Mathew Prior.

On rising, which he did with the sun, leaving the Knight buried in sleep, Arundel took his way through the village to enjoy the fresh morning air and examine the Indian wigwams, it being the first considerable collection of them which he had seen. He found them, to the number of forty or fifty, extending at a distance of four or five rods from one another, in a couple of wide avenues, from the edge of a wood to the margin of a river. The piece of ground on which the lodges were built seemed to be a bit of alluvial formed by the overflowing of the river. All along the stream were scattered fields of maize, whose tall, stout stalks attested the richness of the soil. The cