prisoners, however, lifted me up on a bench, so that I was more comfortable in body, though not so much so in mind.

It needed but a little thought to tell me how the matters that had lately transpired had come about. I knew that Sir George at the present time did not dare to urge the old charge of treason against me because of my present loyalty to the King and the Colony. He was afraid to fight, I believed, and, desiring revenge for my blow, and at the same time to see me removed from where I might meet Lucille, he had hit upon this plan to have me killed as a witch. And his plot was like to work well.

I recalled what Willis had told me of the state of people’s minds in regard to those suspected of witchcraft. I could realize what it meant now. Though had I not seen some of the things I did I would not have believed them.

I saw men and women in that gaol, who had been among the best liked of the townspeople. Colonists of wealth, delicate mothers and men of culture were there, herded together like sheep, and treated like common felons. It was enough to make me cry out for shame for my countrymen, who could be so deluded and deceived. I forgot my own plight to see so many waiting to be sacrificed, for what afterward proved to be a most terrible error. Aye, it was many years ere the black memory of Salem witchcraft of 1692 was forgotten.

Among the prisoners was Martha Cory, mother of my former Lieutenant. She cried when she saw me, and asked for tidings of her son. To my sorrow I could not give them, as Cory had been separated from me when we surrendered at Pemaquid, and I had not seen him since, though I told his mother I trusted he was safely exchanged.

George Reed was also a prisoner. He was a brother of one of my recruits who had fallen at the battle of St. Johns, and when I told the brother in gaol his sorrows were added to. Dorcas Goode was there, and Sarah Osborn, and Mary Warren; women whose sons or brothers had marched with me to the war. Some did not return, and if they but knew they might count themselves well off. Those were dark days, indeed, in Salem town.

Presently I called to the jailer, and, upon my promise that I would not try to escape, he loosened my bonds so I could walk and move about with some freedom. Now I was not minded to be executed as a witch, and I wanted all my strength, and nimbleness of limb, for whatever struggle there might be ahead. Greatly did I desire to be within sword’s length of Sir George Keith for a little while, and I resolved that I would give him but one chance to draw his weapon.

I went about among the prisoners, and soon engaged one of the guards in talk. From him, and from what I could piece out in my own mind, I learned how my arrest had been brought about. Sir George, after his meeting with me, had gone to the home of Justice Hathorne, and had sworn to a complaint as to my witch powers. It was easy to find others as witnesses to whom ordinary events by reason of the excitement in the Colony, had become much changed in meaning. So that in simple happenings such as the loss of a cow or a sheep, the witchcraft of some neighbor was discernible. Sir George had learned of Benjamin Proctor and John Bly, who each had lost a cow from some disease. He had suggested that I might be the witch who had worked evil spells upon the animals.

The two farmers, worrying over the loss of their cows, had eagerly seized on the explanation that I was the evil spirit responsible. Sir George had told how my strength was as the power of three men, though my body was not overly large. He had told of the great rock I had lifted after the mightiest man in the Colony had failed to budge it, and thus the charges against me had grown out of nothing.

The two farmers and Deliverance Hobbs, who was an old woman, scarce knowing what she said, were sure I was a person in league with the devil. So they had prayed the judge, through Sir George Keith, that I might be apprehended and brought to trial.

Sir George had induced the constable to arrest me at dawn, saying I could be more easily taken if suddenly aroused from sleep. So, too, he had urged that I might be given a speedy trial, that the witchcraft in the land might be crushed out with a heavy hand, and the powers of evil made the less. He had talked with much cunning to the authorities, and he being, as they knew, in favor with the King and Governor, they had done all he wished.

Thus I was in Salem gaol, with little chance of leaving it, save at the trial, and then, perchance, it would be but a short shrift to the gallows.

It was noon. The sun shone overhead and beat down on the prison, but to us inside, only the reflection of the golden beams came in through the iron barred window. Steps were heard coming toward the door, and, as it swung open the guards thrust some platters of food in to us. Some cakes of corn meal, with a bit of mutton, was all there was. Scarce sufficient for half that were there. When the jailer handed me my portion he muttered beneath his breath:

“Of what use to feed witches, when, if they so desired, Satan himself would bring them hell-broth through the very walls of this gaol.”

“Say you so?” I replied, laughing bitterly. “Say you so? Then why do we not have Satan bear us hence through these same walls if so be we are witches. One is as easy as the other.”

“I had not thought of that,” he said, shrinking back, “the guard without must be doubled, and Dominie Parris shall offer fervent prayers that ye all may be safely held here.”

During the meal I talked with some of my companions and learned that they had been cast into prison on the most flimsy pretexts. One old woman, because she had passed through a field where sheep were feeding. She touched some of the lambs with her hand. The next day some of the sheep were dead, and Elizabeth Paddock was accused of bewitching them. Another woman was taken because, when she had baked some dumplings an apple was found whole inside of them, and it was said that Satan must have aided her. Still another lad, whose mother had been hanged as a witch, was in gaol. Grief and terror had made him out of his mind, and he continually called out that he had turned into a witch, and saw his mother riding through the air on a cloud of geese feathers. Salem gaol was a most fearsome place those days.

After the rude meal, the constable, accompanied by his former bodyguard, came to bring me to the court house. It was with no very cheerful heart I made ready to go with him, for I could nearly guess how the trial would end with Sir George to urge on the witnesses. Still I could but take my chance, as I had many times before, and I trusted to my good fortune to bring me safely through.

A man can die but once, and I wondered vaguelyvaguely, as I stepped out, whether Lucille would care if I died.

CHAPTER XIV.
A SENTENCE OF DEATH.

When, after a walk through the town, during which our progress was delayed by a curious throng of people who stared at me as if I had been a wild animal, we came to the court house, there was another gaping crowd at the door.

“Make way! Make way!” cried Constable Putnam. “Make way, good people, for the representative of His Most Gracious Majesty.”

Another time his pompous air and his words might have called forth jibes and ridicule from the thoughtless, but now, such was the time and the occasion, and so deep in every heart was the fear of witchcraft, that not a soul smiled.

The assemblage opened up in a living lane, and through it we passed into the court room. It was filled to overflowing, as it had been on another occasion, which I well remembered. I looked about me, noting little change since I had sat there as a spectator a few months back. And yet what a change there had been.

The same judges were on the bench, their Honors, John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin, while Master Stephen Sewall was there to act as clerk; to take down with quill scratchings, whatever words should fall from my lips.

On the left of the judges sat the jury. All were men of grave mien, some of whom I knew well. They looked at me as I was brought in, and some whispered among themselves.

Then as I glanced hurriedly over the room I saw many of my old comrades. A few turned their heads away as if they feared I would cast the blight of the evil eye on them. Others looked more kindly at me. One man gazed fixedly into my face, and I was at a loss for a moment to recall who he was. Then after I had thought a bit I knew him for my former lieutenant, Giles Cory. He had grown a beard, and looked travel stained, as if he had just finished a journey around the world. I longed to ask of him what his adventures had been since we last saw each other in Pemaquid, and I wondered if he knew that his old mother was in gaol as a witch.

As I looked at him some one whispered in his ear. It was evidently the news of his mother, for I saw Cory’s face pale, and he hastened from the room. Poor lad, he little knew then, nor did I, how soon he was to stand where I stood, and to suffer a terrible death that I came nigh to.

I marked on many faces looks of ill ease and fright, for no man knew whether he was safe from accusation.

I looked for Lucille, though I knew no reason why she should be present. Thinking she might be hidden by some pillar, or by those in front, I stood up and gazed about me. At the time I was half minded to jump down among those who, with drawn swords and ready flint-locks, guarded me, and make a fight of it then and there. But my slightest move was watched, and the men closed up around me so that I saw nothing but death should I make the attempt. Then I resumed my seat.

A moment later I observed, half hidden by one of the large upright beams, the devil’s face of my enemy. I caught but a passing glance, but even in that I saw him smile in triumph at me. His hand sought his sword hilt caressingly, and I thought of the day when my weapon was at his throat cursing the impulse that had halted me from driving it home.

While I watched Sir George I saw a man come up behind him and whisper something. I marked the fellow and noted that he was the sailor who had been in the Governor’s ante-chamber, the same one who had been the first to cry out that we must give up Pemaquid. Now, when he came before me in my hour of trial, I began to believe him my evil genius. I was sure he was in the service of Sir George, and had followed me to the war merely to keep track of me for his master.

Sir George turned so that I could see his face as Simon, the sailor, spoke to him. And the eyes of my lord grew small, like the half closed orbs of a tiger about to spring, and he started, as if surprised, at the news his henchman brought him. Then the two hurried from the court room, leaving me to wonder what game was afoot now. Something that boded no good, I wagered, and I longed to be free that I might have a hand.

But I must needs look to myself now, for the judges were ready to proceed, and the clerk was reading the charges against me. These were wordy with legal terms, whereby I was accused of witchcraft by Deliverance Hobbs, John Bly and Benjamin Proctor. When the reading was finished Judge Hathorne inquired of me whether I was ready to confess.

“What, your honor?” I asked. “Confess to this most foul lie? Not so. Set me before my accusers and I will answer them.”

Now, had I been wise, I would have admitted that I was a witch, when, perchance, I would have gotten off with no more than some stripes, and being driven from the town. But I stood on my honor, as you shall see with what results.

“Have your way, then,” replied the judge, shrugging his shoulders, as though, like Pilate, he washed his hands of all guilt of my blood.

Then came John Bly to the stand. He was a farmer, whose son had gone with me to the war.

“Swear the witness,” said the judge, and Clerk Sewall did so.

“May it please your worships,” began John, “I did buy a pig of Master Edward Bishop some two months ago. As I was leading it to sell yesterday I passed Captain Amherst in the road nigh to the tavern of Samuel Willis.”

“Did I aught to you?” I asked from where I sat. “Did I more than bid you a good day and ask after your dame?”

“Aye, that was all you did,” answered Bly, “but I recalled afterward that you did cast a longing look at my pig.”

“’Twas because I had not yet eaten that day,” I said, smiling a bit at the remembrance, “and your porkerporker was a fine fat one. I wished for a bit of bacon from it.”

“Yea, he looked at the pig,” proceeded the witness, “and when I got the animal a little farther on it took strange fits. It leaped into the air, squealing most dreadful, and knocked its head against the fence. So I was sure it was bewitched, for never did pig of mine behave so before.”

“What say you to that?” asked Judge Corwin.

“Naught,” I made reply, “save that the animal had some distemper.”

Then Benjamin Proctor took the stand. He eagerly related that when I had first come to Salem there had been the terrifying scarlet snow, which, though two women witches had doubtless caused it, might have had some of my handiwork in also, as I was the only stranger to arrive in town that night.

Next he related how I had such great strength that I could do feats no other man could attempt. I had taken a gun, Proctor said, with a seven-foot barrel, of so great weight that strong men could not with both hands hold it out steadily. Yet he had seen me make nothing of taking the weapon up and, by grasping it near the lock, hold it out as easily as a man would a pistol, discharging it at a mark.

Again, he said, he had seen me take a heavy fowling piece with a five-foot barrel, and lift it in the following marvelous manner. I thrust my forefinger down the muzzle and held the piece out at arm’s length. Other strong men had only been able to hold this gun out in the usual way, Proctor said, yet I supported the entire weight on one finger.

Master Proctor told how I had lifted a barrel of molasses high above my head, something no other man of those parts could do. Lastly he related, with much detail, how he and others had seen me cast the stone by the brook that May day. I had plucked the rock from its bed as though it was but a gun flint, he said, and had heaved it from me so that it rolled down the hill, striking another bowlder. The stone I cast had broken into a thousand pieces, some narrowly missing a maid of the Colony, one Lucille de Guilfort. I had been near to causing her death, Proctor said, which must have come speedily, amid the flying rock fragments, had I not been a witch, and made the stones to fall harmless all about the maid.

The judges asked me if I had anything to say against these charges.

“They are true in the main,” I replied. “More than this. If your honors will but send for the guns I will repeat the feats that caused so much wonder here before your eyes. To show you that though they are not easy to accomplish, yet I can do them with the strength God has given me. What witchcraft is there in that? As for the great stone by the brook, so far from lifting it with ease, it took all my powers, and, had it weighed a pound more I must have failed. The maid escaped harm, and I thank God for it, though it was through no power of mine.”

Then came Deliverance Hobbs. Her tale was strange enough. She had seen, she testified, a man, with my face, but with a monkey’s body, a dog’s feet and a peacock’s tail, riding in the air on a fence board, as she gathered up her wood one night. She said she knew it could not be me, for she had seen me sail with my company in the sloops a few days before. A day or so after she had seen me in the air a grievous sickness had fallen upon her daughter, she continued, and the child had cried out that a witch tormented her, thrusting pins and needles into her flesh. When they asked her to name the spirit, the girl had spoken my name.

This ended the testimony. The judges urged me again to confess that I was in league with Satan and the powers of darkness. That the devil was my master, and that I had promised to serve him for worldly gain. If I admitted this with a penitent heart, I might go free, they said. For it was a well established fact, according to Judge Hathorne, that, if a witch confessed, the evil spirits no longer tormented such a one, nor could he work harm to others.

But I refused to charge myself with such a crime, even to save my life. I told them all so, and said there were no witches, except those of a disordered mind.

It was dark now. Fantastic shadows filled the room, and a sound, like a great sigh, went up from the lips of the people. Then, at the orders of the judge, came tip-staves, with lighted candles, which only served to dispel the gloom in a few places, making the remainder more dark.

The jury filed out, and, though it seemed a year, they were back again, speedily.

“Guilty,” said the foreman. I could hear those of the assemblage catch their breaths as one man.

Then the judges put on their black caps, while Justice Hathorne said:

“And the sentence of this court is that you be taken hence, and hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

I had expected it, yet it gave me a cold chill to hear the solemn words.

They led me away, through the surging crowd, out of the dim lighted court room, back to the gaol I had left not long ago. The other prisoners crowded about me, eager to learn the outcome of the trial, and to ascertain what chance they stood. I was too heart-sick to talk much, and merely told them that I had been convicted, and was sentenced to die.

Then I cast myself into a corner, to wait, for--I scarce knew what. But I reflected that he who gives up hope has little left, and, that though I had submitted quietly, so far, that was no reason why I should do so further. If they were minded to kill me, I thought, they could doubtless accomplish their purpose, but I resolved that I would make some suffer before I died. I would not go empty handed across to the other shore.

I had strength, beyond the power of most men, and I would use it when the time came. If I only had some one beside myself to fight for. If I only had the right to battle for Lucille, then I felt that I could do wonders. But my heart was not in it.

I determined, if no better chance offered, that I would go even to the scaffold, quietly. Then, when I stood bound, waiting for the drop to fall, I doubted not I could burst my bonds, seize a sword from a guard, and leap among the people. Then I could at least die fighting.

For I resolved I would not be swung off, like a pirate at the yardarm, if I was able to prevent it.

Several days passed. I partook heartily of the coarse food provided, for I knew I would need all of my strength to carry out my design. I endeavored to learn the date of my execution, but could not. All my questioning of the guards was turned aside.

It was rumored that the regular gallows was deemed too frail for a man of my strength, so they had gone to the work of making another machine. What kind it was I learned later. Existence in the gaol had come to be such a hell to me now, that I prayed the day of death might arrive speedily.

One morning, just a week after my arrest, I awoke with a start. Some one in the prison was singing, I could not catch all of the words, but the song was an old psalm tune, of the Lord, and of Isaac and of Jacob. I sat up on the narrow bench. Most of those poor wretches about me were still sleeping; breathing heavily. There was just the faintest gleam of daylight, as I could see through the high barred window. As I sat there a moment the sun rose, and the beams turned the iron bars above my head, into gleaming yellow gold.

There was the tramp of feet outside. The day of my death had dawned.

I stretched my arms upward, and I could feel the muscles firm and hard. I might have torn the iron bars loose, but I waited.

“Let them come,” I said softly.

CHAPTER XV.
PEINE FORTE ET DURE.

The heavy oaken door swung on its rusty iron hinges with many a squeak. I stood up, half dazzled by the sudden inrush of light. This time it was the Sheriff and his constables to greet me, together with a half score of guards to block the way. Ere I could make a move, had I desired to, I was overwhelmed by the men who crowded about me, while two of them quickly passed a rope around my chest, binding my arms fast to my sides. As I stood thus, the Sheriff drew from his jacket a document with its dangling seal. Was I never to have an end of parchment, I thought.

“Whereas, you, Captain Edward Amherst”--he began.

“Enough,” I interrupted. “It suffices that I must die. Let it be, if it must, I pray, without having to listen to more words. I’m not afraid, though it is a mean end for one who has served his King and his country ever faithfully. If I could but stand before you--aye, before you all--with my good sword in hand, I would have a different answer for you. Nor would I deem the odds too great. Such a death, borne down by weight of numbers, might be counted an honor by a soldier. But a dangling rope, in the hands of country bumpkins----”

“Ha, a rope,” repeated the Sheriff. “You have not heard, then?”

“What!” I cried. “Has the Judge allowed me to be shot?”

“Nay; not that, Master Captain,” answered the Sheriff. “You will see in good time, though. Meanwhile the law must take its course, and I am constrained, by it, to read this death warrant.”

“Have I not had enough of warrants of late?” I asked, but he paid no heed to me, and proceeded to read the dull legal terms.

Meanwhile many thoughts filled my mind. If I was not to be hanged, perhaps the awful torture of being burned at the stake awaited me. If so, I must make new plans, and act quickly.

All the while the Sheriff was reading from the parchment. He stumbled over the law terms, and the Latin vexed him sorely. Then he came to the decree that I must die “peine forte et dure,” and, as I had small stock of Latin, I wondered what I was to meet with.

At length there was an end to the reading. The guards advanced. I saw, among them, several who had served under me, yet never a one gave me a glance that was not tempered with fear or distrust. Some of them began to pull the rope tight about my arms, and this act quickened me to take some steps for escape.

So I pretended that the cords cut into my flesh, and my sudden start, as if in pain, caused them to cease their efforts, leaving me a little room to move my muscles, which was what I wanted. When I had the chance I strained at the ropes, and I felt them stretch a trifle. I knew then, that the matter of bursting my bonds was a thing somewhat within my power.

But that was the smallest part of the problem. I was a long way from freedom yet.

On that morning it seemed as if the sun had never shone so brightly, nor had the sky been so blue, nor the birds so sweetly tuneful. I do not know why I noticed such things, for it was not usual to me. Perhaps the shadow of death made the brightness of life seem greater.

They started off at a brisk pace, with me in the centre of the throng, and one man holding the ropes that passed about my arms. As we reached the foot of Witch Hill I looked up the slope, expecting to see the grim gallows crowning the summit. Then I recalled the Sheriff’s words that none was to be provided. A murmur swelled upward from the crowd, and the people pushed this way and that, trying to get a view of me, as I have seen country boys do at a London fair.

We came, at last, to the place set for the execution. The crowd parted, and moved back, at the orders of the Sheriff, forming a living circle. Then, for the first time, I saw the machine of death.

For a time I could not fathom its nature. It was of wood, the uprights and cross pieces being of heavy oaken beams. There were four posts, or uprights, and, on these appeared to slide, like the wooden covering on the hay ricks in the fields, a flat bed of hewn boards, as large, perhaps, as the top of the table at the inn. Out of this bed extended a long pole, threaded round and round with a screw thread. This screw passed through one of the cross pieces above. A long handle, extending either way through the spiral post, out beyond the machine, completed the instrument.

Like a flash in the pan, the truth came upon me.

I was to be crushed to death!

Tied up like a bundle of faggots, and placed on the bed-plate, the boards above me, urged down by the screw turned by the long handle, would force out my life, as is the breath from a newly fledged bird, in the hand of a school boy. No wonder the Sheriff held his peace, when I asked if I was not toto hang. A more horrible death could scarce be devised, for the torture of the Indians hardly passed it. Yet an Englishman planned it; an Englishman was to suffer by it. Well had Sir George said I would pay for the blow I gave him.

Oh! But I longed for a few minutes, with a sword in my hand, to spend with my lord.

It was time for the next move, now that I, the chief personage in what was about to happen, had arrived. The tumult, of which there had been much, had grown less. Partly because the Sheriff had moved most of the crowd back, and partly because all desired to see and hear what would come next.

My mind had become dazed. Where now was my plan of escape? Before I knew what was going on, two stout men advanced, and, by walking in a circle, they turned the cross bar, which worked the screw, and so raised the movable bed-plate. This made a space, so that my body could be put in the press. The great affair creaked and groaned, as if in mortal agony, and I could not help shuddering, as I thought of what little chance I would have beneath the oak beams.

Then I started. It was but a faint hope that came to me, yet it was a chance to escape death. It was a desperate move, but then I was in dire straits.

At a signal from the Sheriff, half a dozen men sprang forward and seized me. They lifted me clear from the ground, and carried me like a child to the machine. Then they stretched out my legs, and thrust them beneath the bed-plate. Under went my body next, verily, as if I had been but a bag of apples in the cider press.

I was pushed along over the rough planks, and then something happened. The Sheriff, to better see that all was carried out according to his wishes, had come close to me. He even placed his hand on my shoulder, to help thrust me in.

As he did so my boot top caught his sword hilt, half drawing the steel from the scabbard, as my body went forward. The keen edge of the weapon was uppermost, and, as I was pulled and hauled to the centre of the bed, the rope which bound my arms was drawn over the sword’s sharp blade. The steel bit deep into the hemp, but not all the way through by a good way. However, as I felt the rope being cut, I knew that, by using only my ordinary strength, I could burst my bonds. I swelled my muscles only a little, and with that I felt the cords give a trifle.

All was now in readiness. I might, then, have burst the rope, slipped from the press, and tried to cut a way thorough the crowd. But I saw there were many men armed, and they looked as if anxious to see me die, so I resolved to try what I could do by another means.

The Sheriff stepped back, all unaware of the good office his sword had done for me. At a sign from him, two men, stronger than those who had been at the cross-bar, emerged from the crowd, and took their places to twist down on the big screw. They stripped off their upper garments, and I saw the play of their muscles beneath the skin, like little waves on a stream.

My eyes could not take in all of the scene, of which I was the centre, but I caught a glimpse of Sir George moving about. Once he looked full at me, twirling his moustache with one hand, while the other rested on his sword hilt. Seeing me watching him, he came a little nearer and called out softly in French:

“What think you now, Monsieur Captain? Wilt wed Lucille?” And his voice was mocking.

“Come, my lord,” I answered, banteringly, “accept her love from me. I know you have none for yourself.”

His face turned black, and there came a gleam into his eyes.

“Give her my truest love, I pray you; when you find her,” I added, as a sort of afterthought.

“Find her? What mean you?” he asked eagerly. “Know you whither she----?”

Then he stopped, biting his lips in confusion, for he feared he had betrayed himself. My heart gave a bound at that, for, though I knew naught of Lucille, my words having been spoken by chance, yet it seemed she had gone away.

If she had, it meant that she cared little for her wifely duties, and that Sir George had not succeeded in winning back her affection, if, indeed, he had ever had it.

But even that was like to avail me little now, unless I could escape.

A great stillness came over the crowd. Scarce a sound was heard, and even the notes of the birds seemed hushed. I waited, breathless, almost. Then, from out of the centre of silence, came a voice.

“Turn!” cried the Sheriff.

“Turn!” echoed Sir George.

Then the heavy planks above me, forced down by the movement of the screw, began descending. Slowly, as do bearers at the bier of death, the men walked around and around, pushing, with their breasts, against the cross-bar.

Nearer and nearer came the weight that was soon to crush me. I must act with speed now. I would give them time to make one more turn, I thought. There. It was made.

Now the time had come!

I commended my soul to God, as did Samson in the days of old, when he pulled the great pillars of the temple from their base. I strained at my rope bonds. The half cut cords held for a moment, and they bit into my flesh when I pulled on them, weak as I had deemed them. Again I put my strength into my muscles, until the blood seemed like to spurt from my finger tips.

Suddenly the bonds gave, bursting with a sound like a pistol with a little load in it, and my arms were free. There was a great shout from the multitude.

“The strength of Goliath is in him!” cried an old man in the front rank. “Satan is beside him, witch that he is, giving him the great power.”

“I PRESSED UPWARDS WITH MY ARMS AGAINST THE BOARDS.“

The men at the ends of the bar had not stopped. The planks were coming nearer to my chest. I raised my hands and grasped the edges of the descending platform of wood above me. I drew up my knees, so that they, also, touched the planks.

I was now in the position of one lying on his back, holding up a weight that rested on his uplifted hands and bended knees. The men turning, noting my movements, had paused a moment, but, at a word from the Sheriff, they pushed the harder.

Down came the planks, farther, but more slowly. Then I did that which I count as the greatest feat of strength I ever did.

I pressed upward with my arms, and as the wood above me still came down, I could feel it nip my knees. The bones in my legs were of solid stuff, and I knew they could stand much pressure. The course of the descending platform was now stayed, and the men at the heavy press tugged and pushed at the cross-bar, without avail, for nearly a minute.

“Push harder!” cried Sir George, stepping out from the crowd. “Are you babes, to let him prevail against you? Have you no strength?”

Thus urged, the sturdy men braced their feet in the earth, and bore hard against the bar. I summoned what I thought must be all my energy, and pressed upward with my arms against the boards. I could hear a small cracking sound, as when a tree in the forest feels the axes that have eaten into its heart, and it begins to sway earthward. The men at the bar were joined by others, and they pushed with all their might, but could not stir the screw.

I shut my eyes, breathed the name of Lucille--aye, though I had no right--and then, with an effort that brought beads of water to my brow, I pushed upward--upward--upward.

Never before nor since had I known such power as I possessed then. The veins on my arms were like to burst, and stood out under the skin as do welts on a lashed horse. My muscles seemed as if they would tear from their fastenings. My hands had no feeling; my knees were numb. Round went my head dizzily, and it was as if the world was dropping away from beneath me. All about was blackness, and I could not see the weight that was crushing me.

I heard the shouts of the Sheriff and Sir George, urging the men at the bar to turn, and the men strove mightily. The cross piece trembled with their efforts.

I had scarce another bit of strength left, but still I would not let them get the mastery, and I kept pushing upward. The darkness left me, in its place a great light seeming to shine.

“Lord of Hosts,” I prayed, “let me be the victor.”

I felt the solid planks give. They cracked and splintered, a little at first, as when a wedge first cleaves an entrance. I could not breathe. But, with fiercely beating heart, I heard the sound of rending wood, and it mingled in my ears with the roar of the blood surging through my head. My knees seemed crushed. My arms like two stone pillars.

Then, while all the crowd looked on in wonder, I did that, which, though I boast not of, no other man in the Colony could have done and lived after.

I broke the ponderous planks across the middle, as a boy might splinter a shingle across his knee.

Right through they cracked, where the big wooden screw was set in, and so heavy was the strain I had put upon them, the pieces flew high in the air.

A great peace came over me, and I sank back on the rough wooden bed. I knew naught, save that I heard a loud shout go up, and many murmurs were heard on all sides.

Suddenly it was dark again, and my ears were filled with the noise of the sea dashing on the rocks. But above that I heard the people cry:

“He has broken the press with his witch strength! Saw ever man the like?”

CHAPTER XVI.
HOW WE BROKE GAOL.

When I had come to myself I was back again in gaol with those I had left, when I went forth, as they thought to death. Some news of how I had broken the press came in with me, and there was much wonder.

As for myself I was, for a while, as helpless as a new born babe, because my strength had all gone from me. It was days before I recovered, and never since have I been able to lift as heavy weights as before that supreme test.

I began to think a little of the plight I was in now. I had supposed, when they saw that I was able to break the machine with which they hoped to torture me to death, they would release me. But I had reckoned little with whom I had to deal. Sir George was not yet satisfied. Now I might expect to again go up to death, this time with little chance to escape.

I talked with some of the prisoners on the matter, and they said there were points of law which might be used in my behalf. The death sentence, which was not completed, could no longer hold good, it was said, so that, shortly, I would go forth a free man. For I had gone through the manner of death prescribed, and had lived. Now it was written, so I was told, that a man might not be put in jeopardy of his life twice by the law.

I was bitter in heart, those days, I called myself many times a fool, when I thought how I might have killed Sir George, when I had the chance, and, by this time, be far away with Lucille. If I had known that I could trust her. But the feeling that she would cast me aside, as she seemed to have done in the case of her husband, halted me. I was torn between many impulses.

The witch trials went on, for the accusations multiplied. At length Salem gaol held no less than four-score men and women, who had either been found guilty of witchcraft or who waited to be tried on the foul charges. Besides those in prison, there were double that number under suspicion. Not only in Salem, but in Andover, Gloucester, Ipswich and the neighboring towns. The infection had spread until the whole country was like a vast pesthouse, and the land was red with the blood of the slain.

Nineteen had been hanged in Salem, and two were burned at the stake. One man, swung from the gallows, was an aged clergyman. One day my former lieutenant, Giles Cory, was arrested as a witch, and cast into gaol with me. Only a few days before his aged mother had been hanged, and he was in sore distress. We two condoled with each other, until one morning, when I missed him.

“Where is Cory?” I asked the guard.

“Dead,” was the brief reply.

I learned that he had been crushed to death in the same machine that I had broken. The witch-finders had repaired it, making it very stout, for rumors had got about of Cory’s strength. Remembering my bursting of the ropes they bound the hapless man so that it would have taken a score of men, as strong as I, to have broken the bonds. In that manner my lieutenant met his death. Not that he did not struggle, beneath the cruel press. A guard, who watched him die, said Cory tore loose one muscle from his arm, as the planks came down.

Matters had come to such a pass now, that none of us was safe from death. So far from abating the witch fever had laid hold of the townsfolk more violently, so that they even meditated setting fire to the gaol, to burn us like rats in a traptrap. When this news, told with brutal pleasure by the guards, came to us, myself and some of the bolder ones, resolved to sit tamely by no longer. We would break gaol.

The prison we were in was not unlike a blockhouse save that the loops, or windows, were high up, out of reach of one standing on the floor. There was but one entrance, and that was closed by a heavy door, hung on massive iron hinges and studded with big nails. We knew that only an axe could open a way through that. Outside of this door was an apartment, two stories in height, where the jailer stayed. The guard was also quartered there.

The gaol room was divided into two parts by a thin partition, the men being on one side, and the women on the other, with a door of communication between. There were always several men on guard in the jailer’s room, and they were fully armed.

When we had talked over the situation we could but admit it was no small matter to escape. One plan after another we considered and, in turn, rejected, for, though we hungered for liberty, we did not wish to fail in the attempt and die by the musket or the sword.

We decided that force, without some preparation beforehand, was not to be thought of, and it was voted strategy must serve our ends. So we sharpened what little wits we had left, and, at length, seemed to have hit on a plan which had its advantages.

It was talked over, laid aside, and, as none better presented, we all agreed to it. That is, all but the women. We did not take them into our counsels, though we had in mind to release them with ourselves.

The fifth night, after the full of the moon, was fixed on for the breaking of gaol. Anxious were the days and nights that intervened.

It began to rain on the evening appointed, shortly after the last meal had been served. It was dismal within and not less gloomy without, but we welcomed that, for it would mean that few persons would be prowling about. There would also be complete darkness, and we needed that.

Now, when we had been given our suppers, I put by some of my bread and a cup of water. When night had fallen I mixed this into paste, and Elias Jenkins smeared it over my face, in accordance with our plan. I looked as though I had on a death’s mask.

When this was done and it was near to midnight, at which hour the guard was to change, I went into a corner of the room, farthest removed from the door and huddled up like a man in great distress of body. Only I left my face visible, so that the light from the single candle in the apartment fell upon my dough-covered countenance.

As the guard passed the door, one of the prisoners gave a knock.

“What now?” inquired the guard, thrusting his face up against an opening in the door, covered by iron bars.

“It is Captain Amherst,” spoke up John Lowden, feigning to be in great fright. “He is as pale as death, and mutters strangely. We fear he is like to expire in our midst.”

The trick worked. The guard peered over toward where I was lying, while the candle above me flickered on the paste on my face. Despite the need of maintaining the character I had assumed, I felt the dough cracking in a dozen places, as I tried hard not to laugh. It was solemn enough, but, somehow, I wanted to burst out in a roar, as I thought of how I must look.

My appearance evidently disarmed the suspicion of the guard, for, with an exclamation of surprise, he threw open the door, and advanced a little way into the room, holding his tin-pierced lantern high above his head.

Yet he did not lose all caution, being alone. He kept hold of the edge of the door, ready to close it at a moment’s notice. But the few steps he came in served the purpose. Lowden, who had stepped to one side, silently and suddenly sprang for the guard, and grasped him by the throat. The cry the wretch would have given utterance to, was choked in his teeth, and was only a gurgle.

The next instant I was up, and at his side. He seemed to lose his courage, when my pale face was near to his. Lowden gave place to me, and I crooked my fingers about the guard’s neck. He struggled so I was afraid he would get loose and make a noise that would have brought them all about us. So I was forced to grip the man rather tighter than I meant.

He did not cease his efforts to free himself, and, being fearful that our plan would miscarry by reason of his continued struggle, I put forth a little too much muscle. I bent his head back, with great force,--there was a sudden ceasing of the guard’s resistance. I heard the bones and sinews snap. Then I knew I had broken his neck. He fell in a limp mass at my feet. I was somewhat sorry, though he would have served me the same, and it was a fair war. However, there was no time for regret.

“Quick, now!” I shouted. Lowden had swung the door open, and the prisoners, men and women, crowded into the outer room.

The noise of the rush had alarmed the relief squad of guards on the second floor, and they ran down. Though most of them were stupid with sleep, some had their flint-locks, and these, without a moment’s hesitation, fired into our midst. Three fell dead, one a woman, and several were sorely hurt.

The next instant the guards were down under our feet as we rushed onward. Some of the prisoners, who never hoped to see the outside of the gaol again, save on their way to the scaffold, were fairly mad with joy, and, in their hatred of the guards, they stamped on their upturned faces as they ran over them. Thus, as I learned afterward, several of those who had watched over us died.

There was yet the outer door between us and liberty. Several of those in the van tried to burst it open. All the while the guards were shouting like mad behind us, while the prisoners, who had lost their heads, cried and screamed; the shrill voices of the women voicing high above the others. Again and again half a dozen men threw themselves against the door, but, in their excitement, they wasted their energies.

The portal resisted, though it shook under the strain.

“Ho, Captain!” several called. “Here is where your strength is like to serve us.”

I pushed my way through the crowd, and tried my shoulder against the door. It was of considerable thickness, though not as heavy as the other. Once, twice and thrice, I hurled my body against the barrier. It held. Once more I made the attempt, and, this time, when I thought I would have brought down the very wall, I cracked the wood down the middle, and the door was there no more, though I bruised my shoulder greatly by the effort.

Others of the guard had secured their weapons by this time, and they fired once more into the helpless crowd. There were shrieks of mortal hurts from those in the rear, and curses from those in front.

“The women first,” I cried, blocking the splintered opening through the door, with my body. “Not a man passes until all the women are by.”

At that the men opened up a living lane, and the women, save three who were killed, ran screaming out.

“Now, men!” I cried, and I stood aside, until the last one was out. Four guards, each swinging his musket as a club, came at me. I caught up a sword from the jailer’s table, and disabled the nearest guard. Then I leaped out through the splintered portal, and was in the midst of the crowd of those who, only a few minutes before, had little hope of life.

On they fled, free, leaving behind, like a bad dream, the gaol room, with its witch memories. Men and women cried aloud in their joy. Once more they could look up and know that the sky was above them, even though from it came drops of rain, pitiless, yet seeming like tears of a great rejoicing. They held out their hands, and even opened their mouths, that the cool rain might refresh them. I looked about me, long enough to see that all who could had escaped, and then I turned to my own affairs.

I buckled the belt of the sword I had caught up about me. Something familiar about the hilt of the weapon drew my attention. Then, as I examined it as well as I could in the darkness, I found, with pleasure, that it was my own good steel, that had been taken from me. Now I was ready to meet the whole world, but, first of all, I wanted to stand before one man, and that one was Sir George Keith.

I washed the paste of bread from my face. I gave a look toward the gaol, which was now some distance behind. From the direction came a confused murmur of sounds. I was free; but whither should I go?

I was like a ship without a compass. Salem was no longer a safe place for me. Lucille, whom I had hoped to wed, was the wife of another. My arrest as a witch was an end to any military preferment in the Colony. My life seemed to have come to an end, now.

I had hastened on, thus musing, until I found myself near to the inn of Master Willis. The rain came down softly, and the only creature stirring in the neighborhood seemed to be me. None of the prisoners had come that way.

Hark! What was that?

The echo of my footsteps died away. Then, from the stable, back of the inn, came the whinny of a horse.

“Kit!” I exclaimed. I had almost forgotten my faithful little mare, which Willis had kept for me ever since I first came to Salem. There was one true friend at least.

Myself, my sword, my horse. What more could a soldier wish? Love? I had that too, it seemed, though it was not all mine. Strange, when I was loving Lucille, I never thought another might love her too. I never thought she might have loved another. She seemed all mine. ’Twas a hard nut to crack. If only there had been no marriage between Lucille and Sir George. But straightway I had wished that I wished it away; for what it meant to her.

Kit whinnied again. It was like a message to me. I must leave Salem, to go I knew nor cared not where. First of all to get Kit out. I walked around to the stable door and, with a stone, easily broke the lock. Kit knew me as soon as I stepped inside. I stroked her glossy neck, patted her moist nose, and, running my hands down her legs, knew that she was in good shape, and fit for a hard, fast ride.

I found the saddle and bridle, put them on, and led her out into the road. Then I leaped upon her back, shook the reins, and we were off.

“Good bye, Lucille,” I whispered, to the rain and darkness.

And then, though I had said good bye to love, I felt a lighter heart than I had known for many a long day.

Kit’s muscles moved like steel bands, as she went galloping along the road to Boston, for thither had I guided her unconsciously. The sweet smell of the newly watered earth came up to my nostrils, and I breathed long and deep of the fresh night air. Kit’s hoofs beat a soft slushing tattoo on the muddy road.

The rain fell gently.

“Good bye, Lucille,” I whispered. A raindrop fell upon my lips, and it seemed as if she had kissed me in the night.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE NEWS NANETTE BROUGHT ME.

Through the night I rode, until the darkness began to pale, and the dawn was heralded. Now and then, when the labored breathing of Kit told me the pace was too heavy for her, I pulled up a bit. We passed by silent cottages scattered over the country, here one alone, there several near together.

I galloped until morning was fairly upon the land. Then I drew rein at a white farmhouse, where I dismounted to get a bite to eat, and feed Kit. The farmer looked at my mud-soiled clothes, at the mare’s rough coat, and said:

“You’ve ridden far and hard, the night, neighbor.”

“Aye,” I answered, “there was some need of it.”

“Perchance some one pursued you?” he ventured.

“No one but myself,” I said.

With that he questioned no more, though he looked curiously at me, but led the way into the house, where his wife was preparing breakfast. I managed to make a hearty meal, and then I saw that Kit had her grain, after which I rubbed her down. When I would have paid for the fodder and my victuals the farmer would have none of my money, but bade me go on in good luck, for which I thanked him.

I was soon on the road again. It was better going now, though the roads were still heavy from the rain. Before another hour had passed I found myself in Boston town.

People turned to stare at me, as I clattered through the streets, wondering, I suppose, why I was abroad in such a rig so early. I headed for a modest tavern I knew of. There, I thought, I would make some plan for my future conduct. For I had set my mind upon leaving New England. I had been through enough there, for one time.

I soon found the place I sought, and went in. The landlord knew me, and gave me a little room by myself, the while he brought some good ale. I drank a bit, feeling much refreshed, and then turned my mind to what I had better do. I had heard of the Virginia colony, and that it was a place where there was much of life and entertainment. There I might follow my soldier trade with honor, fearing no witch trial, nor the warrant held by Sir George.

In Virginia I could forget, and leave behind, many bitter memories--and many sweet ones.

There I could forget Lucille.

Forget her?

No!

Not forget her. I never could do that. I might find other thoughts to take her place--for a time.

Bah! What a fool I was. A fool twice. A fool for loving her, a fool for giving her up so easily--giving up another man’s wife, forsooth, when I knew that she loved me at that. Of a truth, if Dicky Hall ever heard of this he would laugh me to scorn.

Well, let them laugh. The honor of the Danes could stand a little merriment, and it was the honor of the Danes I was upholding, though I lost my love for the honor.

“Well, here’s to the death of love, and the honor of my name,” I said, softly, draining my last glass.

“Now for Virginia!”

As I set the mug down the sound of voices in the main room came to my ears. One was that of the landlord, the other a woman’s, and it was strangely familiar. She spoke part in French, with as much English as she could.

“Now, now,” said the inn keeper, “don’t ye come botherin’ again, mistress. I know nothin’ of Lucy nor Nancy either, though for that matter every sailor who lands here has that name on his lips, one way or another.”

“Not Lucy, m’sieur, not Lucy,” spoke the woman’s voice. “’Tis Lucille I been look for.”

I started at the name.

“Nor Lucille, either,” said the tavern keeper, testily.

“But,” persisted the woman, “I have been tell zat she taked a bateau near zis tavern, m’sieur.”

“Well, mayhap she did, lass; lots of folk do, but I have not seen her,” and the landlord started away.

“You have no seen her, m’sieur? She was so much beautiful, my mistress, Lucille. Now she been lost to me,” and there came a trace of tears into the voice.

Where had I heard it before? The name--but then Lucille was a common enough name. Yet my heart beat a little more quickly. I went to where I could look in the room to see the woman. The landlord was on his way out, and the face of his visitor was toward me.

It was Nanette, Lucille’s servant!

She saw me, and her face lighted up.

“Oh, m’sieur Captain!” she exclaimed, fairly running toward me, and lapsing into rapid French. “You have found her then? Oh, I thought she was lost.”

“Who?” I asked, coldly.

“Why, Lucille. Mistress de Guilfort; your--your--surely, Captain, you----”

“You mean Mistress Keith, the wife of Sir George Keith,” I interrupted, and was about to go away.

At the name of Sir George, Nanette gave a start.

“Is he here?” she cried, excitedly.

“Aye. Here or somewhere with his wife, I make no doubt,” I said.

“His wife, m’sieur?”

“Aye. His wife.”

“Never!”

“What?” I cried.

“Never!” repeated Nanette.

“Oh, the villainvillain,” she went on. “Has he told you that lie?”

“Then it is not true?” I asked, trembling lest the answer would shatter newly raised hopes.

“No more than that I am his wife, Captain!” came the quick reply, and I could have hugged Nanette.

Here was a sudden and joyful change in my plans. There need be no Virginia now. Yet there was much to learn, and, it seemed, also, to find Lucille.

The tavern keeper was staring at us curiously, so I motioned Nanette to come into the room I had, and, closing the door, I bade her tell me all she knew. First I repeated, briefly, how I had met Sir George; though I said nothing of the Royal warrant.

Then Nanette related how she had long been in the service of the de Guilfort family. Some years before, while in Paris, Sir George Keith had met Lucille, fallen in love with her, and they were engaged to wed. Then came the disclosure of how lightly Sir George held the honor of his promised wife. He had an affair with a notorious woman, and it was the talk of the court, in the circle of which the de Guilforts moved. Stung and ashamed at the effront, Lucille had quarreled with my lord, and, with bitter words, the troth was broken. Then, smarting under the tongue of gossip, M. de Guilfort, with his daughter and niece, had set sail for the new land, and Nanette accompaniedaccompanied them.

“Then Lucille is not his wife?” I asked again, hardly able to believe the good news.

“Never! Never! Never!” cried Nanette, with such earnestness that she could scarce cease her “nevers.”

“But does she not love him?” I inquired, tortured by a new doubt.

“Voila!” burst out Nanette, with a shrug of her shoulders. “You must know if she loves you, Captain, and that should be an answer enough for any man.”

“It is,” I said, and I was as happy as I had been sad.

“But where is Mistress de Guilfort, now?” asked Nanette.

“Where?” I exclaimed. “How should I know? I have not seen her since the day I sailed against St. Johns. You may have heard how, on the night of my return from Pemaquid, I was taken for a witch. I met Sir George that day, and learned from him that my promised wife was his wedded one.”

“Which was a lie,” broke in Nanette.

“Aye, so it seems.”

“Then you have not seen her in Boston?” went on Nanette.

“In Boston? Here? Why, how should I, having only just arrived? But what would bring her here?”

“Listen,” began the woman, speaking rapidly. “She heard of your arrival in Salem, and thought you would have come to her at once.”

“So I would, but for what Sir George told me,” I answered.

“She sat long that night, expecting you,” said Nanette.

I choked back an exclamation. Lucille had been waiting for me when I looked in on her through the window, and whispered a good bye.

“The next morning,” Nanette continued, “word came of your arrest. My mistress, knowing full well, from a bitter experience, the temper of the witch-crazed people and that of the courts, wasted no time. She felt, she said, that reason would not prevail, and that you would be condemned, and so she resolved to go to Boston, and try to secure a pardon for you, from His Excellency, Governor Phips. This would be of more service than all the proofs of law, in freeing you from the sentence. She found a farmer who was going from Salem to Boston that day.

“So precious was the time,” proceeded Nanette, “that my mistress would not even delay to go to the gaol and see you. She sent a letter, however.”

“Where is it?” I asked, eagerly.

“I left it with the keeper for you.”

“And he never gave it to me. But go on. There is much mystery. Go on. Talk faster, Nanette.”

“Patience, m’sieur. Well, Mistress de Guilfort, in great distress of mind for you, started for Boston. She said she would return the next day.”

“Did she?”

“Nay. That afternoon you were tried, and the sentence of death passed. I was in sore heart at home, watching for the return of my mistress. Toward night a messenger on horseback rode to the door and inquired for her. Before I thought I told him she had gone to Boston. As he turned away I caught a glimpse of the messenger’s face. It was Sir George Keith. I knew him at once, though I had not seen him in five years.

“‘So my pretty Lucille has flown from me,’ he said, and I knew for the first time that he had previously found her out in Salem, which accounted for her strange terror at a certain time.”

“Go on!” I almost shouted. “I begin to see the end.”

“That is all,” said Nanette, stopping suddenly.

“All?” I cried, blankly. “Where is Mistress de Guilfort?”

“That is what I am half wild about, Captain. I have not seen her since that day, three weeks ago, when she started for this place, after the pardon for you.

“Yesterday I could stand the pain of waiting in idleness no longer, and I came here.”

“Gone three weeks,” I murmured.

“Aye, and with that crafty villain, Sir George Keith, on her track,” and Nanette’s eyes filled with tears.

“You have not found a trace of her, then, Nanette?”

“Not a sign, Captain, since the day she rode off in the farmer’s cart, waving her hand good bye to me.”

Now I have had many hard knots, in life, to untie. I had been put to much thought, at times, how to best approach an enemy, or how to escape from one. But this was something I could not fathom. I have no mind for book matters, nor am I handy with the pen. Yet there were certain points with which I might make a start, as I have seen learned professors do, when they draw strange squares and circles.

The first point was that Lucille had left Salem for Boston. The next point, it would seem, should be to find if she arrived.

Nanette was watching me. When I had made what I might call a start to solve the riddle of Lucille’s long absence, my face cleared a bit. Nanette saw it, and cried:

“Then you can find her, Captain?”

“If any one can, I will,” I replied, and I felt the hope that comes from making a beginning at a hard matter.

“But now, Nanette, you must go back to Salem,” I said.

“Oh, let me help you find her,” she implored.

“No. There is much to be done. I may have to ride far, by day and by night. You could do no good. Go back, and, when I have found her, you may come with us.”

“Then you will find her, Captain?”

“I will,” I said.

CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THE EAGLE SAILED.

Now it is an easy matter to say a thing will be done, but it is hard, sometimes, to carry out. However, I was so happy, when I felt I had not loved in vain, that I thought it would be but a little quest to find Lucille. She had, ’twas likely, found friends with whom she was stopping, and I only had to search them out. First I must see if she had been to the Governor for a pardon. And, when I called to mind this act of hers, I was ashamed of the thoughts I had had concerning my dear one.

So, having arranged to send Nanette back to Salem, I turned my steps toward the Governor’s, to make inquiries; for His Excellency had, doubtless, seen Lucille.

I was in little fear of arrest, on the charge of treason, for which Sir George held the Royal warrant, as I judged I could prevail on Sir William Phips to let so old a matter rest.

As I walked up the broad steps, having left Kit in the roadway, I was met at the door by a very proud-looking serving man.

“We want no beggars here,” he said, and I remembered, with a start, my disordered and mud-stained clothes. I was not at all nice in appearance; a veritable beggar on horseback, and wearing a sword at my side; a strange sight, doubtless.

“I am no beggar,” I said, roughly, for I was in no mood for trifling. “Stand aside,” I went on, placing my hand on my sword, “for I must see Sir William.”

“Then you must get wings,” answered the man, smiling, and becoming more respectful, “for the Governor sailed for London yesterday.”

Here was something I had not counted on.

“Is there no one here who knows aught of his affairs?” I asked. “I must make some inquiries concerning a certain person.”

The servant said I might see the Governor’s private clerk, and he ushered me into a room where a middle-aged man sat writing. To him I related how I had come to Boston seeking a maid, Lucille de Guilfort, who was my promised wife, and who, I said, I feared had met with some harm, or was detained, since she had not been heard of in three weeks. She would have called on the Governor on a private matter, I remarked, but I did not say what it was, for even in Boston some folks were witch-crazed.

The Governor’s man listened carefully, and asked me to describe Lucille to him. When I had done so, he said:

“I recall, now, that about three weeks ago, such a maid came here, and was closeted with His Excellency for about an hour. I remember, because that day, I had upset the hour glass, and also on that day----”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, “tell me of that again, what of the maid?”

“I was coming to her,” he said, reproachfully. “Well, as I have said, she was with the Governor for an hour. There were tear traces on her cheeks when she went in, but a smile on her lips when she came out. I remember because I heard a bird----”

“Never mind the bird,” I hastened to say. “She was smiling----”

“Yes, but why do you break in on me? I was telling of the smile. She was all happiness, and in her hand she had a paper, sealed with the great seal of the Colony, and with the Governor’s own signet. Then, as she was going down the steps, having thrust the document into her bodice, she was met by a man.”

“By a man?” I shouted. “What manner of man?”

“Why, he was a man. I remember he was a man because----”

“Aye, aye, because he was a man,” I cried, all on fire. “Never mind how you recall it, but tell me, quickly, as if you had but another minute to live, what manner of man he was.”

“Why, you are in great haste,” said the clerk, “you leave me no thoughts.”

“Never mind your thoughts,” I said, “tell me who was the man?”

“Why, none other than Sir George Keith,” he answered, gazing with mild wonder at me. “I remember it was because I knew him well, having often seen him at the Governor’s house.”

“What then?” I asked, trying to be calm, though I stormed within.

“Oh, I looked no further, as I had many papers to prepare,” replied the clerk. “The last I saw was the maid going up the street with Sir George.”

“Did she go willingly?”

“Aye, I thought so. Though now I call to mind that Sir George appeared to talk earnestly to her, pointing this way and that, ere she turned and went with him. Is there any more I can tell you?”

“No,” I said. “I thank you most kindly. I have heard too--too much already. Forgive my hasty words, I pray.”

Then I went out to Kit.

She rubbed her nose against my shoulder as I made ready to leap into the saddle. I wondered if she understood, and if it was the sympathy she could not speak, for it seemed she wanted to tell me she was still true.

Here was more than I had bargained for. Lucille was gone with Sir George, and there could be but one meaning to that. He had met her, having followed her from Salem, and had renewed his advances to her. With light words he had been sorry for the past, had won her forgiveness, and had awakened her old love for him.

Surely this was an end to it all now.

Though I had believed her his wife before, I felt I had her love. Now he had both her love and herself, and I had naught save bitter memories--and my love.

I cursed that, and tried to separate it from me--to cast it aside, but I could not. I knew, no matter what she did, no matter where she was, no matter were she now in his arms, with his kisses on her lips, that I loved her. For, when a man loves, he loves not always with wisdom.

I did not think of her as false to me. I believed she had fled with him after trying to elude his temptation. For it would appear she started from Salem loving me, and I hugged that cold comfort to my heart.

Despair, hope, then despair again had been my feelings that day. Now came a new one, revenge. If I could not have Lucille I would have her lover, and I laughed aloud as I thought how pleasant it would be to have him at my sword point.

I saw him shifting back from my attack. I saw the terror in his eyes, I saw his futile effort to parry my fierce thrust, I heard Lucille cry out, and then--and then I felt my keen weapon sheath itself in his heart.

Down he fell at my feet a shapeless mass, his red, warm lips, that she had kissed, growing cold and white.

And I laughed aloud.

A sorry uncanny mirth it must have been, for it made Kit prick up her ears and break into a trot.

Now I thought I would live but for one end--to kill Sir George. But to do that I must find him. I have ever believed that good wine is, in moderation, a safe friend. Over a glass or two I knew I could better think of what I might do next, for I had resolved to follow Sir George--and Lucille.

I went to the tavern I had left a little while before, and, while sipping my wine, I fell to thinking of a remark Nanette had made while there, of how she had heard that her mistress had taken a boat near the tavern. In the excitement of what she told me after that I had forgotten to ask the servant what she meant by it, and where she had heard the rumor.

While thus musing and grumbling at my stupidity I heard two men talking in the room next to mine. The voices rose in anger now and then, and seemed to be in dispute over the division of some money. At length one of the men cried out:

“The boat was more mine than yours. You were as anxious to sell to Sir George as was I, and I made the better trade. For I knew he must have the craft at any price, as it would not do to let the little lady wet her feet.”

Sir George! A boat! A lady! Had I stumbled on what I wanted; the trail of my enemy?

I listened with all attention, but I learned no more. Shortly after that I heard the men leaving, and I contrived to go out at the same time, and caught a glimpse of them.

They appeared to be sailors, both roughly dressed, while one was taller than the other. I left my mare at the inn, and followed the men, not letting them see me, though. They separated after going a little way, and I kept after the taller one. In my eagerness I came too close to him. He turned, saw me following, and quickened his pace. But I went faster also, and, when he was at the edge of the town, I was close at his heels. He turned suddenly, picked up a heavy stick and snarled at me:

“Who are you and what do you want, following me? If it’s to rob----”

“I am not a highwayman,” I said. “I only want a word or two with you.”

“Suppose I have no words for you?”

“Then I’ll find a way to make you.”

“Bold talk,” he sneered.

“I am a bold man,” I answered.

I saw his eyes shifting, first on one side of me and then on the other, as he sought a path of escape, but I stood in the way.

“Go your journey, and let me go mine,” he said, “for I’m no pleasant person to provoke, mate.”

“Until I have done with you, our journey is together,” I remarked. “You may go when you have answered some of my questions.” Then assuming to know more than I did, I asked:

“Where did Sir George Keith and the woman sail to in your boat?”

The sailor started back as if I had struck him, and his face grew white with fear.

“Damn you!” he cried, raising his club.

I had drawn my sword, and with it I knocked the clumsy weapon from his hand. Before he could pick up another I had him by the shoulder, and my steel was at his throat.

“Will you answer now?” I asked gently.

“I suppose I must,” he said sullenly.sullenly.

“Unless you would rather lie here dead,” I responded.

“Well, then, here is all I know,” was his answer, given with no very good grace. “It was this way. Some three weeks back my mate and I were in our boat at the end of the wharf. The Eagle was the name of the craft. We were mending a torn sail, me and my mate, when along comes a fine gentleman, Sir George Keith, no less, as we afterward learned. He had his sword dangling at his side, and was mincing his steps in the mud. He hailed us and wanted to know what we’d hire out the Eagle for?”

“‘How long?’ I says. ‘A year and a day,’ says he, and he looked at me, and smiled in a queer sort of a way. By that I knew he was bound on a voyage he couldn’t see the end of.of.

“‘Oh, it’s to buy the boat you want,’ says I, smelling a bargain, and he nodded his head. Well, I asked him fifty pounds, and he gave it over with never a word. I asked him when he wanted the craft, and he says in an hour’s time. So me and my mate took ashore what baggage we had and went to the tavern, where we were lately, to drink to the success of our bargain. A little while after we seen a sailor with a cock eye come down to the wharf, and he begun to load provisions into the Eagle.”

I stopped the progress of the tale.

“Was the sailor one with a scar on the left cheek, and a blur or cock of the right eye?” I asked.

“He was that,” answered the former owner of the Eagle.

“My old acquaintance, Simon the sailor, who urged the men to force me to surrender Pemaquid,” I whispered to myself. Verily he was becoming my evil genius.

“Being curious,” resumed the Eagle’s captain, “me and my mate hid where we could watch the boat. At dusk we saw Sir George come down to the wharf and he was leading by the hand a woman or maid, close wrapped in a gray cloak.”

I could not repress a start.

“Well, what then?” I asked.

“Sir George says, he says, ‘Is all ready, Simon?’ ‘Yes, my lord,’ says the cock-eyed sailor, and then he hoisted the jib, while Sir George and the lady went down in the cabin.”

“Together?” I asked.

“Surely, and why not?” replied the man. “It was getting dark, and there was a chill wind.”

“Well, what then?”

“Why, the wind freshened and the Eagle stood out down the bay. That is the last I have seen of her or Sir George either.”

“But her destination, man,” I cried. “Surely you must have heard some name mentioned. Some town on the coast to which they were bound.”

The sailor shook his head. Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, he said:

“I recall now that when Sir George with the maid joined the cock-eyed sailor, my lord addressed some words to his man, but all I could catch was ‘Elizabeth.’ I took it to be the woman’s name, and paid no heed. After the boat had sailed me and my mate talked the whole matter over, and we liked its looks so little, we agreed to say nothing to nobody about it.”

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” I murmured, as the sailor, seeing I had turned aside from him, slunk away. “’Tis a woman’s name, sure enough, but I have heard it somewhere in the Colonies, too. I have a small notion there is a town called that.”

I made a quick pace back to the centre of the town, and by inquiries along the wharves learned there was a settlement in New Jersey that went by the name of Elizabeth town. It was near to New York, they told me, down on the Jersey coast, but somewhat inland.

“That is the place,” I said to myself.

How was I to get there? I wanted no companion, and I could not manage a boat alone. Clearly I must make the trip on horseback, and a long journey it would be. I felt there was no time to be lost. It was now growing dark, and I could not start until morning. I went back to the tavern, where I had left Kit, engaged a bed for myself, and then set about making ready for my trip. I got a flask of brandy and a good blanket. Next I laid out a good part of what little ready money I had on a serviceable flint-lock, a horn of powder, a pouch of bullets and some spare flints.

The blanket I strapped back of my saddle, and the flask of brandy I put in the bags, together with some dry biscuits and a piece of bacon. I ate my supper and went to bed. I had a long journey before me. As the crow flew it was quite 200 miles, but with the turnings I must make ’twould be a good 300. My plan was to ride along the coast all the way, for I thought that contrary winds might compel Sir George to lay to, at least for a time, and I might come up to him then.

I knew he dared not stand far out from the shore in so small a craft, because of storms. Likewise he would be obliged to come in to replenish his stock of fresh water, for he could not carry a large supply. So I was in hopes I could get some trace of the voyagers by picking my way along the coast.

There would be hard riding by day and by night. Cold and hunger, doubtless, and wind and rain. Danger of attacks by Indians and wild animals. Yet I felt that I could persevere through it all for the sake of a sweet revenge. Would love, I wondered, serve to urge me on through such a journey as awaited me.

I awoke with the rising of the sun, made a hurried meal, and, leading Kit from the stable, vaulted into the saddle. The orb was well above the horizon, and the air was clear and cool when I looked back on the town I was leaving, thought of its bitter and sweet memories, and bade a glad good bye to Massachusetts and her witches.

CHAPTER XIX.
HOW I FOUND LUCILLE.

Weary was my journey. There were rivers to ford, deep forests to traverse, and often only Indian paths to make my way along. I passed through towns and villages, eating and sleeping wherever I could. Once in the night I saw the watch fires of an Indian camp, and I hid deeper in the woods. The next morning the red men passed, not a rifle shot from me, yet they did not discover my presence.

Day followed day, and night came after night, and still I rode on.

In a small town near the coast one day I heard that the Eagle had tied up at the wharf there, about two weeks past. This gave me hope that I was on the right path, and I pushed on anxiously. But to all my inquiries thereafter I learned nothing further.

Kit began to grow tired those days, for, though I spared her all I could, the way was hard. Through the wilderness and along the sea we journeyed, Kit and I, searching, ever searching for that which might, when found, only bring bitterness to my heart.

My eyes grew tired with the sight of so much land and water, yet I could not give up. My body was weary with the long way. My heart was sad; aye, sad with love and hate.

I passed over a river called the Hudson, being ferried across it, Kit and I. Just below, the ferryman told me, was the village of New York. When I was on the west bank of the stream, I could see from the top of the bluff that the town was one of goodly size, larger than many villages in England.

I left New York behind, and plunged once more into the wilderness. Now, I was told, I was but three days’ ride from Elizabeth, as the roads went, and how my heart beat as I heard that news.

It had been a raw, blustering day, when, as the sun was beginning to sink down in the west, in a gloomy looking watery haze, I turned Kit’s head toward the sea that stretched in a vast expanse off to the left. I would scan the coast once more, I thought, ere I camped out for the night.

I had little hope of sighting the Eagle now, for, by this time, the voyagers must be far ahead of me. Yet I felt I should let slip by no chance of coming upon them. So it happened, as the day was slowly dying I drew rein on top of a little hill, whence I had a good view of the ocean.

I gazed out over the broad extent of water. The heaving billows looked like small waves from my perch, but the dull boom and roar that filled the air told me there was power in the green water that thundered down on the sands. Twice I looked along the line of the horizon for the sight of a sail, and I saw none. From the shore to the uttermost edge, where the plane of waters seemed to come to a sudden stop, I gazed and saw not a speck.

Wait, though. What was that out there to the left?

Nothing but a lonely gull, flitting from wave crest to wave crest. I watched it in idleness, expecting every moment to see it dart down and arise with a fish. But the gull seemed content to float on the waves. It rose and fell with the heaving of the waters, becoming larger as it approached until I thought verily it must be the king of all gulls.

Then I rubbed my eyes and looked again. A last glint of the setting sun fell upon the object. I shaded my eyes and strained my sight.

Of a sudden I saw it was not a gull. It was a boat!

Was it the Eagle?

The wind freshened, and the little craft crept nearer the shore. It seemed to make slow progress, and floated sluggishly in the water.

Now I was able to see more clearly. I noted that the sail was ragged and torn, also that from the mast head floated a bit of cloth like a piece torn from a woman’s dress. A signal of distress!

With anxious, beating heart I waited for the boat to draw nearer. It was, perchance, a vain hope, but I could not help thinking the craft contained those I sought. And if it should!

I looked to my gun and saw that my sword was loose in the scabbard, for I would have two to contend with, Sir George and Simon.

Closer came the boat until I could distinguish three figures aboard, and one was a woman, as I could see by her dress. She stood for a moment in front of the companionway leading to the cabin, and then she vanished down it. The other figures were those of two men. They appeared to be much excited about something, moving here and there on the deck, and I was at a loss to account for their actions. Now they would be amidships, and then suddenly run to the side when they would empty a bucket of water overboard.

As soon as I saw that I knew the boat was leaking, and that they were baling to keep her afloat. That was why they had headed in shore, for no other cause would have made them approach such a dangerous coast.

The craft was now so near that I could plainly see one man baling while the other ran to the tiller, which was lashed, and cast off the ropes. Then he headed the boat up the coast, searching for a favorable place to put in. He saw none, after holding on that course for a time, and so came about and sailed down. Long and anxiously did he scan the shore and the line of breakers. So occupied was he that he did not seem to see me, though I was in bold relief against the western sky.

Twice did the helmsman beat up and down for a quarter of a mile each way. But all along was heavy surf, while at some places black and jagged rocks just showed their ugly heads above the water that washed over them.

The second man had ceased baling now, and came to the aid of the steersman, who had evidently decided to make a landing in the best place he could. The man who had been at the tiller ran to the bow, leaped on the rail, and peered ahead, while his companion kept her prow to the waves. I gave one look at the man in the bow. I trembled lest I should be mistaken. No, it was he.

There, like a carved figurehead on a ship stood my enemy! Sir George Keith! My journey was ended.

I could have shouted in gladness, was I not fearful that the sea might snatch him from me ere I had my revenge. For the time I forgot the danger that encompassed Lucille. My hate had overwhelmed my love.

I dismounted and led Kit back into some low bushes that grew on top of the hill. Then I went forward quickly to watch the progress of the boat.

Sir George was again at the helm. He had made up his mind where to land. And it was near time. The little craft was settling low in the water.

On she came, lifting her bow to the waves, and then dipping deep into the froth of green liquid that hissed on either side. Nearer and nearer. They were almost in now. And then, while I stood there, watching like a sentinel guarding the land, I saw that which gripped my heart as if an icy hand had grasped it.

Directly in the course of the Eagle, and so close to her now that avoidance was impossible, was a pinnacle of rock. I had not seen it before, nor had Sir George, for he steered for it as if by card and compass.

“’Ware the rock!” I cried, and he heard me.

He looked up, and by the shout he gave, I knew he recognized me. He was like one who sees a spirit. He lost his hold of the helm and ran to the stern. But the boat did not fall off. Instead she came on like a race horse straight for the rock. The waves lifted her high up, water logged though she was, until she showed part of her keel. Then, and I closed my eyes, the waters dashed the frail vessel down on that point of stone, as a man is impaled on a spear. The rock struck right through her bottom.

The crash that followed found echo in my own heart, and the wild shouts of Sir George and Simon mingled with the screams of Lucille coming clear over the thunder of the surf.

It was no time to stand idle. It was a steep path to the beach, but I got down somehow. The boat was still spitted on the rock, but the waters were dashing over it, threatening every moment to break it in pieces and toss the occupants into the sea.

I had kept hold of my flint-lock, but now I laid it down on the sand, at the same time casting off my sword belt. As I discarded my jacket and boots, the boat gave a lurch to one side, and I heard Lucille scream. I took one look, so I might know in which direction to swim, and I saw the sailor Simon as he leaped overboard and struck out for the beach. Then I plunged into the surf.

I waded out as far as I had my depth, and I saw Simon’s head bobbing up and down. I marked Sir George tearing away at some of the deck boards, which had split, and I guessed he was trying to form a raft. Lucille, for I saw her face clearly now, was clinging to the mast, her dark hair blowing about her face, while the salt spray dashed over her until she was drenched.

I had found Lucille, but in what a sorry plight. She was mine no more. My enemy had won her. All I might have was revenge on him; a poor exchange.

Sir George gave one glance in my direction, and then worked with great haste to tear up the planks. Perhaps he feared my vengeance would strike him in the waters, though I had other plans. Mayhap he grudged me any share in the rescue of Lucille, which both of us were striving for now. Noting all this in one brief glance I found the water above my head now, so I plunged forward, and was soon swimming amid the breakers.

It was hard work, indeed, to buffet those waves, and to avoid being cast against the rocks which abounded. How I did it, and came out scathless, I cannot tell. I know I managed to get near enough to the stern of the boat to grasp the rudder chains and pull myself aboard.

Slowly, for I was weary, I got over the rail, and found myself on the sloping deck, that every now and again was washed by the waves. Before the mast Sir George was lashing the planks he had torn up into the form of a rude raft.

“Greeting,” I said to him.

He started, as a man might, who hears a voice from the grave.

Then I went a little way farther until I stood before Lucille.

“Edward! Oh, my God! Edward!” she screamed, and then she fell in a senseless heap at the foot of the mast.

I sprang toward her, as did Sir George, dropping the planks. We were at her side together.

“Curse you!” he cried. “Have you come back from death to take her from me again?”

“Even from death,” I said. “Even from death, my lord. I come, not to claim her, but to kill you. For she was mine by every right of heaven and earth, and you took her from me.”

“I loved her first,” he almost shouted the words. “And she is mine now by the rights of man; that of possession. Make the most of that, you witch-traitor.”

“You shall answer for your words later,” I said.

So we stood thus, perchance while a man might have counted a score slowly. Around us was the waste of waters. Under our feet the quivering Eagle, that was like to go to pieces every second. Between us, as pale as death, was Lucille, the cause of both of us being there. Perhaps she was dead, and our bitter words were spoken in vain.

The seas were calm for a little time while thus we stood, or we must have all been washed into the waves.

Then I saw the hand of Sir George steal to his sword. I clapped mine to my side only to meet with nothing. He smiled.

A wave lifted the Eagle, and after it had passed the craft settled down more deeply in the water. We both started.

“There is no time for you and I to settle our hate and quarrel now,” I remarked. “We will need all our strength if we would save her.”

“Yes, yes,” he assented eagerly.

So together we labored, he and I; as deadly enemies as ever two men could be, striving in harmony to save the life of a woman, who, hitherto, had brought us both little more than hate. And yet we loved her, both of us. I, perforce, because I could do no less.

First we placed her where the waves could reach her as little as possible, for she was still as one dead. I passed a rope around the mast, and fastened one end about Lucille’s waist. And my hands trembled strangely as I touched her cold hand.

Quivers of the boat warned us that she would hold together but a brief spell now, and we worked with feverish haste, neither speaking a word.

At length the few boards we could tear loose were bound together, and on them we must make the attempt to get Lucille to shore.

I paused to look at her, and the love grew in my heart. I gazed up and found Sir George at my side. He, too, looked down on her. Then we two glanced at each other, and the love in our eyes turned to hate.

“Quick!” I said. “There is no time to wait.”

We had arranged the raft so that one of us could swim ahead and drag it by a rope, while the other could swim behind and push. A box lashed to the centre made a support for Lucille. We placed her on the planks, her shoulders against the box, so that her head would be above the waves. Then we made ready for our battle with the sea.

Sir George unbuckled his sword, and lashed it to the raft.

“I will go ahead,” said Sir George haughtily.

“No, I,” was my answer.

“Damn you!” he cried. “You want to steal her from me and leave me here.”

“Nay,” I said gently, “look you. Whatever may be our differences we will settle them later, as men should with the sword. Now, however, there is work to be done. I know the shore better than do you, having seen it from above. Therefore I will take the lead. It will not be for long. Perchance I may be swallowed up in the waters. Then our quarrel will be ended.”

With that he agreed, though I could see the distrust in his eyes.

Slowly we shoved the raft with its precious burden off into the water, avoiding the rock on which the Eagle was impaled. Then fastening the rope about my shoulders I struck out for the shore. Sir George leaped in after me and swam behind, pushing the frail structure. It was a perilous moment.

For a time it seemed that we would never succeed. But we strained with every muscle, and, gradually drew near shore. Then we had to beware of the dreadful undertow, which was strong at this point. With a few more strokes I let down my feet, and felt bottom. Then I waded up the beach, and pulled the raft high up out of reach of the waves.

Before I could get to Lucille Sir George was at her side, and with eager hands he began to unloosen the ropes that bound her.

“Is she living?” I asked, yet feeling a strange indifference while I waited for the answer. What mattered it to me if she did live?

“She breathes,” he said, and I noted a little trembling of the white lids that veiled her eyes.

“There are some spirits in my flask in the saddle bags,” I remarked, motioning to where I had tethered Kit.

“Will you get the flask?” he asked, “unless, mayhap, you fear to leave her alone with me while you go. Though she was long enough with me in the Eagle.”

The words were not out of his mouth ere I stood beside him, and my hands were at his throat.

“Recall that last,” I said, “or I will give you no chance to stand before me with sword in hand. Recall your words, my lord.”

“I do,” he snarled, and he fell to rubbing his neck when I let go. As I turned to get the brandy a man came running down the sands. It was Simon.

“There is no need for either of us to go,” remarked Sir George. “Simon will get the flask if you tell him where it is.”

I directed the sailor where to come upon Kit, and then fell to chafing Lucille’s hands, as did Sir George, and this we were at when Simon returned, neither of us speaking a word, though deep in our hearts were many things that might have found utterance.

CHAPTER XX.
A WATCH IN THE NIGHT.

I was able to get a little of the brandy between Lucille’s lips, and she revived somewhat, opening her eyes. She caught sight of Sir George, and then she seemed to sleep again. When she awoke a second time and saw me standing near her, fright struggled with surprise in her look, so that I could not see whether she realized where she was.

She murmured that she was cold. I called to Simon and had him get my tinder box from my coat. With the flint and steel I kindled the burnt linen to a glow, and soon was blowing to a flame some dry sticks. Then Sir George, Simon and I set about gathering driftwood, verily like three school boys at a bonfire, until we had a goodly pile on the sand, sending out a genial warmth. It was a welcome heat, for we were chilled by the water, and Lucille was trembling as one with ague. We carried her to the blaze, and I wrapped my dry jacket about her, so that with the comfort of the fire, some color returned to her cheeks.

“Where am I?” she asked, passing her hand over her brow.

“With me,” said Sir George, quickly.

“God forbid,” spoke Lucille in an instant, and those few words gave me hope.

Sir George motioned to Simon, who ran to the raft, bringing back with him his master’s sword. Seeing that the wind lay in that direction, I hastened to where I had cast my blade. It was gone, as was my gun. I knew then that Simon must have hidden them when he came ashore. Lucille was watching us.

She rose from her reclining position, and, seeing Sir George armed, and me without a sword, she ran between us.

“Hold!” she cried. “Add not murder to your other crimes, my lord.”

“Murder,” he exclaimed; “it would not be murder to slay in fair combat. It is but the execution of justice on a traitor.”

“Traitor?” spoke Lucille, questioningly, while her head was lifted proudly in the air, and her voice rang with scorn. “Who is the traitor, when he stands face to face with you, my lord, chief of all traitors. For you were traitor to a defenseless woman. Captain Amherst is no traitor, but a true and honorable gentleman, and--and--I love him!”

Then, being a woman, Lucille’s spirit gave way, and she wept bitterly. I turned my head aside, for sometimes a woman’s tears are sorrowful to look upon. However, she soon regained her composure.

A sudden silence fell upon us all. When Lucille had said “I love him,” I looked at Sir George, and he at me. Now such had been the turn of events of late, that I knew not what to think.

Had Lucille planned to sail with her former lover? Was she true to me, or a fickle jade, blown this way and that, like many women? These things I much desired to hear the truth of. But yet she had said of me, “I love him.”

“Madame,” I said, and at the formal word Lucille glanced, half frightened at me, “strange events have come to pass between us since last we met. You were my promised wife when I sailed against St. Johns. I returned to be cast into prison on a foul charge, but not before one had met me with the words that you were his wife, and that I had no right to your love, nor you to mine.”

“His wife?” began Lucille, and Sir George smiled at the trick he had played.

“Oh, of the falsity of that I soon learned,” I went on, “for I met Nanette in Boston. But no sooner do I learn you are not wedded to Sir George Keith than I hear that you have sailed with him. Perchance you have since thought better of your troth to me, and are, even now, his wife.”

“His wife? Never!” cried Lucille.

“No,” said Sir George slowly, “not my wife, but----”

I would have leaped at him, unarmed though I was, and though he held his sword so that I must have run upon it, had not Lucille grasped my arm.

“Not--not--oh, my God, not his----” I could not finish for Lucille’s hand was over my mouth.

The next instant I had my answer. For she placed her arms about my neck, and before him, before the man I believed she had cast me aside for, she kissed me full on the lips, and spoke my name.

“Edward!”

“Lucille!” I cried. “Lucille!” And the love in my heart surged up as do the waters at flood tide. “Then God has given you back to me, after all. Speak, love, are you mine, all mine; or has he any claim on you?” and I passed my arm about her, and looked at Sir George, as he stood there, sword in hand.

“Edward,” said Lucille, and she clung to me as a frightened bird might nestle, “most grievous has been my plight, and cruelly has Sir George Keith treated a defenseless maid, yet I will do him this justice. Though ever did he protest his love in burning words, almost to insult, yet, as I stand before you both, he gave me no dishonor. And for this I thank him, that I am restored to you, my love, true as when he lured me away. So that while he remains not entirely guiltless, the great shame is not upon him.”

“I thank you, madame,” spoke Sir George, bowing low, his hand on his sword, “most graciously do I thank you,” and his words became bitter, while his face grew cold and stern. “My poor love for you, poor in that ’tis all I have, is but my plea for that which I have done. I pray your forgiveness, though, perchance, I do not merit it. I would do again all that I have done, aye, a thousand times, if I stood but one chance of success, of even winning one loving word from you, madame.

“But you have spurned my love, as is your right, though once it was not so.”

Lucille shrank closer to me at that, and the words pierced me with a jealous anger. He saw his advantage and went on:

“Once you thought it no great task to smile with me. My words did not turn you from me then. That was----”

“Oh, my lord, I pray you to cease,” implored Lucille and Sir George became silent.

“Your pardon, madame,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “enough of that, then. But though I have lost your love, I cannot, as I am a gentleman and a soldier, let the matter rest there. My enemy shall not thus easily steal you from me. I have two quarrels with him now from divers causes. Of the one he knows well. Of the other--well, I am ever willing to draw swords for a fair face,” and he bowed with mock courtesy.

“I would be weak, indeed,” he added, “did I give you up now after what I have gone through, and say to him, ‘welcome. Take my love from me. Take also your life which, of right, belongs to the King and to me, and go in peace!’ Nay, I have blood in my veins, not water.

“Three several times have I stood before you, Sir Francis Dane,” and he turned to address me. I marked that Lucille started at the name he gave me. “Three times you dared me to draw sword. Each time I held my hand, though my blade was ready. But I waited, for even bitter as my hate was, I had laid plans that might remove you from my path without need of open action on my part. I failed, you best know how and why. But think not that you will escape me, for the score is too heavy to forget now.”

Sir George moved toward me, and I thought at first he meant to attack me, for I had no sword. I put Lucille behind me, and then he seemed to see I had no weapon. Simon said something to his master in a low tone. Sir George turned angrily, and, in another instant the sailor was running across the sands. Presently he returned, bearing my sword and gun, which he handed me without a word of explanation.

“I pray your pardon,” said Sir George, “I saw not that your sword was gone. Now that you have it, let us to work to see who shall kill the other,” and he laughed such a cold, heartless, mirthless laugh that Lucille shuddered.

“Bah,” he went on, “what does it matter, after all. But come, ’tis cold standing idle after a bath in the sea, and I would be gone.”

He laughed again, perchance at the notion of going anywhere on the watery, sandy waste.

“Ha! Ha! Gone. Yes, I would be away, far away from here, had not the Eagle proved such a sorry craft.”

He swung his sword about him in a circle so that the point enscribed a little furrow in the sand.

Lucille looked on with horror in her eyes.

“Have no fear, love,” I said. “It will soon be over.”

“But how?” she asked.

“God knows,” I said.

“On guard!” cried Sir George.

But now a difficulty arose. The sun had gone down, though we had not observed it, and it rapidly became dusk. So that when we would have walked off a little way, out of sight of Lucille, to place ourselves, it was too dark for sword play. Sir George remarked it.

“Why, it is night,” he said, “and there is need of light for what we have before us. However, to-morrow will be another day. There is little likelihood that our quarrel will cool in the darkness.”

“Not on my side, my lord,” I answered, bowing.

“Enough, then. We will wait till sunrise. I will go with Simon to another part of the beach. We will meet again in the morning, and may the best sword win.”

“Say rather, may the right win,” was my reply, but he only laughed.

“Well, then,” he went on, “good-night, madame, and you also, Sir Francis, though ’tis more like to be a bad one for all of us and for you, madame. I would we had some small shelter, or some food for you, but the poor Eagle’s wings are broken.”

We looked to where the boat had been, but it was gone.

“Stay,” I said, remembering my saddle bags. “There is no need of hunger, at least, if Simon will go and bring what is on Kit’s back. We had better eat while we have the chance.”

I told the sailor what to fetch, adding some instructions about tying the mare more securely.

Presently Simon returned, and we threw more wood on the fire. Then I gave Sir George and his man some of the biscuits and bacon, which I had purchased at my last stopping place. The meat we roasted before the blaze on sharpened sticks, eating it smoking hot. I prepared some for Lucille, giving them to her on a clean washed piece of drift-wood, that served for a platter.

Surely no stranger band ever gathered about a camp fire on that lonely Atlantic coast. Had any one seen us eating together he would have said that we were ship-wrecked, but, for all that, merry adventurers, so well did the outward semblance conceal the bitter passions within. For there was in our hearts love, hate, fear, distrust, anger and envy, yet none of us betrayed by so much as a word while we were eating that there was aught but friendliness among us. Thus had so little a thing as hunger made us forget strong passions for a time.

The fire crackled, the waves beat upon the sands with thunderous noise, and we four sat there. How many and how varied were the thoughts in each of our minds.

For myself I rejoiced that I had found Lucille again, and found her with my love in her heart. Of the duel to take place on the morrow I gave little heed. For I had confidence in my sword and arm, though, as it afterward proved, I needed all my skill. Then I went back over my wanderings and my adventures since I had first ridden to Salem.

Of the others’ thoughts I could but guess. I fancied Sir George was very bitter of heart, and that he had great hate for me, though as to the rightful cause for it I differed from him. Lucille, rather than the death of his brother, was his reason now for wishing to kill me.

When I recall all that happened to us both, knowing of the great passion which swayed him, as a blast does a sturdy tree, I can, in some measure, put myself in his place and know that he was sorely tempted. For he, too, loved Lucille.

And of the thoughts of Lucille. She must have much hidden away in her heart, but what cared I so long as she loved me. I looked at her while the fire light played its shadows over her features. How thin and worn she had become since I saw her last. What must she have gone through. I was in impatience to hear from her all that had to do with her voyage on the Eagle.

As for Simon he seemed to be eating more than he was thinking.

So we sat thus silent, while the moon came peeping up from beneath the sea, silvering the dancing waves. Lucille drew my coat closer about her, for it was chilly, and she sighed, mayhap at what had gone before, perchance at what was yet to come; for who knows a woman’s thoughts?

It was growing late when I rose from my position by the fire. Sir George and Simon followed my example, and I helped Lucille to her feet. She was so weak that I put my arm about her waist to support her. Sir George turned away as if to view the moon, and I knew it was because it burned his heart to see me with her. But I was glad that it was so, for he had caused me much suffering, and this was some balm for it.

I picked up my flint-lock, and made as if to move off, Lucille and I up the beach. I had noticed an overhanging rock a quarter of a mile off, that I thought would serve as some protection from the night dew. Sir George, followed by Simon, walked off in the opposite direction. When they had gone a little way Sir George halted and retraced his steps.

“A word, Sir Francis,” he called to me.

I left Lucille and went back.

“There will be need of but little ceremony about our affair in the morning,” he said coldly. “Yet that no doubt may linger in your mind I will say that Simon is oath-bound to me not to raise a hand in the matter, no matter how it may go. You need fear no treachery, for he will keep his distance. So, if you kill me, Simon, though he is ever ready to stand between me and death, will not renew the quarrel. To this I have sworn him.

“If you should fall in the combat I will see that you have such burial as the place affords. Which courtesy I make bold to ask of you on my part. Is it agreed?”

“Yes, my lord,” I replied.

To talk thus of death.

“And that is all, I believe,” said Sir George, turning away. “I will meet you here at sunrise. And--and perhaps it would be as well not to awaken her. You understand?”

“Perfectly, my lord.”

“Then good-night, Sir Francis.”

“Good-night, my lord.”

We parted, and thus began the vigil of the night.

CHAPTER XXI.
OF THE VOYAGE OF LUCILLE.

Beneath the rock I had selected as our shelter for the night I kindled a fire, and the wind, taking the smoke away, made the place comfortable. The heat served to dry our garments and warmed our chilled blood. Lucille clung to me, trembling with the recollection of all she had passed through, and I held her in my arms and bade her be of better cheer, for the worst was now past.

“You had a long voyage,” I said, for I did not know how to begin so that she might tell me of the cruise of the Eagle.

“And a terrible one,” she answered, with a shudder. “Oh, Edward, my love, I thought never to see you again, and I wished myself dead a hundred times. There was naught but fear and misery in my heart, but now--now--I am so very happy. Yet not altogether happy, Edward.”

“And why?” I asked.

“Because I think of the morrow.”

“So you fear for me, my sweet?”

“Much, Edward, for he is a terrible man.”

“So am I, when I fight for love,” was my reply.

Then there was silence for a time, and she seemed to be thinking of something.

“Why did he call you Sir Francis, Edward?” she asked, presently.

“Because, dear, it is my name,” I said.

“Why, I thought----” she began, but I was not ready to tell her all yet.

“To-morrow will do for my story,” I interposed. “The night is short, let me hear about yourself.”

“There may be no to-morrow,” whispered Lucille.

“It is as God wills,” I said, simply, and I kissed her.

Then she told me of the voyage with Sir George.

“When I found that you were in Salem gaol, charged with witchcraft,” she began, “I recalled how few had come out of there alive, after such an accusation. I knew, as you did not, since you had been absent, how fierce was the hue and cry after witches, or those poor wretches so called. I knew how perilous was the time in Salem town. So I made up my mind that I must get you out, as you could not help yourself. I thought of the Governor, Sir William Phips, believing that he was my only hope. To see him, get a full and free pardon for you, was my only desire.”

I could feel her hand, that I held beneath my coat, press mine. I answered the pressure, and drew Lucille near to me. She went on:

“So, knowing there was little time to lose, I made a bargain with Master Richard Johnson, who lived on the road back of me, to take me to Boston in his big cart, as he was going there that day with some barrels of cider. Not even stopping to tell you good bye, so full was I of my project, I put on my best gown--’tis a sad sight now, though”--and Lucille sighed and looked down at her dress, all wet and torn--“pinned a ribbon in my hair, and was off to see His Excellency. We were two days on the road, because the cart broke.

“Well, I found him at home, and, after some parley with his servant, who said his master was busy with noble lords from London, I was admitted to the presence of Sir William.

“I curtsied as best I knew, and looked about, half tempted to run out again, for the room was filled with men. Oh, but they stared so at me; verily, I thought none of them had scarce before seen a maid in her best gown.”

Well I knew why they looked, I thought, for fairer face than Lucille’s there was not in Boston, or Salem--aye, in all of London.

“But,” she continued, “I did manage to stammer out what I had come for, and when His Excellency had gathered the import of my words, he became kindly at once and came near to me, while he left the noble lords, if such they were, to talk among themselves. I heard one of them say ‘Zounds! But would she not make some of our London beauties stare.’ So I looked him full in the face, and replied:

“‘There be many others in Salem town, if it please you, sir,’ whereat they all laughed, save His Excellency, and he smiled at me. Then, Edward, I pleaded for your life.”

“What did you say, sweet?” I asked.

“I begged that I might not be sent away without a pardon,” went on Lucille. “And, to show it was deserved, I told Sir William of the deeds you had done. How strong you were to cast the great stone, and how they said you were a witch because you had done that. Then I reminded him of St. Johns and Pemaquid, for I had heard somewhat of what took place there. I urged upon him that you were a good soldier, and a true one, serving His Gracious Majesty most faithful.

“Then, when I could think of no more to say, I told His Excellency that--that I loved you better than any one else in the whole world, and that he must pardon you for me,” and Lucille leaned over and hid her face on my shoulder.

“All that for me,” I whispered. “I was not worth it.”

“Oh, but you are,” said Lucille, looking up quickly, “or I should never have been brave enough to do all I did.”

“What said His Excellency, when you pleaded so well for me?” I asked.

“Why,” continued Lucille, “he smiled, and wanted to know who it was I had come to save. ‘Captain Edward Amherst,’ I replied, and then all the men in the room, who had been talking about the custom-house, burst into shouts of laughter.

“One of them said: ‘Not the traitor Sir George is after, is it, Your Excellency?’ ‘The same,’ was the Governor’s answer.

“That angered me, to hear them call you a traitor, though I did not realize who Sir George was then,” went on Lucille. “I stamped my foot, forgetting that I was in the presence of the Governor, and cried out: ‘Captain Amherst is no traitor, but a true and honorable gentleman, and a brave soldier, which is more than can be said of many.’ The men turned aside at that, and Sir William led me to another room.

“There he told me he would grant a pardon from the charge of witchcraftwitchcraft, which he did not believe in, but he added that there were graver matters hanging over your head. I was so overjoyed at hearing him say he would give the pardon that I only heard him murmur something about fearing it would be of little service. He called his secretary to bring his quill, ink-horn and sand box. When he had them he indited a full and free pardon for Captain Amherst, from the charge of witchcraft, sealing it with his own hand.

“He bowed me out of the chamber, while all the men stared so again that my cheeks were burning. But I was out of the house at last, and so anxious to get back to you and have you released from Salem gaol, that I could scarce walk fast enough. As I was going down the steps I was startled by seeing a man in front of me. I looked up in fright, and there was one I least desired to meet--Sir George Keith.”

Lucille glanced at me.

“I should have told you about him before,” she continued, “only I wanted to wait----”

“I know,” was my reply; “Nanette told me something of him, and I know more, of my own experience.”

“He stood before me,” went on Lucille, “and, when I would have passed by him, never giving heed to him, he bowed, and said if I would deign to hear him he would deliver a message from you. I did not know that he was your enemy, as well as mine, or I would not have listened to him. But I was so anxious to do all I could for you that I never stopped to think that Sir George Keith would scarce do his rival a courtesy. So I bade him say on quickly, and told him I never would listen to him on my account.

“Then he told me you had broken gaol early that morning, and were hiding in the woods to avoid capture. He said you had besought him, as a comrade in arms, to get him aid, and particularly to send word to me, so I might come to you.

“‘There is no cause for Captain Amherst to hide,’ I said, ‘for I have a pardon for him. He need fear no gaol.’ Sir George said it was not the witchcraft that was hanging over you now, but a charge of treason. That made me greatly frightened, and I suppose he saw it and knew he could tell me any lie and have it believed. He said, if I would consent to let him guide me to you, he could provide a way of escape for us both.

“I was afraid of him, but he spoke so gently, and was so courteous, never even referring to the hateful past, that I consented. Oh, how little I knew what was before me,” and Lucille shivered, not alone from the night wind. I knew now why Sir George had left the court room so suddenly the day of my trial. It was to get trace of Lucille.

“He said,” she continued, after a pause, “that it would not be safe for us to go directly to your hiding place, as we might be followed. There was a small boat, down at the wharf, he added, sailed by an honest man, and, if I would but trust myself in it, we could move along the shore until we had picked you up. Such, Sir George said, was the plan you had devised.

“Though I wavered a bit, being friendless and alone in Boston town, in the end I yielded, and suffered him to lead the way to the boat. It was the Eagle, and Simon was the whole crew. When Sir George came to the end of the wharf with me, he said to Simon:

“‘This is the lady you are to take to her lover.’

“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ answered Simon, and he touched his hat, and held the steps steady for me to descend. Ah me, it was many a day ere I went up those same steps again.

“At a signal from Sir George Simon cast off, and we were sailing smoothly down the bay, while I was all impatience until I should see you, as my heart misgave me. And I longed to show you the pardon I had, that you might know why I had not remained near you in Salem. See, here it is now.”

Lucille took from her bosom a paper, all crumpled and stained and wet from the sea water. By the dim light of the fire I saw that it was the pardon she had obtained. I kissed it, for it was my first love letter from Lucille, verily a strange one. I would have kept it, but she said she would hold it until we reached some safe place, as it might yet be needed.

“We sailed on,” related Lucille, “until it grew dark, and then, in fright, I called from the cabin to know when we would land and find you. ‘Presently,’ answered Sir George, and I waited, with small patience. Simon lighted a lantern, so that its beams fell upon Sir George, as he stood at the helm. ‘Is it not true, my lord?’ I called to him. ‘Presently,’ he said again, and he smiled. In that smile I saw the trick he had played.

“I stood before him then, and, though I feared him, I demanded that he instantly set me ashore. At that he only smiled once more, and called to Simon to make sail.

“‘Put me ashore, my lord, as you are a gentleman and a soldier,’ I pleaded. ‘I had rather be alone in the woods than here with you.’ ‘You shall go ashore in good season,’ he said. I begged and pleaded with him, until his smiles became frowns. Seeing that it was useless to beg him to release me, I cried out that I would throw myself into the sea. I ran to the rail, but Simon sprang after me and dragged me back. Sir George gave the tiller over to him, and, standing before me, said:

“‘Lucille, I pray you to forgive me for what I have done, but I cannot let you go, now that I have found you again. Captain Amherst has not escaped; he does not wait for you, hiding in the woods. Ere this ’tis likely that he is no longer alive. But I am alive, I am here, and, Lucille, I love you. I have waited and searched for you many years,’ he went on, ‘and now I will not let you go. As there is a God above us I mean you no wrong. But I love you, oh, how I love you!’”

I must have shown the feeling in my heart as Lucille repeated the words of Sir George.

“Heed not his words, Edward,” she said; “they were only words to me. He said we would sail far away from New England, to the New Jersey Colony, where he had friends. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you will have learned to care for me. And, if you do not, we will go down into the depths of the sea together, for, if I cannot have you in life I will have you in death.’

“Oh, how I was frightened, my love, but I thought of you, and how brave you were, and that gave me courage. I told Sir George I would never love him, in life nor death, and I said I would not even die with him, so much did I hate him. I said I would appeal for help to the first person I met when I reached shore. Whereat he laughed and said it would be many days ere we touched land. Then he begged me to enter the cabin, which had been fitted up with some degree of comfort, saying that he would not intrude himself upon me. More to escape him than because I was weary, I went down, and bolted the door.”

Then Lucille told me of the long voyage that followed. Sir George was like a madman with one idea in his head. He never sailed near shore, save when supplies were needed, and then Simon rowed to the beach in a small boat. The two men were most gentle to her, and once, when Simon had grumbled at taking the meals to her in the cabin, Sir George felled him to the deck with a blow. After that the sailor had little to say. Sir George and his man steered the craft by turns, and the master stopped at no task, however mean, performing all, as did the man. To such will love or its counterfeit go.

On they sailed, and never once did Lucille, by any chance, get near enough a passing vessel, or within distance of shore, so as to make a cry heard.

When it was necessary to approach a town harbor to anchor from a storm, she was locked in the cabin. Thus she spent one month, longing night and day to be free, until the roses faded from her cheeks, and the love light from her eyes. Ever did Sir George protest his affection for her, begging that she would but give him a little hope. But never, even by a turn of the head, did she admit that she heard him, for, after the first few days when she demanded that he set her free, she held her peace and spoke no words to him.

This was the tale Lucille related to me, as we sat under the ledge of rock by the waters I had saved her from. And, as the story grew, I longed for the morrow, that I might fight for her honor and my own. I put some driftwood on the fire, and it blazed up.

Of the storm, which blew the craft out to sea until the voyagers thought it would never return, Lucille told. Then provisions ran low, and for three days Sir George had nothing but a small crust of bread, and Simon had as little, because they put all aside for her. And this she never knew till after they had reached the vicinity of a town again, when by the ravenous hunger of Sir George and his man, she saw they had been near death.

It seemed strange to me that this man could endure so much for love, could battle so to win it, and yet could not master himself. Of a truth, he was one who might have been great, had not his life been turned in the wrong direction.

The last storm which blew had started the seams of the Eagle, and this had compelled Sir George to put in shore sooner than he intended, for he was near to his journey’s end.

The remainder of the tale I knew, having seen the sinking of the Eagle.

“And now tell me of yourself, Edward,” commanded Lucille. “Tell me how you escaped from Salem gaol, and how you happened to be here, so far away, just as I was about to give myself up for lost. You must have had a wearisome search for me.”

“I forget the weariness of it, now,” I whispered, “for I have found you,” and I held her close to me.

“Mayhap, only to lose me again,” replied she, with a touch of sadness in her voice.

“Not if there is still strength in my arm or temper in my sword,” I answered, cheerfully, for I am not one easily downcast, when I have a fight before me.

“Oh, the terrible morrow, I wish it would never come,” Lucille whispered.

“Have no fear,” I assured her. Then I told her of myself. How I with others had broken from Salem gaol after I had been near to death in the great press. I told of my journey, though I did not relate all my feelings when I knew she had sailed with Sir George, as I thought.

The night wore on. Our fire grew dim, and I bade Lucille sleep, for I did not want her to be awake when I must go out to meet my enemy. But she said she could not slumber, and thus we sat in each other’s arms until a greater blackness gave warning that the dawn was at hand.

It was cold and gray and still, save for the noise of the waves. Then the grayness became lighter in color.

The stars that had been bright grew dim. Slowly the morning light came, a pale rosy flush in the eastern sky. Then the edge of the sun peeped up from beneath the waves.

I looked at Lucille. She was fast asleep on my arm. I placed her gently against the rock, my coat for a pillow. It was time to go now. I wondered if I would return, or would it be Sir George, who would be there when she awoke.

I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the half parted lips. Once, twice, three times.

She stirred, and murmured my name.

“Good bye, Lucille,” I whispered. “Good bye, my dear love, good bye.”

Then I went out to meet my foe.

CHAPTER XXII.
A DUEL ON THE SANDS.

My legs and arms were stiff from long sitting, and with the cold. When I was out on the sands, away from Lucille, I ran up and down the beach to start my blood. I beat my arms about my body to limber them, and rubbed my hands and wrists. Then when I was glowing from the exercise, I dashed the sea water over my face and neck until I tingled all over. On I hurried now to the place of meeting. I could see Sir George walking slowly along the beach, and I marked that Simon was left behind, near to where they had kindled their watch-fire the night before. As I went along I looked out on the sea, which had turned to a rosy golden color under the rays of the sun. The waves glistened and sparkled before they broke in foam and bubbles on the shelving beach, hissing as they rushed up the incline, and then, chasing each other back into the ocean again, they dragged with them bits of sea weed, little stones and tiny pieces of tinted shells. I walked just on the edge of the wet sand, for it was easier going there, being firm from the beating of the waves, and I saw that Sir George coming toward me did likewise.

Now I had fought many duels, but never such a deliberately planned one as this was. Usually it was when my blood and that of my companion was hot. It was a blow, a curse, a rush to a secluded spot where we could indulge in a bit of sword play and not be interrupted, and in a little while a body with a sword thrust, lying on the sward. The slayer being hurried off to a wine house with his friends. At most times, too, there had been seconds, and a few onlookers, though, when occasion forbade them, we made shift to do without.

There was the time I had met de Gloise, back of the chapel that stands on the left of the road, as you leave the northern road from Paris. We had no attendants then, but were able to accomplish some pretty sword strokes. He gave me a thrust in the shoulder, while, by some chance, my weapon went into his throat, and he never sang any more of those funny French songs.

And there was Gandes, who was accounted an excellent blade. He and I had it out, early one morning. ’Twas about whether he or I could drink the most red wine, if I recall the cause of the quarrel, for I was rather wild those days.

Neither of us was sober enough to do more than a slouchy bit of work with the weapons, for we had spent the night together at the Owl and Peacock, before we quarreled, as to which was the wiser bird of the twain painted above the inn door. We went out into the yard, where only the stable boys were rubbing their sleepy eyes, and crossed swords. Poor Gandes. I thrust him through the body, though, sober, I would not have harmed him so much, as he was my best friend. He gave me a hasty cut in the side which made me stiff for many a day.

Then there was the time when I trod on a stranger’s toes, in Munich, he being, at the time, about to call on a lady. He called me a clumsy lout, and I replied with hot words. So we had it out there in the moonlight, behind a church. He was a most delightful man with a sword, and it was a real honor to engage him, for he had several passes that quite puzzled me for a time. But I managed to reach under his guard, and give him a wound in the arm pit, which must have prevented him from holding a blade for some time. On his side, he came near to catching me unawares, and, the result was a lunge, that, had it been six inches lower, must have ended my fighting days. As it was, I bear the scar on my left cheek yet.

Thus I mused as I walked along to meet Sir George. I knew this would be no boys’ affair, and I resolved to attempt none of those niceties of the fence, of which I am capable. For I was not in the mind to take chances on my life now, since it had become precious to me from yester eve, when I found my love again. I would let slip no chance, though, to kill my foe, as only his death could wipe out the insult to Lucille.

We had now come so near that we could greet each other. I saluted with my sword, and Sir George returned the compliment gravely. The next instant we were both looking over the ground, whereon we were to engage.

The place we had selected the night before, was on a sort of sandy knoll, and the height of it above the surrounding beach prevented the waves from washing up on it, save when the tide was full. The ground there seemed to be dry and rather shifting, offering no secure foot-hold.

“It is a little better in this direction,” said Sir George, indicating a shallow hollow place in the sand behind him.

I agreed with him, for there the waters of the tides had washed up on the sand, packing it firmly down.

This place, however, lay a little farther toward the sea, and made it necessary for us, if we would fight there, to stand, at times, with our ankles in the wet. It seemed to be the nearest place that suited, and was, in truth, a choice spot for a bit of sword play.

We threw off our upper garments. Our weapons were out of the scabbards as one, and we advanced until we stood facing each other. Sir George turned his gaze for an instant toward the rising sun on his left. Then he looked me in the eyes.

“Guard,” he said, quickly.

“On guard,” said I.

Our swords crossed a second later, and the battle between us was on.

For the first time I noticed how pale Sir George was. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his face bore marks of his passion and his recent sufferings, physical and mental. But it was no time for such observations as these. His steel clicked viciously on mine, and I knew, by the pressure and the way he lunged, that he was trying to make short work of it.

The clash of our blades, both good ones, mingled with the roar of the surf. It was thrust and parry, parry and thrust, the keen pointed weapons gliding along their lengths like serpents. We circled about one another, each watching, with jealous eyes, for a false move, a misstep. Three times did he thrust at my heart, thinking to catch me off guard, but, each time, my blade was there before his, and the sword slipped off with a hiss as of hot iron.

I tried many a stroke and thrust that I had found of service heretofore, but ever did I find his wrist ready, and he turned aside my point once when I could have sworn that I would have ended it. He laughed at me.

He thrust at my throat, and, when I would have parried it, he shifted his point, on a sudden, toward my heart. It was an old trick, and I knew how to meet it. When I had turned his blade away by a simple shift of my weapon, I laughed back at him, and responded with so quick a lunge that I pricked him in the shoulder, thus getting the honor of first blood. And I laughed again, as he frowned.

But mortal arms and wrists could not stand the strain much longer, and we were both panting, while the sweat stood in beads on our brows. Through it all our eyes never for an instant left each other’s gaze.

Again and again I thrust, until I had his wrist weary turning them aside. Ever I sought to reach one spot, not that I hoped to wound him there, but I had a trick I wished to work. His lips opened, that he might breathe more freely, and I saw his chin quiver, while a drop of sweat, that had come out on his forehead, rolled down on his cheek. I knew the tide was on the point of turning now, and the struggle that had been an even one, was a jot in my favor. I had forced him to the defensive.

He saw the gleam of triumph in my eye, and, as if to assure me and himself that he was as fresh as ever, he smiled and tossed back his head.

We had circled about each other so often, neither giving a step, that there was a little ridge of sand made by our feet, enclosing a spot that bore no mark. Slowly, so slowly that to an onlooker it could not have been said when it happened, Sir George began to step back. It was but a slight shifting of the feet, a settling of the body on the right leg that did it, until, when another minute or two had passed he was without the ring, and I stood in the centre.

The one sweat drop had been followed by others, and he was breathing with an effort. His face became paler, nor was his sword as quick to respond to the parry. I pressed him hard, with the result that I touched him in the arm twice. I felt, rather than saw, that I had him now at an advantage.

Ha! Another inch and I would have ended it then. But I had not given him credit for the knowledge of that trick. He met my lunge, and turned it off to such account that he nipped me in the neck; only a slight wound, however. The sight of my blood seemed to enrage him, for he came at me fiercely, and I was forced for a moment to adopt a defense.

Then, slowly but surely, I made him give ground again. I could see the fear and dread come into his eyes, as I had seen it in other eyes before.

“How long is it to last?” he muttered, foolishly using his breath in words. Yet, in his agony, and it was agony when he saw death in front of him, he smiled. And it seemed like the same smile I had seen, when he stood urging on the men, as I was beneath the great press.

I did not answer, but pushed my sword point more and more near to his heart. Twice I tried to reach over his guard, but each time he had been too quick for me, and my thrusts went high in the air. As I recovered my balance a curious thing happened.

A wave, bigger than any that had come before, broke upon the beach and rushed toward us in a mass of foam and water. In an instant we were lunging at one another knee deep in the sea. As the water flowed down the incline again it swept the sand from beneath our feet, and we had hard work to stand upright. But even that did not stop him from making a fierce thrust at my throat so that I had to be on the alert to force his point away.

The next instant came a woman’s scream. We both turned, forgetting for the time that our very lives depended on the watch we kept of the other.

Lucille was on the beach, running toward us!

My heart gave a throb, and I half turned myself about. The next moment I realized my folly, and was facing my enemy again. But that one moment was almost too long.

I had without thinking lowered the point of my weapon and given Sir George the very opening he wanted.

Like a snake his steel slipped half its length over mine, and the point was toward my heart. For the life of me I could not help the gasp that my breath gave. In my desperation I tried a parry that de Sceaul had once taught me. I dared not hope it would be effective, for I was too late with it.

His sword drew sparks from mine as it rasped along the length; the point was before my eyes.

With a last fearful lunge toward him I managed to force his weapon up, with my own pointing heavenward, and only just in time, for the point tore a furrow through the skin of my forehead.

And then there was a sudden snap, and a sound of ringing steel. I saw in the hand of Sir George only the hilt of his sword. In his eyes was a look of wonder, and his head was thrown back, in the effort to see what had become of his blade.

Next, ere either of us had time to move, the broken sword, whole from the point to where it joined the hilt, and which had been tossed high in the air by the force of my upward parry, and the spring of the broken steel, came down like an Indian arrow, point first.

And it struck him in the throat, just where there is the hollow, scooped-out place, in the breast bone. It went in nigh a foot, and stuck up, a fearful thing to behold, while, for half the length that protruded the spurting blood dyed it red.

Sir George stood for an instant without a movement. Then he began swaying and struggling not to fall, as does a tree, part cut through. He tried to speak, through the blood that rushed to his lips. Then he staggered, and came down on his knees.

He was close to death, and, strange chance, not so much by my hand as by his own. For a second I stood and looked at him, while he endeavored to regain his feet, but he only pitched forward, and lay prone upon the sand, crimson with his blood.

At the same moment a wave came up, covering him from sight, and nearly washing me from where I was. Lucille, with a cry of horror at what she had seen, ran toward us. As the water receded it undermined the sand where I stood, so that I was hard put to retain my place. Then I saw that Sir George was like to be carried out to sea. He dug his hands frantically into the yielding beach, but his nails only tore deep furrows in the earth. His eyes sought mine.

I would not let a dog thus die. So I leaped out after him, catching him about the waist, and, after a struggle against the action of the undertow, that seemed bound to get us both, I managed to half drag, half carry him up the slope, out of reach of the water.

Then, as I stooped over, and drew the sword blade from his throat, to have a rush of blood follow, I looked up, and there stood Lucille.

“Are you wounded, Edward?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Only a scratch,” I replied.

“And--and--Sir George?” she faltered.

“’Tis a grievous hurt,” I said, and with that Sir George, whose eyes had been closed, since I carried him out of the water, opened them.

“You have won,” he said, quietly, and he turned so that he might not look at either Lucille or me.

“Oh, Edward, Edward,” sobbed Lucille. Then I led her away.

Simon, who had been absent all this time, came racing up the sandy stretch now. He cast himself down beside the body of his master, caressing him, and kissing his cold face.

“Water,” gasped Sir George.

Before Simon could rise I ran to the spring near the rock and hurried back with my cap full of the liquid. As I neared the place where the dying man lay, I saw something white, like a piece of parchment, in Simon’s hand, and the sailor hurriedly thrust it into his pocket.

Sir George drank eagerly, and Simon and I bathed his face.

The sun was fully up now, flooding us all in the golden light. The tide came farther on the sands, the gulls flitted out over the waves, and, in the woods back of us the birds were singing. It hardly seemed as if a few minutes ago that two men were battling there for each other’s lives, and that now one was dying.

I walked slowly away, as I thought Sir George might not like me near him in his last moments. But he raised his hand, and beckoned to me to approach. When I had leaned over him, for he could only whisper, I heard him say, between his gasps:

“Well--I have lost--but the stake--the stake was worth playing for. Had I my life to live over again, the chance to--to once more live and love--and--fight, I would not change one jot. I had deep laid plans, yet they failed. You were in my path, and, when I thought I had made an end for you--you came back to torment me, to rob me of my love.”

“Not to rob you,” I protested. “It was a fair fight, and she had a right to choose. ’Twas you who sought to rob me.”

“Well, it is all over now,” he rejoined. “We have been good foes, and you were a brave man. I honor you for it.”

“Nay, as for the honor of the sword, ’tis yours as much as mine,” I said. “Better blade have I never met, and I have crossed with many.”

He smiled, a little smile of contempt. A man who is done with this world can afford to laugh at the power of steel.

“Let it pass,” he continued, speaking with greater ease now that he was near the end. “Let it pass. And now seeing that I have not much longer in the land, truly a most pleasant land, in spite of all that is said against it, dare I make bold to ask a favor?”

“I will serve you, if I may,” I answered.

“Oh, it is only a small matter,” he rejoined. “’Tis this. When I am laid--laid away, let Simon accompany you to Elizabeth town. He has a mission for me there that I will not be able to accomplish.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed suddenly, and his face told of the suffering he felt.

I started to raise him up, that he might rest more easily.

“It is nothing,” he said. “Dying is a little harder than I thought,” and he actually smiled at me.

“Might I speak to--to her?” he asked, as a child would plead.

I started after Lucille, and found her weeping behind the knoll where we had appointed to fight.

“Come,” was all I said.

She followed me without a word, and, when we neared the place where Sir George was dying, I would have hung back, letting her go to him alone.

However, he motioned me to approach with her, and so it was that we stood, Lucille and Simon and I, at his side.

“Madame,” he said, “will you forgive me for all I have done? For the trick I played on you?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Lucille. “Though it was a grievous wrong, yet, since you are near to death I do forgive you, freely and fully.”

“I thank you,” he said, simply.

“And you, sir?” looking at me.

“I, too, can afford to forgive and forget,” I replied, as I took Lucille’s hand.

“It is enough,” were his next words. Then a tremor seemed to pass over him. I turned Lucille away that she might not see the end.

“Good bye--Lucille,” whispered, rather than spoke, Sir George.

“Good bye, my lord,” came falteringly from Lucille’s lips, and she burst into tears, with her head on my shoulder. I led her away.

When I turned to look at him I saw that the end was come. He had turned over on his face, and his head was resting on his folded arms, while a choking sob shook his body. He was weeping in death, this man who had dared so much for love, and lost.

Simon, who had knelt down by his master, leaned over him. He appeared to be listening. Then he arose, raised his hands to heaven and gave a great cry.

Thus died Sir George Keith, a brave man, a bold man, and--well, he is dead. May he rest in peace.

And we covered him up with the sand, Simon and I; with the sand whereon he had fought his last fight.

I was anxious, now, to be away from the place, and to get Lucille to some shelter. We lighted a fire, and roasted some of the bacon, making a scanty meal, and, ere the sun was mid-day high, we were ready to start.

“Come,” I said, cheerfully, “our path lies before us, and if we hasten we may reach Elizabeth town by night.”

“Any place away from this,” sighed Lucille. “I shall have unpleasant memories of it for many a day.”

We managed to scramble to the top of the cliff, and found the place where Kit was tethered. The mare was most glad to see me, and whinnied with delight, as I rubbed her nose. My saddle made a poor shift for Lucille, but I padded it with my coat, making the best seat I could. Then, with a last look at the beach, whereon so much had passed, I called to Kit, Simon and I stepped out, and we laid our course to the southwest.

The way was rough and soon we had left the wood and were traveling over a marsh that required us to be careful where we stepped. Our progress was slow, but I hoped, if we could not reach Elizabeth, that we could get to a farm house, where we might spend the night. Simon walked on ahead, while I kept at Lucille’s side. We found much to talk of, for love furnishes many topics.

The sun went lower in the west, yet we had not come upon sight of a dwelling. It was lonesome and dreary enough, and Lucille looked at me once or twice, with fear in her eyes.

“We will soon be there,” I said, though I did not believe so, for I feared we had mistaken the road.

As it grew dusk we came to the edge of the marsh and entered the woods again. Still there was no sign of house or hut. I gave up then, convinced that we were off the trail, and must spend another night in the open. It was not a pleasant prospect, but there was no help for it.

There was a sound in the underbrush, and a trapper came out. I was right glad to see him. After a little conversation I asked him the way to Elizabeth town, and he told me that we had come past it, that it was nearly a day’s journey to the northwest. I had circled around it in my wandering, and Sir George had sailed past it. Truly it was strange that we should have ever met.

“Well,” I said as happily as I could, when the trapper had crashed away, “we must do the best we can. It is only one day lost.”

I found a place where four trees grew together almost in the form of a square. Simon and I cut down cedar boughs, and made a rude roof between the trunks. Then we enclosed the sides, spread more branches and leaves on the ground, and had a forest bower, full of many cracks and chinks, but some shelter from the wind and dew.

Simon lighted a fire with my tinder box, and we cooked almost our last piece of bacon. We finished the meal in silence. I wrapped Lucille in my coat when she went inside the shelter we had made. She called a good-night to both of us.

Then Simon and I sat down beside the glowing embers for another night watch. We did not speak. The woods were deeply quiet, save for the hoot of an owl or the howl of a wolf.

CHAPTER XXIII.
SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT.

The hours grew as we sat by the fire, and, presently, I noticed that Simon’s head was fallen forward, and he slept. I had hard work to fight off the slumber, as I had not closed my eyes for two nights, and was weary with my journey. I knew I dared not sleep, for, though I did not fear Simon, nor hardly an attack from the wolves, while the fire burned, yet there was a feeling of vague uneasiness with me, a dread that some nameless thing was abroad in the forest, and I could not shake it off.

Simon stirred uneasily, and then I heard a faint, far-off sound, as of some one walking cautiously through the underbrush. Could it be Indians? Our fire was not brilliant now, but, fearful that even its faint glow would betray us, I scooped up a handful of earth, and dashed it on the embers, extinguishing them.

Nearer and nearer came the sound until it was almost upon us. I reached over and touched Simon, who awoke with a start. Then he heard the sound and looked about in alarm. I took up my flint-lock and gave Simon one of the two pistols I had, at the same time motioning him to make no noise.

“Indians,” he whispered, and I nodded.

The next moment we saw through an opening between the trees not fifty feet away dim shadows in the night; a line of figures which we made out to be the red men of the woods. One behind the other they marched, silent, almost, as spirits, save for a little rustle of the leaves as they brushed by them.

Each warrior had a gun, and they wore their war feathers. I counted six score ere the last one passed and I knew there would be no peace in the land for a time.

It was the beginning of the Indian uprising of which I had heard when near New York, and, with that savage band abroad our lives were scarce worth a flint.

Simon and I cowered in silence until we saw no more shadows, and then we breathedwe breathed, it seemed for the first time since the Indians had come into view. The sailor spoke no word, but he handed the pistol back to me, like a man who was glad he had had no use for it.

With the savages on the war path it was little chance that Elizabeth would escape an attack.

Should we then push on there? I tried to think of a better plan, but there seemed none. We would be as much exposed to attack in retracing our steps, as in going on. If we could reach the town the block house might afford us protection until help came. Once in Elizabeth, too, Simon and I could aid the settlers in defending the place from the Indian attack. There was nothing to do but go on as soon as it was light.

That it might be a race for life toward the end, seemed certain, as we could not travel without leaving a trail that even an Indian boy might follow.

I waited impatiently for the daylight, and it came so slowly that I was minded to wake Lucille, and start ere the dawn. But I feared to get on the wrong path, and so I waited, counting the minutes until the first flush in the east.

No sooner had it tinged the sky than I roused Simon, who had fallen asleep again, and bade him get Kit in readiness. I entered the bower and kissed Lucille, whereat she awoke with a start.

“Are we home, Edward?” she asked.

“Almost,” I said, cheerfully.

I dared light no fire, for fear of the tale the smoke would tell, so we ate the remainder of our bacon cold, with the dry biscuit, washing the poor meal down with water from a near-by brook. Then observing all the caution we could we took up our journey again.

There seemed to be a better path now, though it was far from easy traveling. When we had occasion to speak it was in whispers. I watched with jealous eyes every bush and tree, starting at each sound, while Lucille on Kit’s back was pale with fear.

The morning had turned to noon. Our only meal was water, drunk from oak leaves, that I fashioned to form a cup. The spirits I saved, for there was no telling when I could get more. Most anxiously did we strain our eyes for the sight of a house. Yet we went fully two miles after our halt at noon, ere we found one. It was Simon who first saw it. He pointed between the trees and said:

“Look.”

“What is it?” asked Lucille.

“A place where some one lives, I hope,” was my reply. We increased our pace. As we came nearer the house I thought that it was strangely still and quiet about the spot. Kit, too, pricked up her ears, and sniffed as if she did not like the air. It was a time to be cautious and so I led the mare with Lucille behind a clump of trees. Bidding Simon take one of the pistols, and stay there on guard, I went forward. I looked on every side of me.

Though it was a farm house there seemed to be no evidence of life. There were no cows in the meadow that stretched out in back, and not even a dog ran out to bark. The chickens and ducks appeared to have flown away. I saw that the barn door was open.

It was a strange house with no one on guard at such a time. I proceeded more slowly until I reached the kitchen door, which was unlatched. A woman’s dress on the floor caught my eye. Thinking now that all was right, and that I would find the family within I crossed the threshold, giving a knock to announce my coming.

Then such a sight of horror as met my gaze!

On the floor were the dead bodies of a man, a woman and two little girls. Their heads were away from me, but when my eyes had become accustomed to the dimness of the room, I saw that each one had been scalped. It needed no writing on the wall to tell that Indians had been there, and recently. With fear-blanched face I ran back to where I had left Lucille and Simon. The latter saw the cause of my return in my manner, but Lucille asked:

“Were the people there, Edward?”

“No,” I said, “they had gone out.”

I knew now that our only hope lay in pushing on with all speed, and without stopping to explain further I led Kit out into the road, which was fairly good.

“We must hasten, Simon,” I said, and under my breath I told him what I had seen.

Kit trotted off, and Simon and I had to run to keep up with her. Lucille inquired, with fright showing in her eyes, why we had so suddenly left the vicinity of the farm. I told her I had learned at the house that by hastening on we could reach Elizabeth ere dark, and I was anxious to do so.

Already it was getting dusk. We passed by farm houses at short distances apart now, so I knew the town must be near. There was no sign of life in any of the dwellings, however, and in fancy I saw within them such a scene as I had first come upon. At other places there were household articles scattered about, which showed how the families must have fled at the first alarm of the Indians.

Copper kettles, warming-pans, a spinning wheel, now and then a chest of linen, strewn along the road, told how the colonists had packed whatever of their possessions they could in a cart and hurried off to the block house, to be safe from attack. What they did not take with them the Indians carried off or burned.

I glanced on all sides of us. It was so dark that I could scarce see, though I made out the village a short distance ahead. The log block house stood on top of a little hill, and a fire burned on one corner of the roof, a signal to refugees.

My eye had no sooner caught sight of this, and I turned to tell Lucille that our journey was at an end, than Simon gave a cry. He pointed behind us, terror in his face.

I looked, and there, on the brow of the hill we had just descended were the figures of a score of Indians!

They were a quarter of a mile behind us, and we were half a mile from the fort.

I gave Kit a blow across the flank with my sword scabbard. She sprang forward. At the same time Simon and I broke into a run. A yell from the savages told us we had been observed, and that they were in hot pursuit.

They were afoot, and I knew that Lucille was safe from them, for Kit would carry her to the block.

“Ride on ahead,” I called to her. “Simon and I will hold them in play until you are safe, Lucille. Ride on for your life!”

“I will not leave you, Edward,” she called back, and she tried to pull the mare up.

“On, Kit, on!” I shouted.

The mare heard and started at a sharp gallop.

Lucille clung to her seat, and waved her hand back at me.

Though Simon and I had made good speed the Indians were now within range. They shot a flight of arrows, and several, who had muskets, discharged them. They did not hit either of us, and Lucille was now out of danger. Not so, however, Simon and I. On came the savages, running with great speed, and uttering their war cries.

There were three fleeter of foot than the others, and they were in the lead. I saw if we were to gain the block house we must dispose of these or halt them for a timea time. Bidding Simon halt we drew up short in the road. I told him to fire at the one on the left with his pistol, while I took the one on the right with the flint lock.

Two quick shots rang out in the darkness. Simon only wounded his man, but I had better luck, and the ball went through his body, so that he fell doubled up in a heap, and then was still.

The enraged yells of his companions told us he was dead. The whole party stopped short and that gave us the chance we wanted. At top speed we resumed the race to the fort. Lucille was almost there now, and we could see the gate cautiously opened to let her in.

“Quick, Simon,” I called, for the Indians were after us again, and we could not hope with but a single charge in a pistol to halt them.

Poor Simon was almost done for with the run. His breath came in gasps. I caught him by the arm, and was helping him along. The nearest Indian was not a rod away. With head down, panting from the exertion and almost ready to give up I half led, half dragged Simon on.

Then, and it was a welcome sight, the heavy log gate of the block house swung open. A score of armed men in close formation emerged. I could see the matches of some of the muskets burning. The Indians saw them, too. With a final yell of rage and defiance they abandoned the chase, turned back, and were soon lost to sight in the darkness, which had now fallen.

Simon and I reached the gate, the men opening to let us pass inside. One, who wore a sword, and who seemed to be in command, said:

“You were only just in time, sir. Had the maid not ridden up when she did and warned us of your approach we might not have made the sally, for we were deep in council, planning how best this uprising of the savages can be met.”

“I give you thanks,” I said, noting that Lucille had dismounted, and was with some of the women.

“Few are needed,” rejoined the man who had first spoken, “seeing that you are two men, one with a goodly weapon; for we have need of fighters now. As for your companion I note that he carries a pistol with the powder pan empty. We will give him a musket that he may do his share in the defense. The smaller weapons carry only a little way. I am in command here,” he went on. “Perhaps you may have heard of me?”

“I have not the honor,” I said, “having but just arrived from a distance, and indeed coming here by a mere chance.”

“Well, then,” went on the commander of the little fort, “I am Captain Philip Carteret, brother to His Excellency, Sir George Carteret, Governor of the Jersey Province.

“My brother sailed for London a month ago,” went on the Captain, “leaving me in charge of the Colony. Much have I found to do, settling the disputes among the people, and now with this uprising of the savages, there is like to be more work. But you have a soldierly bearing and, I doubt not, will be glad of a chance to fire a gun at the red men.”

“That I will,” was my answer. “You guessed right when you spoke of my bearing. I am Captain Edward Amherst, late of Salem town, in Massachusetts, whence I led a company against St. Johns. This is Simon Rogers, a sailor who has business of his own here, and is only a fellow traveler with me, though we have fought together. The maid who rode up on the mare is my promised wife, whom I have brought here that we may wed.”

The introductions being over Captain Carteret led the way into the block, and the door was carefully secured. Pine torches gave a ruddy, smoky light to the scene, which was of great confusion.

Men were here and there, some looking to see that their weapons were loaded, others mending a broken stock or whetting up rusty sword blades. Women were huddled in corners, some weeping, some gazing on with frightened eyes, and some trying to comfort crying children. All about were scattered household goods, through the piles of which soldiers made their way to the various parts of the block house. I had hardly time to take this all in and see that Lucille was being cared for by some of the calmer women, when a messenger bade me to supper with Captain Carteret. Right glad I was of the invitation, too.

The Captain’s voice told me to enter when I had knocked at the door the messenger indicated. On the rough table was a smoking hot meal. Of all the confused assemblage the cook, it seemed, had kept his head. I did full justice to the roast deer’s flesh, and the fish with the yellow corn bread that went with it. When the edge had gone from my appetite the Captain told me of the situation. A friendly savage had brought word of the Indian uprising two days ago. MessengersMessengers were sent to as many of the outlying farm houses as possible, and the people made all haste to the fort.

“Can you stand a siege?” I asked, wishing to know for Lucille’s sake, how matters stood.

“The place is stout enough,” said the Captain, “and we have men in sufficient numbers, with a goodly supply of powder and ball. But the provisions are a point of worry to me. There was not time enough to lay in a full larder, and, with all the women and children to feed beside the men at arms, I fear it will go hard if we are cooped up here for any time. But we will do the best we can.”

“How many men have you?”

“There are four score fit for fighting,” was the Captain’s answer.

At the close of the meal I made my excuses and went to find Lucille. She met me at the entrance of the women’s apartment, having come out to learn where I was. I told her how strong the fort was, how we had plenty of men to defend it with, and enough of ammunition for all the Indians in Jersey. She had recovered somewhat from her recent fatigue, and looked more beautiful than ever, with her hair tossed about, and the roses in her cheeks.

The women, she said, had been most kind to her.

“It is a comfort to speak to some one in petticoats again,” she said. “Just think, I have been over a month, and could not even learn if my skirt hung properly.”

“A most woeful lack,” I said mockingly. For there was no immediate danger now, and we could afford to jest.

“Truly a great deprivation,” said Lucille, laughing.

I left her after a time, kissing her good-night, and bidding her be of cheer. Then I went back to Captain Carteret, to consult with him about the defense of the block.

CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW SIMON KEPT HIS OATH.

Summed up our situation was this. We had a few more than four score men with which to stand against an attack of ten times that number of Indians. And, as we would need to detail some men to put out fires, started by blazing arrows, it would reduce our fighting force to about eighty men.

Fortunately we had plenty of arms, powder was in abundance, and we had lead enough to make all the balls we could fire. There were a number of women, Captain Carteret said, who could mould bullets, and some who were able to load muskets.

The block house was a strong and well built place consisting of an upper and lower story, well pierced with loops, and comfortable quarters for men and women. All about the place was a stout palisade of tough green timber. We did not fear that the block nor the palisade could be set on fire from the ground, but, as the roof slabs were dry from the sun, there was some danger that an arrow, carrying a flaming bunch of tow, might start a blaze over our heads.

However, there was a little place, like a watch tower, on the southeast angle of the fort, and we reckoned that if we placed two men there they could quench any fire which started on the roof.

These matters having been talked of, Captain Carteret tallied the men. He gave me charge of two squads to look after the north and west sides of the block, while he took care of the others. Ammunition was dealt out, instructions given and a watch set, for though we did not expect a night attack it was as well to be prepared. Then I went to the room where the men not on duty were to sleep, and lay down on a rude couch.

It seemed that I had been slumbering but a little while, during which I thought I was back in Salem gaol, ere there came a thundering summons at the door, and I leaped up to find it almost dawn. Once more came the knock, then the warning:

“The Indians! The Indians! Hurry!”

I needed no second telling. It was the message I had been waiting for, and it meant there was sharp work ahead.

I drew on my boots, buttoned my coat about me, and, wondering how Lucille had fared, grabbed up my sword and gun, to hasten where I might find Captain Carteret.

I met him in the main room, where all was confusion. Men were getting in each other’s way, some were looking for their garments, and many for their weapons, so that little speed in preparation resulted. Had the enemy been more alert they would have had us at a disadvantage. But the red men were wary about rushing the palisades when they knew, as they must, what force was behind them.

Captain Carteret was busy answering a dozen questions at once. His lieutenants were issuing guns to those who had neglected to secure them the night before. Powder horns were being filled from casks of the black mixture, bullet moulds were gotten ready, and some women were melting lead, while a number were dishing up the breakfast. It was a cold gray dawn, hardly light enough to see by.

“Hot work,” was the Captain’s greeting to me, as he waved half a dozen men with inquiries aside, to drain a mug of ale. “The scouts came in an hour ago with the news that the skulking devils were moving about in all their war paint, getting ready for an attack. The most of them are well armed too, having as good muskets as we have. Well, ’tis as I often remark, those in authority will never seem to learn that they are putting weapons into the hands of devils, when they supply guns and ammunition to the Indians.”

“How many are there?” I asked.

“About four hundred out there now as near as could be made out. There are some of the Assumpinks, a few Roanokes, plenty of Mingoes, a score of Andastakas and the rest Nashaimes and Shackamaxons. They will not be here for an hour yet, since an Indian loves not to fight on an empty stomach, when he can sound his war whoop on a full one.”

“The devils know they have us cooped up here where we cannot get away,” I remarked.

“Aye, that they do, Captain,” agreed the acting Governor. “And, if we do not stand them off until help arrives from Newark, it will go hard with us who are alive after the place is taken.”

Something like order now began to make itself felt. Breakfasts were hastily eaten, and the men sent to which ever side of the palisade they were to defend. The muskets were all loaded, pails of water set handy and boys were appointed to carry the discharged guns from the men to the women, bringing back loaded ones in their place. Oh, how I wished for a cannon or two on top of the block. Captain Carteret and I were about to leave the main room, and go to our stations, when there came a knock at the door. Simon entered as the Captain called out “come in.”

The sailor looked at the commander, but did not appear to see me. He seemed to be excited about something, and was fumbling in his jacket pocket.

“I have business with you, Captain Carteret,” he said.

I started to leave.

“It concerns you also, Captain Amherst,” went on the sailor, so I remained wondering what was to come. Doubtless a request concerning his position in the block.

But Simon pulled from his inner pocket a folded parchment, which, by certain stains of sea water on it, I knew must have been on board the Eagle, probably a document that Sir George Keith carried, and had desired Simon to deliver for him, when he found himself unable.

“When I have told what I have to tell,” began Simon, “and so fulfilled my oath, I pray that there may be holden no enmity against me. For I only do what I am bound to do.”

“Say on,” came from Captain Carteret. “If you are in no fault none will bear you ill will. Be brief, for time presses.”

I stood there, wondering how Simon’s oath could have aught to do with me.

“Well, then,” went on Simon, “I am, or was a servant to Sir George Keith, who lately died.”

“What, Sir George Keith, of Lincolnshire?” interrupted Captain Carteret, “was he in these parts?”

“He--he was,” said Simon, with such a hesitation over the words that the commander cried out:

“Do you mean that he is dead?”

Simon nodded.

“Dead,” the sailor continued, “and lying beneath the sands, unless, as is no doubt the case, the waves have ere this washed his body out to sea.”

The Captain looked at Simon curiously and then at me.

“Before my lord died,” resumed Simon, “he called to me, and with almost his last words swore me that I would do as he bade me, so that he might be revenged on the man who had slain him.”

I started at this, for I began to see which way the wind blew.

“Having given my oath,” went on Simon, “I left my master, after he had been foully slain----”

“’Tis a lie!” I cried, white with anger. “Sir George was killed in a fair combat, and he would have made an end of me had not his sword broke.”

In great wonder Captain Carteret held up his hand to end our dispute, and Simon resumed.

“He gave me a message,” he said, like a child who repeats a lesson well learned, “and it was of this import. ‘Say to Sir George Carteret, or to his representative, that a traitor walks abroad in the land. I pray you to see to it that he is taken and sent to England to answer for the crime against His Majesty. As you are my friend fail not.’ And I took an oath that I would do this, which I have done. Before he died Sir George Keith gave me a parchment to give to the Governor, when I should find him, as I have now, or one who stands for him. Therefore I have kept my oath.”

“And the document, the parchment,” said Carteret hastily, “where is it, man? What is it all about, now that you have done talking?”

“This is the document,” said the sailor, and he gave a water stained parchment to the commander.

Now there was silence in the apartment, while a man might have counted a score.

“Warrant, royal warrant,” read the Captain, bringing his eyes close to the writing, while I listened, my heart almost ceasing to beat. Had I fought so hard only to lose all at the end?

“Hum, what is this? ‘Warrant from His Majesty----’”

The reading was not finished, for it was interrupted by such a chorus of savage yells sounding hideously from without, that it seemed the Indians must be at the very door. At the same time we heard our men shout a defiant reply, and then began shooting apparently on all sides at once.

“Quick!” cried the Captain, “to your men, Amherst. The imps have begun the attack. This matter can wait,” and he thrust the warrant into his pocket. “Join the defense,” to Simon. “I will see you again. Hurry now.”

Out ran Carteret, while I followed at his heels. There were many emotions in my heart. As I passed the women’s quarters I saw Lucille standing in the doorway. I blew a kiss to her from my finger tips as I had no time to stop.

“Keep up a good spirit,” I shouted.

She waved her hand in reply, and I went to the fight with a happier mind. A minute later I was among my men at the palisade, cautioning them not to waste powder and ball.

That there was need of all our defenders I saw as soon as I peered through a loop. For though not a foe was in sight save now and then when one stepped from behind a tree or stone to deliver a shot, yet the puffs of smoke all about us told me the scouts had not correctly rated the strength of the enemy. They numbered nearer to twenty score than to eight. The war party must have been joined by another band in the night.

Never had I heard such a din before. It seemed like one long endless screech that rose and fell as might a weird song of death.

The savages would remain concealed while loading their guns. Then they would peer out unexpectedly from behind some tree stump or stone, fire, and drop back again before our men had time to take aim. It was like shooting at quail.

This kind of firing kept up for some time with little advantage to our side. We had four men badly hurt by bullets that came in the loops, or by splinters knocked from the logs. And, as far as I could see, we had not killed a single Indian. I ordered my men to cease firing, as it was but a waste of good powder and ball, and the women were weary reloading the guns. I noted that Carteret’s men had likewise held their fire.

“We will try an old trick and see how it works,” I remarked to my squad. “It may be we can teach these red men something of the arts of war.”

I told off twenty of the best shots, and stationed them at the farther ends of the sides of the palisade where I was in charge, leaving the middle undefended. I gave four men two long sticks each, and had them place hats and caps on the ends. These men I bade lie down on the ground, about the centre of the palisade.

The score with the guns I had stationed at the upper loops, where they stood on a little ledge of wood, built there for that purpose. Each man had two loaded guns with him. The rest of my defenders I grouped near the loops where the men with the caps on the sticks were. I told them, when I gave the word, to fire as quickly as they could, but not to be particular whether they aimed or not, as long as they kept up a steady fusillade. All was now arranged to my satisfaction.

“Ready!” I called.

Up went the long sticks with the hats on the ends, and, at the same time the guns of the men near them rattled out with flame and smoke. To the Indians it must have looked just as I intended it should, as if we were desperate and were attempting a sally under the protection of the fire of a few of the men. The sight of the dozen caps at the top of the palisade must have looked like the heads of men trying to climb over.

As there was no firing from the two ends of the stockade where I had stationed the score of men, the Indians were deceived into believing that part deserted. Those savages opposite the loops there at once leaped out from behind their cover to take part in the fight they looked for in front of the middle of the palisade, as soon as our soldiers should have climbed over.

They uttered yells and whoops, and half the caps were riddled with bullets. But half a hundred red skins were in the open now in front of my marksmen.

“Let them have it all together!” I cried. “In the name of the King and Elizabeth! Fire!”

There was a burst of fire and a hail of lead into the half naked ranks, and the screeches that followed told us we had done some scath. Ere they had time to recover from their surprise my men let them have the contents of the second guns right in their midst.

When the smoke blew away we counted twenty-three dead bodies, while several more were desperately wounded. We had struck them a hard blow with no loss to ourselves, and they retreated to cover again.

“Ha, that was well done; most excellently done,” I heard a voice behind me say.

I turned about.

“Traitor, or no traitor, that was as prettily planned and executed as I could do myself,” and Carteret stood beside me.

“I am no traitor,” I said sternly, but, when I would have said more he stopped me.

“They have learned a lesson that will serve them for some time,” the Captain went on. “But, Amherst, grave matters press on the two sides I command. I have lost three men killed, and the rest seem afraid to fight, saying there is some mischief in the air. I think the devils are massing to rush the place. At least there is something afoot, for they have not fired a shot for the last five minutes. That is why I came here.”

I went with the Captain to the south side and looked from a loop. There was not an Indian in sight, nor were there any of the wicked puffs of smoke to tell where they hid. It was puzzling.

“Have you noticed any suspicious movement?” I asked.

“None,” he said, “save that one of my men remarked not long since that he never knew before how many stumps there were in the open space between the block and the forest.”

“Stumps?” I said, and then I looked out again.

“Aye, stumps,” said Carteret. “For myself I cannot call to mind when there were so many there, but, perchance I never noticed it closely.”

I saw what it meant now.

“They are stumps that have put forth green shoots since morn,” I said. “And, mark you how those same stumps seem to have legs?”

“Green sprouts? Legs?” repeated the Captain, like a man sorely puzzled.

“Yes,” I said, “look.” Then I showed him that, though the body of the stump was black and dead, yet on the top were bright green little twigs.

Carteret rubbed his eyes to see better.

“Note,” I went on, “that large stump with knobs on it, which give it the appearance of a man’s face.”

“I see it,” he replied.

“There was a stone beside it three minutes ago,” I proceeded, “but it is gone now.”

“Did the stone move?” he asked.

“Or the stump,” I suggested, and then he knew what I meant.

Every stump, and there were three score, hid an Indian. As the red men slowly wiggled along after the manner of snakes, they pushed the dead wood ahead of them to deceive us and protect themselves. It was a clever ruse, but we must consider how to beat it. We could not hope to hit the savages while they were so well protected. I said so, and the Captain agreed with me. Then I called to mind his remark about traitors.

“It is perhaps ill for one accused of treason to advise what to do,” I said stiffly.

“Tut, tut, man, I have not judged you yet,” he spoke quickly. “Every man is innocent until he is proved guilty. To me you are what you seem, a brave soldier. That is enough for us now.”

I liked him better after that, and told him a plan I had formed. It would need to be put into operation quickly, as the stumps were approaching nearer.

It was the plan of the Indians to get as near to the stockade as possible under cover of the stumps, and then to make a rush. Then the block would be turned to a shambles, for we could not cope with the overwhelming numbers that would clamber in, once all our force was engaged on one side. The only way I saw to defeat the enemy was to fire as many volleys as we could just as they charged on us, throwing them into a panic as quickly as possiblepossible, and breaking up their ranks.

I thought, as did the Captain, that we could safely draw most of the men to the south side of the stockade, leaving a few on the other sides to keep up a slow fire, so that the Indians would not see that we had discovered their ruse. Carteret agreed that this was the best to be done.

Accordingly most of the force was summoned quietly to the south face, and all the available muskets were collected, so that there was three for each man. The guns were all loaded, one being held ready to fire when the word was given, the other two being on the ground back of each defender. I had the women loaders come as near to the men as was safe, so that they could be on hand to charge the first gun as soon as it was fired, and the second one taken up. They could do the same with the second gun, and, as they were quick fingered, we would be able to fire five volleys so rapidly that I did not believe the line of Indians would be able to travel more than half way to the palisade from the place where they emerged from behind the stumps. Then having sent two more men to the little watch tower to pick off the Indians who might get to the top of the stockade I reckoned that we were all prepared.

It was a pity, I thought, that the block was not built with bastions, so that we could deliver a cross fire. But I nearly secured this effect by having the men cut the loops slanting so that the gun barrels could be pointed in to the left and right from either side.

Closer and closer came the stumps. We could see now that the twigs of green extended back beyond the logs, trailing on the ground. Beneath this green bower was the Indian. On they came slowly, like emerald serpents, with huge black heads. Of a sudden I noted that the forward movement had ceased. There were undulations of the trailing twigs.

“Make ready!” I shouted. “Here they come!”

And on they came with a rush. Whooping, yelling and screaming like so many imps of darkness, nigh a hundred of them, and each one with a gun or tomahawk. The dead stumps had come to life.

“Fire!” shouted the Captain and I in the same breath.

The volley that answered laid many of the savages low. Backward each man threw his discharged piece, to have it snatched up by the waiting women, who braved death in their own defense. Up were caught the second guns.

“Fire!” I called again.

Once more the muskets spat out death. A score of red men toppled over on their faces, their dying yells sounding high above the din. The useless guns were tossed aside, and the third musket thrust through the loops.

The bullets of the attackers rattled on the logs of the palisade as hail in winter. Several of our men were killed because the loops were so large.

The triple rain of lead had cut a wide swath in the Indians’ ranks, but they never seemed to heed, and came on as fiercely as at first. They were so near now that when the men tried to draw back the discharged guns from the loops some of the enemy seized them by the barrels and tried to pull them through the slits.

By this time the women had the first lot of muskets reloaded. It was almost our last hope.

“Fire!” I called again, drawing my sword, in anticipation of a rush of savages over the palisade.

The fourth volley pealed out. As the smoke rolled away I saw a few hideous faces, surrounded with feathers, thrust over the top of the logs. The men in the tower fired, and they dropped back.

Four more of our men fell away from the loops; three dead, the other sorely wounded. The remainder of the defenders seized the muskets they had fired the second time, which would have made the fifth round. If it went out, and did not stay the assault, then it was all over with us.

But it did.

I peered out and saw the Indians on a dead run for the forest. They had enough of the white man’s leaden medicine. And they did not stop to take their dead with them, in such great haste were they. But they could scarce have done so, had they desired, for the dead far outnumbered the living. Our volleys had mowed them down as a reaper does the ripe grain.

For a time we were safe, but at great cost, for we had lost ten men, and there was much sorrow in the block.

CHAPTER XXV.
IN THE NAME OF THE KING.

Captain Carteret and I clasped hands when we saw that the enemy had been repelled for the time. They hardly would renew the fight for a few hours, I thought, and we would have a chance to rest and get something to eat, for it was now afternoon, and we all knew that breakfast had been a long way back. So leaving a sentinel on guard at each face of the palisade, we sent the other men away. Carteret and I went to his quarters.

As the door opened I saw Simon standing in the centre of the room.

“Have you been here since the fighting began?” asked the Captain of him.

“I have,” answered Simon. “My life was not my own to lose it by a stray bullet. When my oath is fulfilled I will fight.”

“There was need of every man,” replied Carteret sternly, “oaths or no oaths. I like not cowards, even though they come with warrants from the King.”

Simon made no response.

“Now, as concerns this matter,” continued the commander, “which we had to break off when the battle began. Sir George Keith, and a braver man there never lived, was my boyhood friend, Amherst, and I am much grieved to learn that he is no more. I would have served him living, and, if I can I will do so dead. It seems, Amherst, you are interested in the affair, the nature of which is not clear to me. Let us see what is in the royal warrant,” and he drew the parchment from his pocket.

“What is it about, Simon, for I am no hand at the law.”

Thereupon Simon related the tale, as he had it from his master, I suppose, of how I had fought on the side of Duke Monmouth, and had been adjudged a traitor, but had escaped ere I could be sold to slavery. As Simon progressed I saw the Captain’s face grow grave and stern, for, it seemed, he was a great friend at court, and all his people had been against Monmouth. Therefore he had little liking for a rebel like myself, and one who was accused of treason.

“What have you to say?” asked Carteret, when Simon had finished.

“Much,” I replied, and I began to think.

Truly I seemed to be in sore straits. If there was but some way out of it with honor, most gladly would I have welcomed it. For I could not let myself be taken now, and separated from Lucille, just when I had found her again. If I was sent back to England under arrest as a traitor (though I never admitted I was one, for I had no mind to betray my own country) I might count on a long imprisonment, if not death, and I would never see my love more. Then I hoped that a plan of escape might come to me, and so, after all, foil Simon.

“The matter need not be decided now,” I said as though I had my case all prepared, but only waited convenience to try it. “There is no occasion for haste, as I promise I will not run out among the red devils howling for our scalps. Let it rest.”

“Suppose you are killed?” suggested Simon. “What then becomes of the warrant?”

“Why, you may keep it, Simon,” I said. “There is no law that will reach the dead.”

“But I am under oath to a dead man to see the warrant properly served on a live man,” expostulated the sailor, “and you are the person mentioned.”

“’Tis a serious matter,” spoke up the Captain, “and one, the like of which I never knew before. To be strictly within the law I must arrest you, though you need not hand over your sword, nor suffer imprisonment. For we need your counsel and stout arm in the defense of the block. The Indians have only tasted blood, and want more. Our stubborn defense has roused them to a pitch of fury, and they will soon be swarming about our ears again.”

“Then I am to consider myself a prisoner,” I said, as calmly as I could; for I did not like Captain Carteret’s easy compliance with Simon’s demands.

“A prisoner, if you please,” replied the Captain. “The other details may wait until the more pressing matter of the Indian attack is settled. After that we may have no need of captors or prisoners, either.”

“’Tis very likely,” I said grimly, “seeing that we have but seventy fighting men left to stand against more than seven hundred.”

But I was not as easy as I pretended about the matter of the royal warrant. I knew it would not dared be ignored by Carteret, and Simon would see to it that the Captain did not fail to execute it.

“Yes, it is necessary that you be considered under arrest,” went on the commander, “though never did a jailer serve a warrant with less liking for the task. For, mark you, Amherst, I had a liking for you as soon as you and the sweet maid came in, and the affection has grown when I see how well you can fight,” and all the while he was turning the document over and over in his hand, as if he had hold of an unpleasant object. He looked on both sides of the parchment, but made no move to open it and learn the contents. Simon was watching both of us with a pleased light in his eyes.

“Since then you are under arrest,” proceeded the Captain, “I believe it is in accord with the law that I read the warrant to you. I am not very well versed in legal lore, but, mayhap, I can make some small shift at this.”

Thereupon Carteret, assuming a dignified air, that was in strange keeping with his powder-grimed face, and his battle-torn clothing, opened the warrant. He read over the first few lines to himself, and then burst out with:

“Providence preserve us! But this is more than passing wonderful and strange! Can it be that I read aright?”

And while Simon watched him eagerly, and I with fear at what was to come, the Captain read what was written, skipping half a dozen words, every now and then.

“‘Warrant--hum--for one Captain Edward Amherst--hum--did on divers occasions--hum--practice the said detestable arts, wickedly and feloniously and traitorously, upon and against--hum--the deponents John Bly, Deliverance Hobbs and Benjamin Proctor.’ What is this? ‘Wherefore, that is to say, the said--in manner following--hum--is hereby charged with witchcraft.’

“Witchcraft!” he fairly shouted at the end. “Witchcraft? Has that vile malady come among us?”

“Witchcraft?” faltered Simon, his face white with fear.

“Witchcraft?” I cried out, wondering what would happen next.

“Witchcraft? Who talks of witchcraft?” asked a sweet voice behind us, and we turned to behold Lucille, who had come in unobserved.

“Aye, witchcraft,” replied Captain Carteret, the first to recover from the surprise. “’Tis little, madame, that you can have to do with this crime, which makes the bravest and boldest to shudder in fear. For the evil repute of it and the terror it has wrought, has spread to Elizabeth town, even from Salem.”

“Perchance I may have more to do with it than at first appears,” said Lucille. Then I happened to remember something of a certain document she had.

“Let us consider,” went on Carteret, moving a little away from me, and taking care not to look me in the eye. “Simon, you had this warrant, and when you gave it to me I supposed it was for treason against His Most Gracious Majesty, as you stated. ’Tis so endorsed on the outside. How came you by it?”

“From Sir George Keith,” answered Simon, “as he lay dying on the sands, slain----”

“Nay, not slain,” I interrupted sternly, “speak the truth. Not slain, but killed in a fair fight, though it was not my sword that dealt the fatal blow.”

“When he lay dying,” went on Simon, correcting himself, but, otherwise, not heeding me, “he called me, his bond servant, to him, and made me swear an oath that I would take the warrant, and following Captain Amherst, command the first King’s representative I met, to serve it. This I did, for Sir George obtained permission from Captain Amherst, that I might accompany him to this place.”

“Said he what the warrant was for?” asked Carteret.

“Only that it was for treason,” responded Simon. “I marked that he pulled two documents from his pocket, looked at them both, and giving me one, replaced the other in his breast. Then he died, and we buried him in the sands.”

I knew then what had occurred. Sir George had made an error. He possessed the original warrant of treason against me, and also the one for witchcraft that he had been at pains to secure in Salem. The two documents were together, and, knowing that the charge of being a witch had failed, he sought, even though he knew he would be dead, to have me apprehended on the other. But he had given the wrong warrant to Simon. So that now the only document I feared was buried with the dead. Ere this the sea had probably washed away all trace of the grave, and, mayhap, the silent occupant.

I was a free man!

Sir George had overreached himself, and set me at liberty, when he meant to send me to prison.

“Know you aught of this witchcraft?” asked the Captain of Simon, never looking at me.

“I heard somewhat of it,” was the sailor’s answer. “There was talk, when I left Salem, that Captain Amherst and others had done many grievous wrongs to innocent persons. I heard something, too, of a warrant for him, but I was not there at the time, being away on business for my lord. Doubtless Captain Amherst fled ere the warrant could be served. But ’tis strange, though,” went on Simon, “that Sir George should speak of a charge of high treason against the King, and give me only a warrant for witchcraft.”

“His mind may have played him false,” suggested Carteret. “This often occurs to those about to die.”

“Perchance,” said Simon, gloomily.

But I knew what had happened.

“No matter,” came from Carteret, “the wording of the warrant is of small consequence. Witchcraft being a crime, may well be considered treason against His Majesty, and that is what Sir George meant, I suppose. So, albeit I am little versed in the manner of apprehending spirits, yet I must do my duty, for I am the Governor now, and the representative of the King. ’Tis ill to judge a man ere he is tried, and you may prove no witch, Captain Amherst, but an honest gentleman, and a soldier. Therefore assuming that you are such, yet I want your promise, or, seeing that it savors of war now, your parole, that you will not escape.”

“Escape?” I inquired. “Escape? Where to? How?” for I was not yet ready to tell certain things.

“You must promise that you will not try to get away by any means such as witches use; the riding of broom sticks, of fence rails, or on the back of a black cat (though I do not believe we have one in the place) since I have heard all these means mentioned as being of service to witches when they wish to escape through the air.”

“I promise,” I replied, as gravely as I could.

“And also promise that you will work no harm to any in the block house by the black art,” went on Carteret. “Though it might serve, could you practice some devil’s trick on those red servants of His Majesty of the lower regions, who howl without. Say, Captain,” he continued, eagerly, and looking at me for the first time since he had read the warrant, “would it not be within your province and power to summon a horde of witches and have them torment the Indians? That would be fine. The savages would be filled with fear and trembling and the terror of death, and leave us alone.

“Could you not work some such black art as that,” he went on earnestly. “’Twould be a noble use for your powers, and might even serve to absolve you when it comes to trial. What say you?”

“Why do you speak like a child?” I answered with some anger. “Enough of this. I give the promises you want readily, because there is no need to make them. I have no more power as a witch than have you or Simon or----”

“The Lord forbid!” exclaimed Carteret, with fervor. And he shrank back as if to escape contact with me.

“Then you cannot ride a fence rail?” he asked when he had studied over the matter a while longer.

“Nay,” I said, mockingly, for I was weary of the farce.

“Nor a broom stick?”

“Nay.”

“Nor a black cat?”

“Peace! Peace!” I cried; “this is worse than to fight the Indians.”

“And you can work no magic on them, then?” persisted Carteret.

“Not so much as would cause a papoose to cry out.”

I thought the commander looked disappointed, forgetting his fear of my witch powers in his desire to see them worked on the savages.

“Well, you may consider that you are on parole,” he went on after a pause.

“And you will see, will you not, Captain Carteret, that he is sent back to Governor Phips?” asked Simon. “For that was the last wish of Sir George.”

“Tut, tut, Simon,” said Carteret, “the matter is out of your hands now, though you did your part, and kept your oath as you should. Captain Amherst is my prisoner on parole, and I will consider what further to do, when we have more time, and a greater security in which to discuss it.”

“But I have somewhat to say now, if it please you, Captain Carteret,” I broke in, at the same time stepping forward. Lucille kept near me. “It will not be much.”

“Well?”

“Since it seems that Simon has this warrant against me,” I began, “I will tell you that in Salem town, whence I came I was arrested as a witch about a month back.”

Carteret started as though to leave the room.

“Bah!” I cried, “are you afraid of that man? Why, you would have laughed had you been there to have heard the tales of witchcraft related as evidence in court.”

And then I told Carteret all that had happened, save only about the first warrant Sir George had, which was for treason, sure enough, though I did not hold it so.

“You seem to have suffered much, you and Mistress Lucille,” said the commander, when I had finished, “and your tale savors of the truth. But as I am only acting as Governor, and the representative of the King in the absence of my brother, I must move cautiously in the matter. If I did not serve the royal warrant, even though it be for witchcraft, which you say does not exist, I may be held to strict account. So though I am loath to so do I must hold you as a prisoner under the aforesaid parole.”

Lucille had been listening to all that was said. At the last words of Carteret she took a step forward, and drew from the bosom of her dress a sea-stained document, the import of which I knew. She held it out to Carteret.

“What? More warrants?” he asked, smiling a little.

“Read,” said Lucille.

He unfolded the parchment.

“‘Royal’--hum--there is a blot here,” he read, “‘royal,’ oh yes, ‘pardon,’ that is it. ‘Royal pardon given by His Excellency, Sir William Phips, Governor of Massachusetts, to one Captain Edward Amherst, of Salem town, who is accused of the crime of witchcraft.’ Why--why----”

“Aye, ‘why, why,’” mimicked Lucille. “What now of prisoners and paroles?”

Carteret stared at the pardon in his hand.

“Why, this nullifies the warrant,” he said slowly, “if it be a true pardon.”

“True?” exclaimed Lucille. “You will find it true enough. I saw it written. Read to the end.”

Captain Carteret read:

“‘Witness our hand and seal, in the name of His Majesty the King.’”

Then while we stood silent, there arose a terrible cry outside. It was followed by musket shots, and then we heard the Indian war whoop.

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST FIGHT.

“Another attack!” exclaimed Carteret. “Quick, Amherst, or they’ll be swarming about our ears. Take charge of your men again. It is our last chance!”

“And my parole?” I asked, coldly.

“Is not required. You are not on parole. You are free.”

Out dashed Carteret, tossing the pardon to Lucille.

“It will be a battle to the death,” he called back.

Simon, who looked the picture of disappointed rage, hurried from the room. I had only time to embrace and kiss Lucille, to tell her to keep up a brave heart, and then I rushed out to take my place among my men.

The din was terrific. Added to the yells of the savages, and the gun shots, were the cries of defiance from those within the stockade who had rallied to the fight, discharging their muskets as fast as they could load. So quickly had the attack of the Indians been met, due to the vigilance of the sentinels, that only a few of the red men gained the top of the palisades. These had been shot down, and the van of the storming force had been obliged to retreat, but they fired from behind rocks and trees, some of the bullets wounding our soldiers.

I reached the stockade at a point where there were none of my men, just as one savage, his scalp lock gay with feathers, gained the top of the posts, and with reckless bravery leaped down inside. No sooner had he recovered his footing than he dashed straight at me. I was so surprised at the suddenness of his appearance and action, that I stood still for a moment.

The Indian raised his arm, there was a flash of light, and his tomahawk grazed my temple, cutting the skin slightly. Then the fellow sprang at me. But my sword was out, and ere he reached me I had run him through the body. So he never threw any more tomahawks.

The attack on the fort was becoming more fierce every second. I was startled to see that the sun had gone down, and that it would be dark in a little while. This was borne upon me when I saw the ruddy reflection of a fire which the Indians had kindled in front of the block. It shone on the logs, but cast into shadow the savages who were behind it. Thus they could see whatever went on in the place, while we were blinded by the glare, and could not observe them.

Our only hope lay in keeping up a rapid fire, so that they might not get near enough to charge.charge. And this hope was bound to become futile soon. Indeed our position was most trying. I was encouraging my men all I could, firing a musket every time I saw so much as a finger of the enemy exposed, and all the while trying to devise some plan to beat off the foe when Captain Carteret sent a messenger to bid me come to him. Telling the men to be as sparing of the powder as they could, and to never leave the loops for an instant, I went to the commander.

I found him loading and firing away at a great rate. He took me to one side.

“I’ve been noticing some sort of a movement among the Indians at the rear of the place,” he said. “I fear they are up to some trick. It looks as if they were carrying brush and branches of trees about.”

“That means but one thing,” I said.

“What?”

“They are going to smoke and burn us out. Going to try us by fire as well as by bullets.”

“To the tower,” he rejoined, “we can see what they are doing from there.”

It was as I had said. Already the savages had piled up a big heap of brush within a short distance of the north wall of the palisade.

“Well,” said Carteret grimly, “I guess they mean to get at us after all.”

“It looks so,” said I.

“Have you any plan?” inquired the Captain.

“Have you?” I asked, but he made no reply.

The sight of one of our men rolling out a keg of powder, from which to distribute a supply, gave me an idea.

“How much powder have we?” I asked of Carteret.

“Three kegs,” he answered. “Two of a hundred and fifty pounds’ weight each, and one smaller.”

“It might serve,” I said, half to myself.

“What?” asked my companion.

Then I told him a plan I had. We went down from the tower.

“Bring the powder here,” I said, “the two large barrels,” and it was fetched by four men, two carrying a keg between them. At my direction they also got some strong rope. I called Carteret out of hearing of the men.

“What I am going to do has some danger in it,” I said, “and, seeing that I may not return, I charge you to care for--for Mistress Lucille, after--well--after I am dead.”

“She shall be to me as my own daughter,” he exclaimed, grasping my hand heartily.

“This is what I will do,” I said. “The Indians are so busy carrying brush now that they are giving little heed to aught else, even to each other. I believe I can go out among them under cover of the dark, escape detection, and help them at their work.”

“What serves that?”

“Much, I hope,” was my reply. “I did not tell you all of the plan before. My brush will be of good barrel staves, and within those same staves will be powder. I will hide the two barrels in the brush-heap, which I can easily do in the confusion, light the slow matches fastened to them, come back to the block--if I can--then wait for what happens.”

“What will happen?”

“If all goes as I hope,” I said, “the Indians will be gathered about the brush heap setting it on fire. Then will come my explosion.”

“Good!” exclaimed Carteret. “That ought to serve our purpose. If it only kills enough of the devils the rest will be so frightened that they will not remain long in the neighborhood of Elizabeth. But can you unaided carry those two barrels over the palisade?”

“I have done heavier things,” I answered, thinking of the Salem press.

“It is a risk,” remarked the Captain. “Once among them it will go hard with you if their lynx eyes spy you out.”

“Which is just what I do not intend them to do,” I said. “There is a dead Indian within the stockade. I will put on his feathers, adopt his style of dress, and play at being a savage.”

“’Tis somewhat foolhardy,” commented Carteret, “but you are a brave man, and we have need of such now.”

“Any man would be brave, if he fought for what I do,” was the reply.

“Then go,” responded the commander, “and may the Lord go with you.”

So I made my preparations.

It was a matter of a few minutes to strip from the dead Indian his feathered head-dress with which I managed to decorate myself so that, in the dark, I might pass for a red man. I took off my jacket and trousers, slipping on the breeches of the savage, and, when thus attired I rubbed the upper part of my body, my face and hands, with damp powder, so that my white skin might not betray me.

During this time the firing was not so brisk, either within or without, for our men were saving their powder, and the Indians were busy heaping up brush. The pile was now as large as a house, being within a few feet of the stockade. It was between us and the foe, so we had little chance to fire at them on that side of the block.

It was fairly dark now, but we saw the savages snatching up brands from the fire they had kindled in front and running with them to the large heap.

Carteret helped me make my last arrangements. I selected a place to get over the stockade, that seemed to be somewhat screened from observation. The powder kegs were tied to a rope. I scaled the logs, got on top, hauled the barrels up, and let them down on the outside. Then I scrambled down. For the first time I was a little afraid. Not so much for what might happen to me, as for those I had left behind--for Lucille. It was no small risk, too, this taking of nearly all the powder from the fort. But it seemed the best we could do.

At the foot of the stockade I fastened the kegs over my shoulders with the rope, one keg behind and the other in front. Up to this time I had been hidden by the black shadow of the stockade, but now I was to emerge into the open, when the deception I was practicing might be evident. The barrels on my back and breast bulged out like some deformity; no light load, either. I gathered up some brush, arranged it over the kegs as well as I could and stepped boldly out.

Before I had gone far, I picked up a large branch that some Indian had dropped. This served as a screen for me, as I held it over my shoulder, and stooped as I plodded on. I must have borne some resemblance to the dusky, brush-laden figures all about me, for several savages passed close by me, and gave no sign that I was not one of them.

I nearly dropped my load, when, as I was near the pile, a tall Indian, who seemed to be a chief, addressed some words to me. I recalled that there were red men from several different tribes mingled together, so I merely grunted in my throat, which sounds, I hoped, he would take for an answer in his tongue. He appeared to do so, for he passed on, leaving me alone, though in a cold sweat from the danger.

I was now in the midst of the Indians. They were all about me, hurrying to and fro, getting in each others’ way, all the while adding to the size of the pile of brush and wood. I crouched lower and lower, as I neared the common centre, seeming to stoop under the weight of my burden. The middle of the outer circle of the stack was where I wanted to put the powder, that its force might be extended over a large space. As I neared the spot I noted but one Indian near me. He had a small tree-top, which he cast on the heap. As he turned away to get more fuel, I managed to get rid of the kegs of powder. I rolled them under the edge of the brush, working quickly and in silence. The fuses, which were made of a number of slow matches fastened together, I trailed out on the ground as far as they would go.

A loud call in the Indian tongue was now given. It was taken up, being repeated from mouth to mouth, with different inflections. Soon I saw what seemed like fireflies moving about in the darkness. But they were human insects, and the lights they bore were brands to ignite the hugehuge pile of brush, which was so large that it needed to be set ablaze in many places at once.

I lighted the fuse, the flash of my tinder-box being unnoticed amid so many lights. There were no less than two hundred savages in a circle about the heap, many busy setting it on fire. From the forest all around more Indians were hastening to be ready for the rush, when the flames had burned a way for them. I saw the spark of the fuse spluttering along the ground, eating its way to the powder. It would burn for two minutes. Then I ran for the stockade. As I did so I went, full-tilt, into a half-naked savage.

He held a torch, the light of which must have showed him I was not of his people. He opened his mouth to yell an alarm, but I knocked the brand from his hand; then, while he stood still in surprise, I struck him in the face with my fist. He staggered back, but before he could recover, I was at the foot of the palisade. I heard him yell, as I grasped the rope I had left dangling, but there was so much shouting and crying out, that his was unnoticed. As I went up, hand over hand, I saw that the pile was on fire in many places.

Down I jumped inside the stockade. Carteret met me.

“What success?” he asked quickly.

“All is well so far,” I said.

“Edward!” exclaimed a voice.

I turned, to see Lucille standing behind the Captain. I caught her in my arms.

“To the block!” I cried. “The explosion will occur in half a minute.”

Lucille clung in fright to me.

“Are all the men back away from the north wall?” I called to Carteret.

“Yes,” he shouted back.

“What is it, Edward?” sobbed Lucille.

“It is life or death,” I answered, as I ran with her into the block house.

The savages were yelling in chorus, like ten thousand devils now. The flames were beginning to take hold of the dry brush, which was crackling and snapping as if hungry to get at us. Inside the little fort were huddled all that was left of the defenders, men, women and children. I set Lucille down, but kept my arm about her. The fuses should have burned to the end by this time. We could hear ourselves breathing while we waited. Carteret turned to speak to me.

The next instant there was a glare that lighted up the sky, turning the space between the palisade and the block from darkness into a noon-day brightness!

Then a crash so loud, so terrifying, so awful, that the very earth and sky seemed rent asunder as by a hundred thunderbolts. The solid ground rocked; a very cradle in the hand of a giant. A great wind blew, howling through the openings in the logs.

The sound deafened us. The blast swayed us as if a hurricane had swooped down from the sky. Men caught their breath. Women screamed. Children wailed as in fright at some unseen spirit of the night.

We heard the north wall of the stockade give a rending crack, succeeded by a mighty crash. Then it fell outward, where the pile of brush had been.

As for the block it pitched and seemed to toss--a frail ship on the billows of the earth.

To the terrible noise and glare succeeded silence and darkness as of the tomb. Slowly our sight and hearing came back.

Carteret and I staggered from the block and looked to where the north wall had been. It was not there. In its place was a chasm, so deep that it would have hidden the fort. Its sides were lined with blazing brands from the scattered brush-heap. By the light of these, and by the glimmer of the stars, we observed scores upon scores of silent dark forms in the big hole, or near it on the earth. Toward the edge of the forest we saw crouching forms hurrying off to bury themselves deeper in the woods, away from the terror behind them.

We were saved!

The savages not killed had fled away, but of all that band scarce a quarter lived to tell the tale.

A great cheer went up from the crowd within the block, when it was seen what had occurred. Men cast their muskets aside, embraced their wives and kissed their little ones.

“May the Lord bless you,” said Carteret to me, “it was you who saved us.”

“Aye! Aye! A cheer for Captain Amherst!” cried several men. They gave it, crowding about, trying to clasp me by the hand.

“It was nothing--nothing,” I protested, “any one of you would have done the same, had you the chance.”

But they would not have it so, and, at length, weary of the praise, I slipped away, to resume my own civilized dress.

The women busied themselves getting a late supper, which was eaten with thankful hearts. After it was over, Lucille made me tell her all that had taken place.

“And who carriedcarried out the powder?” she asked when I had finished.

“That was a small matter,” I said. “Having a little strength, more, perhaps, than some of the others, I did it,” was my answer.

“Were you not afraid?” she inquired.

“Only that I might not again look into your dear eyes.”

She hid them from me with her hand. I pulled the little palm away, kissing her on the lips.

So we sat talking until it was late. The block became quiet, for it was filled with weary men and sorrowful women, who needed rest. We bade each other good-night, Lucille going to the women’s apartment, while I started for Captain Carteret’s room, where I was to sleep.

As I walked along the passage, I thought I heard a footstep behind me. I turned quickly. At the far end of the corridor, where a single candle threw a fitful gleam, I saw Simon.

He appeared to be gliding along, as if afraid of being seen. He slipped in an open doorway when he saw me turn.

Was he following me? What did he want?

Carteret was not yet in. I threw myself down on a bench, meaning but to rest until the Captain arrived. But, so weary was I, that, no sooner had my head fallen back than I was asleep.

CHAPTER XXVII.
SIMON.

There seemed to be much tumult in the block when I awoke. Captain Carteret was writing at a small table, as I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

“Well, have you slept enough?” he asked.

“I could rest longer,” I said, “but it is not my habit to sleep much after the sun is first up in the morning.”

“Morning,” he laughed. “Why, man, ’tis long past noon now. I would not let them disturb you, though many were clamoring for a look at the hero of the occasion.”

“Enough,” I said. “I had much rather have a breakfast than pose as a hero, which I am not.”

“Breakfast in the afternoon?”

“Are you jesting?”

“Look at the sun,” was his reply.

I glanced from a window. It was half way down in the west. I had slept nearly eighteen hours.

“We will soon have supper,” went on the Captain. “Meanwhile I’ll let you know how matters stand.”

Scouts had been sent out, he said, and, for miles around had found no trace of Indians, save the dead ones. One wounded savage had been brought in. With what little English he had, he told how the war party had fled to the four winds. They had been given a severe lesson, he said, and one that would put an end to Indian uprisings in New Jersey for many years.

Men had been set at work burying the bodies. Others were rebuilding the stockade, and some were detailed to lay to rest our dead.

Many families, who lived near by, had gone back to their homes, to begin life where they had left off when the Indians came. Wagons laden with household goods were leaving the fort. Only a few farmhouses had been burned by the savages.

“I am writing to Governor Phips,” said Carteret, “to tell him you are here, and send him back the warrant for witchcraft, which is of no use, since he has pardoned you. That was a marvelous tale you told, of the days in Salem.”

“Do not recall them,” I begged. “They were days of sorrow and peril.”

“Lieutenant Jenkins is about to sail for Boston in a few days,” went on the Captain, “and he will take this missive to Sir William Phips. So that matter is ended.”

“What of Simon?”

“I have not seen him since that time we were all in the room together,” said Carteret, “but he is doubtless about somewhere. He will probably want to leave this place now. If you wish I will offer him passage to Boston with Master Jenkins. He can join his friends there.”

“I think I should like that,” I replied. “For, somehow, I am not at ease while he is about, particularly as Mistress Lucille is here.”

“Then he goes to Boston, friend Amherst.”

The Captain and I fell to talking of the future. Supper was served ere we had finished, and we continued over the meal. He asked me if I would not like to settle in Elizabeth.

“Or there is a little town, called Newark, on the Passaic River,” he added, “not far from here. That is a pleasant place, I am told. The Indians, I hear, are most kind and trustworthy, as they were here before this uprising, trading with the settlers in land and furs, greatly to the advantage of the town folk. You might like it there.”

“I will make no plans until I have talked with Mistress Lucille,” I replied.

“That reminds me,” exclaimed Carteret. “She sent in three times, while you were asleep, to have me let her know the instant you were awake. I forgot all about it.”

I did not stay to eat more, when I heard that. I found Lucille sitting alone in the doorway of the women’s room, looking at the men repairing the stockade.

“It seemed as if you were never coming,” she said, when I had greeted her. “Captain Carteret would not let me see you. But never mind, you are with me now,” and she blushed at her boldness.

“I wanted to talk to you, Edward, and see if you had made any plans for the future,” went on Lucille, after a pause. “Have you thought that our coming here was an accident, and that I can scarce go traveling about with you as if--as if----”

Her face crimsoned again.

“Aye, we are like strangers in a strange land,” I said bitterly, for now that the strain of battle was over, I saw the plight in which we were; myself penniless.

“I have the clothes I stand in,” I added.

“Nothing more?” asked Lucille, softly.

“My sword,” I answered, not looking up, for my mind was busy.

“No more?”

“My horse.”

“No more?”

Her voice went so strange that I looked at her. Her eyes were dim with tears.

“Forgive, me, sweetheart,” I cried, clasping her close to me. “I have you, and, with you, more than all the world.”

“You were near to forgetting your great wealth,” she said, mockingly, while she struggled to free herself. “Perchance ’tis of little value, after all.”

“Nay, sweet,” I replied. “’Tis so great that I wonder at myself for possessing it.”

“Yet you thought of your sword first.”

“Forgive me.”

“And then your horse.”

“Will you not forgive?”

“And of me last,” she persisted, trying to escape from my arms.

“It was because with them I won you,” I whispered.

“I shall be jealous of your sword.”

“No more,” I cried, drawing it from the scabbard. “’Tis a pretty piece of steel, but, if it should come between us, see----”

I raised it high in the air, my hands on either end.

“I’ll snap it in twain.”

I brought the weapon half way down, as though I would break it across my knee.

“Nay! Nay! Edward!” she exclaimed, catching my arm. “I did but jest. Put it up. There is need of a sword in this land.”

I sheathed my blade, sitting down beside Lucille.

“Seriously, now, what is to become of me?” she asked.

“Why,” I answered, as gaily as I could, “since you are mine, you must follow my poor fortunes, it would seem; that is, if you are willing to follow one who has but----”

“But his sword,” she broke in, smiling at me.

“Nay, I had not finished. But his love, his sword, his horse, and the clothes on his back.”

“Except for my love, I am even poorer than that,” confessed Lucille, “unless I could go back to Salem, and that I will not. There was some little money that my father left, but it was nearly spent. I have no sword, no horse, and only this poor sea-stained dress.”

“Yet in it I would rather have you than the most richly robed lady in all the world,” I cried.

“Come,” I went on, “we are betrothed,” and I took her by the hand. “Let us go to the good dominie here, ask him to join us in wedlock, then we may seek our fortune as man and wife.”

“What? Wed in this frock?” Lucille looked at it as if it was all rags, but indeed it was a pretty dress.

“What matters the gown?” I asked.

“Why, I would be the laughing stock of the Colony if I plighted my troth in this,” responded Lucille. “We must wait until I can get some new garments.”

“From where?”

Then we both laughed, for, between us we had not so much as a shilling, I having spent my last on my journey. The laugh did us good, and we felt brighter after it.

While we were talking Captain Carteret passed. He was not going to stop, but I called to him.

“What now?” he asked.

“We were talking of the future, Lucille and I. We are betrothed, as you know, Carteret, and I have just urged her to come with me to the dominie’s.”

“Surely,” he exclaimed. “That would be fine. We could trim up the block house, and have a regular wedding feast. Mistress Carteret would be glad to help, for there has been very little merrymaking, of late, and a wedding would be the very thing to take the gloom away. When can it be? Next week, or the week after.”

“Next week!” cried Lucille, with such an accent of horror in her voice that Carteret and I had to laugh.

“Why, you see, Captain,” I went on, never heeding Lucille’s sly punches in my ribs, “she says she has no clothes; a woman’s ever ready excuse. Her gowns were left behind in Salem town. She will not be wed in the garments which were drenched by the sea. So, I fear, we must wait until I can raise a few pounds, and then----”

But Lucille, with a reproachful glance at me, ran away, leaving the Captain and I alone.

“I marvel at you,” said Carteret.

“Why?”

“Talking of raising a few pounds. There is not a man in the Colony, myself included, who would not be glad to give you----”

I stopped him with a look.

“Tut, tut, man, do not go off half-cocked, I was not going to offer you charity. But if I can put you in the way to get a position that pays----”

“My everlasting thanks are yours,” I interrupted.

“I am about to resign the command of the forces here,” Carteret went on, “for my brother, the Governor, has some plans afoot, and needs my aid elsewhere. I have talked with the men, and they all agree that, after I left, they would have no other captain than yourself. The pay is not large, for the Colony is young yet, but you and Mistress Lucille could live in such comfort as there is here, on it. What say you? Will you take it?”

I could not answer at first. It seemed almost too good to be true. After all our troubles to find a haven at last, and one that promised so much.

“Carteret,” I began, brokenly, “I cannot thank you enough. I----” but there was something in my voice that would not let me go on.

“Then do not try,” he said, cheerfully. “I know how you feel. I will carry your answer to the men. They are waiting for it. The sooner I turn the command of the Colony over to you, the quicker I can get away. Is it yes or no?”

“Yes, with all my heart,” I said, giving him my hand, and there was a lump as big as an egg in my throat.

Carteret turned away, while I hastened to find Lucille and tell her the good news. She could have her wedding gown now, I told myself.

She was not in the room with the other women. It was getting dusk, and I hastened through many apartments in search of her. Once or twice I called her name, but there was no answer. I went out of the block. Near the door I confronted Simon. His face was so pale that I was startled.

“What is the matter, man? Are you ill?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, huskily. “I am not sick. I was thinking of Sir George. I am without a master now.”

“I hear you are to leave us, Simon,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, “Captain Carteret has been kind enough to get me passage to Boston. Thence I can sail for England, to Sir George’s kinfolk.”

“Well, a pleasant voyage,” I called, as I was about to pass on.

“Wait,” he said, thickly.

I turned around.

“Captain Amherst,” he began, “you have much reason to hate me.”

“Oh, that is past and gone,” I responded, as heartily as I could, for I did not like the man, and indeed, though he only acted for another, he was a bitter foe.

“Perhaps I should not have done what I did,” he went on, “but Sir George swore me to an oath.”

“’Tis past,” I said. “You only served your master.”

“Then you forgive me?”

“Aye, surely,” I murmured, impatient to be away and find Lucille.

Simon came toward me, holding out his hand. I marked that it was his left, but I was too hurried to give it a thought, so I clasped it firmly.

His fingers closed over mine with the grip of a vise. He pulled me near him. His right hand shot out from his jacket, beneath which it was hidden. In it I caught the glitter of a knife. I saw him raise it above my head.

There was no time for me to draw my sword. I threw up my left arm to protect my head. Simon’s hand came down.

There was a pain in my arm, as if a hot iron had seared me. Then I felt it, ten times as hot, in my side. My ears rang with the roar of waters; my eyes saw only blackness.

I felt a warm gush of blood; I heard a confused murmur, a woman’s shrill scream--Lucille’s voice. Then Simon leaned over me, as I was falling--falling--falling--down into some bottomless pit.

“Traitor and murderer!” he cried. “I have kept my oath!”

It was night.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE END OF CAPTAIN AMHERST.

For weeks and weeks, it seemed to me, I was living over again the scenes through which I had passed in later years. Now I was charging at the battle of Sedgemoor, then before Judge Jeffreys, with my comrades. Next came wanderings, fightings, travelings. In my delirium I went through the witch press once more, with many a struggle to escape. I fought the French and Indians; I swam in the sea to save Lucille. I went down in great caverns of the ocean to bring her back to me, and saw her lying amid rainbow colored shells, tangled weeds weaving their long green sinuous lengths into her hair.

I fought the duel with Sir George, feeling his steelsteel pierce my side like a big knife which was turned ’round and ’round. Horrible red Indians, with fierce painted faces came to torment me, though I fought them off time after time. I heard over again the explosion of the powder kegs; felt the mighty wind swoop down; was rocked to and fro by the blast.

I listened to my voice shouting out, only it did not sound like me, but as some one else afar off. At intervals I went floating through the air, a very bird on wings. Then I looked back to see a body that looked like mine lying on a bed. And the features were changed; the frame that had been robust was like a boy’s.

Then gradually all these things passed away, so that there was nothing but darkness and daylight; daylight and darkness. Ever through it all, a dear dim ghost of one I loved came and went--a woman. When she was near, whether it was day or night, I was at ease; her cool hand chilled the fever that burned in my brain. When she was gone it was dark, though it was day.

Out of all this peace came at length.

One day I opened my eyes seeing aright.

I was in a room which the sun entered to make bright and cheerful. The beams overhead reflected back the light, a fire on the hearth threw out a genial warmth, the kettle on the hob hummed and hissed, a great mother cat, by the chimney place, purred in contentment.

There was a movement in the room. A woman stood over me looking down. I seemed to know, rather than see, that she was the woman of my dreams--Lucille.

I glanced up at her. Her face was alight with love and tenderness. I tried to speak--to rise--but the strength, of which I used to boast, had left me. I could only murmur her name.

“Dear heart,” she whispered. “Thank God, you know me. Oh, Edward, it was so long--oh! so long--that I stood by you, only to hear you fighting all your battles over again, with never a sign to show that you knew I was near. Oh, I am so glad!”

Then, woman like, she burst into tears, which she tried in vain to check.

“My, my! What’s this?” called a cheery voice. “Come, Mistress Lucille, have you no better caution than to weep in here. Fie upon you. All hope is not gone yet.”

A woman in a gray dress with a spotless apron over it, bustled to my bed.

“I am not crying, Madame Carteret,” said Lucille with indignation in her tone.

“’Tis much like it,” said the other.

“Well, then, if I am, it is for joy. Edward--I mean Captain Amherst--is sensible again. He tried to speak my name, for he knew me when I turned his pillow.”

“Is it possible?”

Madame Carteret, wife of the Captain, in whose house I was, came over to look down on me. I smiled; it was all I could do, but that was as good to me as a hearty laugh, since I had come back from the land of terrible dreams. The Captain’s wife bustled away. Lucille, drying her eyes, smiling through her tears, came to stand near me.

“What has happened?” I whispered, but she prevented any more questions by placing her fingers on my lips. I kissed the rosy tips, whereat she drew them quickly away. Then I repeated what I had said.

“Hush,” she replied. “You are not to talk. The doctor says you are too weak.”

Indeed I was, as I found when I tried to rise, for I fell back like a babe. Just then Madame Carteret came back with some broth in a bowl. It tasted so well that I disposed of all of it. She laughed as one well pleased.

The last drop gone I sighed from very comfort. Lucille, taking pity on the anxious look of inquiry I turned on her, related all that had transpired.

“I was coming through the corridor in the dark,” she said, “and I saw Simon strike at you. Oh I was so frightened! I screamed when his knife glittered. He started, moving his hand just a trifle as he heard me. Perchance that saved your life, for Doctor Graydon, who has been in long attendance on you, said that had the point gone an inch higher it would have touched the heart, and that would have been an end of Captain Amherst.”

I looked the love and devotion at Lucille I could not express in actions.

“Even at that,” she went on, “there was a grievous wound in your arm and one in your side. For six weeks you have been in that bed, knowing none of us, and at times so far away from us, that we feared to see you travel off altogether.”

“But I came back to you,” I said softly.

“Yes, dear; but you must not talk now. I will tell you the rest.

“After he had stabbed you Simon dropped his knife and fled. I ran to you, but you were as one dead. Captain Carteret and some of the men carried you into the house. We have nursed you ever since, Madame Carteret and I.”

I looked at Lucille’s face, noting that she had grown thin and pale, but yet more beautiful. I pressed her hand to my lips.

“Simon did not escape,” she went on after a pause. “Not long afterward his body was found in the woods, an Indian arrow through his heart. So now, dear, horrible as it all was, our enemies are gone. We have only ourselves left.”

Then while the shadows began to lengthen, the day to die, I fell asleep again. Not as before, disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but as a tired child. When I awoke in the morning I felt like a new man. The blood of health flowed through my veins; I felt the strength coming back to me. Lucille entered; a streak of sunshine. She smiled at me. I had propped myself up in bed, and that sign that I was on the mend seemed to give her pleasure.

“We must have Master Graydon in to see the improvement,” she said. “He will doubtless change the physic, giving you some herbs that will put you quickly on the way to recovery.”

“I pray so,” I answered, “for I am full sick of staying here like a woman.”

“Are you then so ready to leave us?”

“Only that I may make ready to stay with you forever,” at which Lucille blushed prettily.

We talked, or rather Lucille did, and I listened, of many things. She told how she had heard I was to be in command of the military force of Elizabeth; that I was already considered the Captain. Every day since I had been wounded some of the men had called to see how I was. As for Captain Carteret, he had gone to London on business, and would not return to the Colony until spring.

Matters were progressing well in the town. The Indians had buried the hatchet, having had enough of fighting, and were at peace with the settlers. The crops, too, though suffering somewhat from the depredations of the red men, were plenty, so fertile was the land. The store-houses and barns were better filled than any year since the Colony had been in existence, and winter, which was already at hand, would find the village in good shape.

The repairs to the block house had been finished, the few houses in the town that had been burned by the Indians were being rebuilt. A band of settlers had come from Pennsylvania, so that we now numbered some two hundred men, and nearly half as many women.

It was late in November, the leaves were all off the trees, there had been little flurries of snow, the winds were mournful, and on every side one could see that winter was fairly come. I had been able to leave my bed. One afternoon, when the sun was setting behind a bank of gray clouds that promised a storm Lucille and I stood at the west window looking out.

“It is going to snow,” said she, mournfully.

“I love the white flakes,” I said cheerfully.

“They are so cold, so cheerless, so dead, so cruel to the flowers and birds. Why do you love them?”

“Because they dance down so merrily. Because they cover up the dull brown earth from us until it blossoms out again. Because,” and I took her hand, “it was through a snow storm that I went to find my love.”

“Poor reason, Edward.”

“The best of reasons, sweetheart.”

Days came and went, bringing me back health and strength. Slowly I walked about the house until I came to venturing out into the snow when the weather was fine. I became acquainted with the towns-folk, a thing I had not had time to do before. To while away the hours, some of the men who had fought with me in the block would come in. Then, sitting beside the blazing logs on the hearth, we would fight the battle all over again.

Lucille was ever near me, her sweet face always in view, when I looked up, smiling with the love in her eyes.

The winter snows melted. Green grass and shrubs began to peep up through the warm earth. The buds on the trees swelled with the sap, bears crawled from hollow logs, the birds flew northward.

The songsters of early spring flitted about the house as I sat in front one day watching them gather material for their nests. It reminded me that I had better see to providing a nest for my song bird. Lucille sat near me. I had not spoken for a space.

“Are you watching the birds?” she asked.

“Aye. Thinking that I might well be about their trade.”

Lucille did not answer.

“Sweetheart,” I said softly, “’tis little time we have had for love since I found you the second time, and I would know whether you are of the same mind that you were. For I love you now; I will love you always, I love you more and more every day. Tell me: Do you love me yet? Has the time brought no change?”

How anxiously did I wait for the answer. Now that I was broken in strength, with not the prospect of attaining distinction in arms that I once had, sick, enfeebled in body, but not in spirit, could I hope that she still loved me?

“Tell me,” I whispered softly, “has time wrought no change, Lucille?”

She let the lids fall over her eyes, then with a little tremor, she looked into my face. Sweetly as the murmur of a south wind in the trees she said:

“Time has wrought no change.” A pause. “I love you, with all my heart.”

Then, ere she could answer more, I had her in my arms, from which she struggled to be free, at first, but, when she found I held her close, she was quiet. I kissed her on the mouth.

“Don’t, Edward,” she cried in sudden terror, “some one is coming.”

I resumed my seat on the bench.

“I have something to tell you,” I said, after a little. “You must not call me Edward.”

“Oh, then,” with a mock air of admiration, “Captain Amherst, Your Excellency, I pray your pardon.”

“Nor yet Captain Amherst,” I went on, smiling.

“What then, may it please you, sir?”

“That is it.”

“What?”

“Sir.”

“Sir who or what?”

“Sir Francis Dane,” I replied, with as grand a manner as I could assume, having a deep cut in my side.

For a moment Lucille glanced at me, then I saw that she feared my mind was wandering again.

“Come into the house,” she said, soothingly, “’tis too chilling out here. Come in, and Master Graydon shall prescribe for you. Come, Edward.”

“Not Edward.”

“Well, then, Sir Francis Dane,” spoken as one might to a peevish child. “The strain has been too much for you, Ed--Sir Francis. Go and lie down, until you are recovered.”

I burst into a laugh, whereat Lucille seemed all the more frightened. I could not cease from laughing as I looked at her.

She took me gently by the arm, and tried to lead me in, but I stooped over, kissing her.

“Do not be frightened, sweet,” I said. “I am not wandering in my mind. I have a secret to tell you.”

“Will it frighten me?”

“I hope not.”

Then I told her of the cause for my coming to America, because I wished to escape those who would imprison me for having fought on the side of the defeated King Monmouth. I was Sir Francis Dane, I said, but had taken the name of Captain Edward Amherst, as a measure of safety. When I had made an end I smiled down on her.

“Then it is good bye to Captain Amherst,” she remarked.

“Aye, ’tis the end of him,” I said.

“I am not sure but that I liked him better than I will Sir Francis Dane,” went on Lucille. “For the latter is much of a stranger to me.”

“Will you have to begin to love over again?” I asked.

“Nay,” was her only reply, in a low voice.

“Sir Francis, Sir Francis,” she continued, after a moment’s pause. “Hum, ’tis a rather nice name.” Then she seemed to be thinking.

“Why,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “it is a titled name, is it not? You must be a person of distinction over in England.”

“I was,” I replied, dryly. Sedgemoor had taken all the distinction from me, depriving me of lands and title.

“Hum, Sir Francis Dane. I wonder if he will care for plain Lucille de Guilfort,” with a playful air of sadness.

My answer was a kiss.

“I love you, Lucille,” I said fervently, when she had escaped from me.

“Well,” she remarked, plaintively, “I loved you as plain Captain Amherst, perforce I must do so, since you are now Sir Francis Dane, accustomed to being obeyed, I presume.”

“To the letter,” I answered, sternly.

“Now that is over,” I went on, “when are we to wed?”

“Not too soon. Wait until spring.”

“That will be in March.”

“Oh! ’Tis too early. There is much to be done. Linen to make up, dresses to fashion and, indeed, if it were not for the kindness of Madame Carteret I would have no gown now, but the sorry garment you found me in.”

“That is more precious to me than cloth of gold would be,” I replied. “The flutter of it, as the Eagle headed for shore, seemed to tell me you were there. But, since March is too early, it must be the next month,” I said, firmly.

“Let it be so,” she responded, with a little sigh. “In April then; the month of tears and sunshine.”

“Let us hope that ours will all be sunshine,” I suggested.

“We have had enough of tears to make it so,” was her reply, as she smiled brightly.

That matter being settled we had much more to talk of, the day and many succeeding ones, seeming all too short for us. I was recovering slowly, and was able to be all about. I took an active charge of the military matters of the town, for my wound was healing, and I hoped in a short time that I would be nearly as strong as I was before. I took up my abode with the innkeeper, for Lucille said it was not seemly that we should dwell under the same roof longer. She, however, remained with Madame Carteret, weaving and spinning in preparation for the spring.

It was close to the first of April when news came one day that there was a ship down the bay, and that Captain Carteret had returned on her. This was a glad message for me, and I prepared to take a few of the men, marching down to meet him.

CHAPTER XXIX.
AN ORDER FROM THE KING.

I was half way on the road to the block house, to see if I could muster up a guard, with which to go down and meet the Captain, when I spied him coming along at a quick pace.

“Well-a-day,” he cried, when he had caught sight of me. “This is quite a change, since I last saw you. Come, man, your hand.

“Why,” he exclaimed, when I had gripped his palm, “you have some of your strength back again, I see--and feel.”

“A little,” I replied, as I grasped his other hand, in heartiness to have him back once more.

There were tears in my eyes. I did not try to hide them, for Carteret had been more than a brother to me; his good wife a very mother to Lucille. I think he felt my gratitude, for he did not speak, only returning my hand pressure.

“Well,” he said again, after a little pause, while we walked on together toward his house, “this is better than being cooped up in the block, with those devils howling on the outside. Though,” he added, with a laugh, “we soon made them change their tune.”

He asked me how long I had suffered from the attack of Simon, and what had become of the sailor. I told him what I had heard.

“I did not like to leave you,” he said, “but the call for me was urgent. I thought I left you in safe hands, when Mistress Lucille took charge of the nursing.”

“You did, indeed,” I replied.

“How is she; and how progresses your courtship?”

“Very well, to both questions. Since your kindness in turning this command over to me I have been assured of a livelihood; quiet, perhaps, compared to what I hoped for, but a sure one. ’Tis a place befitting a man who is about to take unto himself a wife.”

“Then you are soon to wed?”

“Within a fortnight. Lucille is busy now, preparing what she is pleased to term her linen. As for me I have little to get. I trust that from my wage here I can fit up some small house that will do for a time. I had hopes of taking her to a place befitting her station, to a fine home. But poverty is a hard taskmaster.”

“Yet he drives light when love holds the reins.”

“True,” I assented. “We shall not fare so badly, I hope.”

“Then Mistress Lucille is prepared to face poverty with you?”

“She is,” I said, “and seems happy in the prospect.”

The Captain was laughing now. I looked at him to find the cause, but was at a loss.

“You know I have been to London?” he inquired, after his merriment had spent itself.

“Aye, so I heard.”

“And to Colchester also.”

“Nay; were you?” I asked, suddenly. That had been the home of the Danes for centuries.

“To Colchester?”

“Aye. And while there I heard somewhat of you.”

“’Twas likely,” I answered, “seeing that my father, Sir Edward Dane, owned quite an estate there.”

“It is of that same estate I would speak,” went on Carteret. “I found out more of your story than you had time to tell me hurriedly ere I sailed. Your offense against the crown had been nearly forgotten at court. Learning which, while I was in London, I set certain influences to work. I am not without friends in the King’s circles, and, between us we began planning to get back what of your father’s wealth we could, that you might enjoy it.

“First, and it was a matter of no little difficulty, we had you granted a full and free pardon for all acts of treason of whatever nature. To bring this about after the way had been paved, I sought an audience with His Majesty. I have a little gift of eloquence, so I described to the King how you blew the heathen into the air. He listened to me more kindly after that. Being fond of fighting he made me tell him the whole circumstance, which I flatter myself I did with some credit to you. When I had finished the King clapped his hand down on his thigh, bursting out with:

“‘By my sword, Carteret, but I could hardly have planned or executed it better myself,’ which you may take as a fine compliment, for His Majesty thinks himself a great soldier.”

“’Twas as much your credit as mine,” I said to the Captain.

“Well, never mind that. The King inquired all about you, also of Sir George Keith, whose acts I in no way glossed over, though he was my friend. His Majesty cut me short with: ‘Enough, enough, Carteret.’ Calling for a quill and ink horn, he had signed a pardon ere I knew what he was about. There it is,” exclaimed Carteret, thrusting a legal looking paper, covered with red seals, into my hand. I took it, hardly able to speak a word.

“Once that was done I breathed easier,” continued the Captain. “But His Majesty did not stop there. He called his secretary, who told the King, in answer to a question, that your father’s lands had been confiscated to the crown.

“‘It is needful that we recompense your bold soldier somewhat,’ said His Majesty to me, when he had whispered for a time with his officers. ‘I have signed an order on my treasurer for ten thousand pounds, which you will convey to Sir Francis Dane, with my best wishes.’

“I must have shown some surprise when His Majesty gave you the ‘sir,’ for he said:

“‘I have restored his title to him, Carteret. As for his estates, it is not likely that he would come back to claim them now, so I have given you, for him, what they are considered by my treasurer to be worth--ten thousand pounds. If, when you reach America, you find that he desires more----’

“‘Oh, ’tis enough, Your Majesty,’ I said quickly, lest he might change his mind.

“Then I bowed myself out, after thanking him most warmly in my name and your own.

“I lost little time in hastening to the treasury in the palace where the King’s order was honored. I soon transacted what business I had in London, set sail again, and, after a pleasant voyage, here I am. As for the money, it is safe in my strong box at home. I stopped there ere I went in search of you. Mistress Lucille told me where you had started for.

“Now, is not that good news?”

I was beyond speaking, though I tried to thank him. I could only hold out my hand.

“I’ll not grasp it until you promise to remember that it is a hand and not a sword hilt,” said the Captain, so earnestly, that I laughed ere I assured him that I would not grip him as hard as I did at first.

Joy lent me such speed as we walked to the house, where I knew I would find Lucille, that Carteret called on me several times to halt, and to walk more slowly.

“When you get as old as I am,” he said, “you will be glad to travel less speedily.”

“Not with such good news as I carry,” was my answer.

“I found him,” cried the Captain, as we entered the room where Lucille and Madame Carteret were seated.

He went out for a minute. When he returned he had in each hand a stout sack. It was the money, some of it in gold, that clinked right merrily. Carteret came over, holding out the bags to me.

I took one, laid it at Lucille’s feet, saying, as I smiled at her:

“With all my worldlyworldly goods I thee endow.”

The other sack I held out to Carteret.

“It is yours,” I said, “according to all the laws of arms. Take it.”

“Law or no law, I’ll have none of it,” he answered gruffly, I believe, to hide his feelings. “Begone with it. Place it with the other beside Mistress Lucille. Why,” he went on, “I have enough now to do the good wife and myself as long as we live, and there’s not a soul I care to leave any wealth to. Put it with the other. You will find a use for all of it--when you are wed.”

I was forced to obey him, though I felt that he should have had a half share of what he got for me, but all my argument was in vain.

Lucille and I were left alone in the room. She looked down on the sacks of gold, then up at me.

“So you are Sir Francis, after all?” she asked.

“It seems so,” was my reply. “How do you like the name?”

“It has a wholesome sound,” she answered, repeating it over and over again. “But Edward was not so poor a one. It did much for me.”

“So will Sir Francis, sweetheart,” I said.

“However, since the King has given it back to you, I suppose you will keep it?”

“I will, indeed. It is a proud name, and many brave men and fair women have been known by it.”

It was getting late when we ceased talking, though we had said scarce half of what was in our minds.

A week passed. There were but seven days more ere we would be wed. The block house had been fixed on as the place where the brief ceremony might fittingly be held. We had decided to make it a merry gathering, where all who would, might come and be happy.

The weather was now that of a mild early spring. The tender green of the trees and shrubs, made the land a mass of verdure. Gardens were being made, farms plowed, sheep let out to pasture, and the colonists all around were busy. The town was prospering under the hand of Providence. All that remained to bring to mind the late Indian uprising were the ruins of a burned dwelling here and there. Back on the hillside was a sadder recollection; a few rough stones to mark the graves of those who had fallen in the great battle. To me there remained the scars on my arm and side, where Simon’s knife had entered, and the furrow of a bullet across one cheek.

I would that some other pen could set down what is to follow. For, though I can tell poorly enough, perhaps, concerning battles, sieges and fighting, with which I am somewhat familiar, it is hard to tell of scenes of baking, stewing, cooking and sewing, which now seemed to centre about me. Verily it appeared, that last week, as if I might as well bid my sword farewell, to take up a bodkin or a ladle in its place, so little use did I seem to have for the weapon.

Every time I went to Captain Carteret’s house, to have a few minutes with Lucille, I found her busy with either a stew-pan or a needle. From a maid, that had been wont to pay some small heed to what I said, she had come, almost, to hold me in as little importance as any man in the Colony. She would leave me in a moment, no matter what we were talking of, if Madame Carteret, or one of the women, called her.

What I did say she either heard not, or forgot as speedily as I had spoken.

Such bustling about as there was in the kitchen. I made bold to poke myself in, once, but quickly drew out again. For in that short space I nearly received a blow, accidental though it was, with a wooden pestle on one side of my head, while another woman was within an ace of dousing me with a jar of molasses she carried.

It seemed that Lucille’s wedding (I dared not call it mine) was the first one in the Colony in a number of years, and the women folk were so distracted by the thoughts of it, that they were at their wits’ end. They made plans by the dozens, as they did cakes, only to unmake them ere night. Indeed, next to myself, whom nobody consulted, Lucille had as little to say as if she was but to be an onlooker. I was hard put, at times, when I was ordered around like a school boy by the women. But Lucille, who had more of it than I did, took it with good grace, just as if she had been used to it all her life.

While the women were thus making ready the kitchen and gown part of the affair, the men, who were pleased to call me Captain, had taken such command of the block house, that I was hardly welcome there. The main room I was by no means allowed to enter. It was the largest in the place, and the door was kept carefully barred to me. There was much coming and going, bringing in of evergreen boughs, foliage, and small branches of trees, covered with bright red berries.

Several friendly Indians were seen about the town, bearing bundles, that I could note, by an occasional glimpse, contained goods of their workmanship. Stag horns polished until they glistened in the sun, soft tanned skins of the deer, furry hides of the bear and wild-cat, all these were carried into the block, and hidden in the room that was closed to me.

So busy was every one but myself that I wandered about the settlement, like a man without friends. I had a few matters to look after, though.

With my wealth, so strangely restored to me, I purchased a roomy and comfortable house, the best in the town, save Carteret’s, which one of the settlers was anxious to sell. There was a cunning cabinet maker and carpenter in the village, and I had them alter the dwelling to suit my ideas. I sent privately to New York for some furnishings, hired a man and maid servant, and the place began to look like a home, only lacking a mistress. I laid out a good-sized garden, had the farm plowed and sowed, and supplied with horses and cows, so that there was a promise of plenty to eat and drink. On the day before the one set for the ceremony, I sat down, tired but happy, to spend the last few hours of my life as a lone man. I was glad that the time was so short.

CHAPTER XXX.

LOVE, HONOR AND OBEY.

It was the 26th day of April. The air smelled of balmy spring, a warm sun was overhead, a gentle breeze stirred the leaves amid which the birds sang, and the whole earth seemed a happy place. I jumped out of bed to look over the new suit, which I had, after much time and thought, managed to get together. It was of dark plum-colored stuff, soft to the touch, and became me as well as any coat and breeches I ever had. I laid out a new pair of boots, the pliable leather black and shiny, spread out my cloak on the bed, and was ready to dress for the wedding. I strapped my sword on, feeling that I was now in proper trim for the occasion. The weapon was the same good one which had stood me in such stead all along. It had received many a hard knock, the scabbard was not as free from dents as when I had it from the maker, it was rather rusty, too, I thought, the blade being stained here and there.

I sent to the innkeeper for some rags and rotten stone, that I might polish the steel up. Master Aleworthy appeared himself with the stuff. When he saw my fine looks (for I do myself that credit) he would not let me burnish up the weapon, but insisted on doing it for me. A very proper attempt he made of it, too, for, when he had finished it shone like a new shilling.

“Now for breakfast,” he said.

“Not for me,” I replied, “there will be plenty of fodder when this affair is over.”

“But, Sir Francis, ’twill be a long time to then.”

“Short enough,” was my answer.

I strode out across the fields to the Captain’s house, hoping I might get a glimpse of Lucille. But if she had been hard to see a week ago, she was ten times more so now. At every door I tried I was bidden to take myself off, and call again. Finally, being somewhat vexed, I called to one saucy hussy:

“Know, madame, that I am to wed to-day. That I am the groom.”

“Aye, I know it,” she responded, as cool as you please. “You will be sent for when you are wanted.”

With that I had to be content, kicking my heels up and down the garden path. Noon was the time. It wanted two hours yet.

It seemed a month that I was in the garden. At last some one beckoned to me, and I was admitted in to see Lucille.

I would have gone up, before them all, to kiss her heartily, but she held me off with her little hands, while a chorus of protests from all the women told me I must respect the manner in which she was adorned. Indeed, she made a handsome appearance. The dress was of soft, gray-white, shimmering silk, with pieces of lace as long as my gun barrel all about it, hung on after the manner of the clinging vine that twines about a tree. The sleeves had it in, I think, also, the neck, while there was a plenty trailing down the front and lower edge. She wore a crown of glossy green leaves, a single white flower in her dark hair.

The plan was for the party to go to the block house in carts, half a score of which, festooned with evergreens, were in waiting. Instead of letting Lucille and me go on together, which seemed to me to be the most sensible way, she rode with James Blithly, a great booby of a chap, while I had to sit in the cart with Mistress Alice Turner, a sweet enough maid. She was talkative, and I was not so, on the way, I had to keep answering “yes” and “no” to her questions.

It looked as though all the Colony and the folk from ten miles around had come to the wedding. There were nearly three hundred people in view when we neared the place where Dominie Worthington was awaiting us. There were a number of Indians and their squaws, friendly, all of them, who had gathered to see how the pale faces took their brides. They laughed, smiled and greeted me with “How, Cap’n,” while some held out their pipes, which, as was their custom, I puffed a few whiffs from, to show that we were at peace, though indeed, the ceremony lacked much of the solemnity usually associated with it.

The block house at last. The drum beat as Carteret, in my honor, drew the men up in double file. Lucille and I, with those who were to attend us, dismounted from the carts, marching between the lines of soldier-colonists into the main room. Then I was allowed to move up beside Lucille, while both of us looked about in wonder.

Never had such a bower for the plighting of love been constructed before. The rough hewn walls had been covered with green boughs, red berries gleaming amidst the foliage. On the floor the boards were hidden from view by furs in such quantity that they overlapped. The stag antlers, fastened here and there, served as hooks, whereon were suspended bows, arrows, swords, guns, powder-horns, Indian shields, curious stone hatchets, and many of the red-men’s household implements. Gay colored baskets added to the color of the scene.

A little wooden altar had been made, but it was almost hidden from view by trailing, green vines. The men-at-arms filed in, taking their places on either side of the chamber. Then came the town-folk, and the friendly Indians, squaws, and even settlers from Newark, so that the place was well nigh filled.

Dominie Worthington took his place. Lucille and I stood together, with Alice Turner and James Blithly on either side. Then, ere he began to say the words that would unite us, Master Worthington lifted up his voice in prayer.

Then came the promises, the pledges--“Love, Honor and obey”--“till death do you part”--solemn yet sweet. “Whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”

We were man and wife.

Then indeed came happy confusion and laughter. We were overwhelmed, Lucille and I. But Carteret charged down on us, in the nick of time, to rescue us from the friendly enemy that swarmed about us. How quick was the journey back to the Captain’s house, and what a feast was there spread out for all who wished to come.

So often was the health of Lucille and myself proposed and drunk, that I lost track of those who did me the honor to touch glasses. There was gay laughter, songs and talk, merrymaking among the young people, and over all good-fellowship and much cheer, with Lucille happiest of the women, and I of the men. It grew night, but hundreds of candles chased the gloom away.

So it had come about, after many days, with force and with arms I had won my bride.

We were to go to the home I had prepared. Lucille kissed Madame Carteret and others of her women friends, while I had my own cart and horses brought up to the door.

There were farewells by the score, laughter and tears from the women, cheers from the men. The driver spoke to his team, they leaped forward. Lucille and I had begun our life’s journey together.

It was not far to the house. The door was opened on a blaze of candles.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her.

“Oh, Francis,” she exclaimed, looking about. “It is perfect. How good of you to do all this for me.”

“Do you like it?”

“It is more than I dreamed.”

A little wind, coming in the windows, flickered the candles. The breeze seemed to sigh in contentment at our happiness. The servants closed the door. We were alone--my wife and I.

THE END.

“More Ex=Tank Tales”

By CLARENCE LOUIS CULLEN.

With Introduction by the Author.

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Some readers will wonder what is meant by “More Ex-Tank Tales.” In explanation would say that the stories compiled in the book under the above title appeared in the New York Sun from time to time, and they have achieved well-merited notoriety. They are sketches about men who have indulged in spirituous liquors to such an extent as to cause their comrades to term them “tanks.” Having overcome the desire for intoxicating beverages (reformed in fact), they take great pleasure, and give the same to the reader, in recounting some of their adventures. Following is the Table of Contents:

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TALE THE SECOND.--In Which Ex-Tank No. 17 Meeteth Up With ye Renowned Singer and Yodler, “Fritz” Emmet, and the Consequences.

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TALE THE NINTH.--Wherein Ex-Tank (Hoodoo) No. 13 Hath a Good Word to Say of ye Slumbersome Burg, Philadelphia-by-Schuylkill.

TALE THE TENTH--In Which Ex-Tank No. 22 Narrowly Escapeth the Dangers of ye Vasty Deep.

TALE THE ELEVENTH.--Wherein Ex-Tank No. 14, by Means of ye Raffling Stunt, Returneth to His Home Like Santa Claus.

TALE THE TWELFTH.--Wherein Ex-Tank No. 12 Starts on a Journey from Denver to Manhattan Beach.

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The rushing life of the tale is as resistless as a force of nature.--San Francisco Call.

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When Shiloh Came,
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Transcriber’s Note

On p. 212, the printer transposed the third and fourth lines of the paragraph beginning: “So we stood thus....”

As printed:

So we stood thus, perchance while a man might have counted a score slowly. Around us was the waste of [to go to pieces every second. Between us, as pale as death,] [waters. Under our feet the quivering Eagle, that was like] was Lucille, the cause of both of us being there. Perhaps she was dead, and our bitter words were spoken in vain.

Corrected:

So we stood thus, perchance while a man might have counted a score slowly. Around us was the waste of [waters. Under our feet the quivering Eagle, that was like] [to go to pieces every second. Between us, as pale as death,] was Lucille, the cause of both of us being there. Perhaps she was dead, and our bitter words were spoken in vain.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.

30.24 | Lord prevent that they cast their eyes this way[?/!]” | Replaced.
55.26 | I had to rout up Wil[l]is, | Added.
127.26 | as though they were [p/b]ut pebbles. | Replaced.
149.23 | and I wondered va[ug/gu]ely | Transposed.
154.13 | and your po[r]ker was a fine fat one | Added.
164.21 | when I asked if I was not [t]o hang | Added.
174.17 | to burn us like rats in a tra[y/p]. | Replaced.
187.5 | “Oh, the vill[ia/ai]n,” | Transposed.
188.4 | and Nanette ac[c]ompanied them. | Added.
199.13 | “I suppose I must,” he said sullenly[.] | Added.
199.27 | a voyage he couldn’t see the end of[.] | Added.
231.17 | from the charge of wit[c]hcraft | Added.
257.15 | and then we[b / b]reathed, it seemed | Transposed.
262.11 | or halt them for a[ ]time | Added.
265.16 | Messenger[s] were sent | Added.
278.24 | into a panic as quickly as possibl[y/e] | Replaced.
295.25 | they might not get near enough to charge[.] | Added.
301.14 | to ignite the hug[h/e] pile of brush | Replaced.
304.26 | “And who car[r]ied out the powder?” | Added.
316.13 | feeling his [s]teel pierce my side | Added.
333.10 | “With all my wor[l]dly goods I thee endow.” | Added.

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Table of Contents

- PREFACE.

- CONTENTS.

- WITH FORCE AND ARMS.

- CHAPTER I. THE GOVERNOR’S COMMISSION.

- CHAPTER II. OF THE SCARLET SNOW.

- CHAPTER III. THE TRIAL.

- CHAPTER IV. HOW I CAST THE KNIFE.

- CHAPTER V. OF THE STONE BY THE BROOK.

- CHAPTER VI. LUCILLE.

- CHAPTER VII. OF THE HORSEMAN ON THE BEACH.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE BATTLE AT THE FORT.

- CHAPTER IX. HOW THE FRENCH TOOK PEMAQUID.

- CHAPTER X. THE MAN AT THE INN.

- CHAPTER XI. A MAN AND HIS WIFE.

- CHAPTER XII. THE TIME OF PERIL.

- CHAPTER XIII. IN SALEM GAOL.

- CHAPTER XIV. A SENTENCE OF DEATH.

- CHAPTER XV. PEINE FORTE ET DURE.

- CHAPTER XVI. HOW WE BROKE GAOL.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE NEWS NANETTE BROUGHT ME.

- CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE EAGLE SAILED.

- CHAPTER XIX. HOW I FOUND LUCILLE.

- CHAPTER XX. A WATCH IN THE NIGHT.

- CHAPTER XXI. OF THE VOYAGE OF LUCILLE.

- CHAPTER XXII. A DUEL ON THE SANDS.

- CHAPTER XXIII. SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT.

- CHAPTER XXIV. HOW SIMON KEPT HIS OATH.

- CHAPTER XXV. IN THE NAME OF THE KING.

- CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST FIGHT.

- CHAPTER XXVII. SIMON.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. THE END OF CAPTAIN AMHERST.

- CHAPTER XXIX. AN ORDER FROM THE KING.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE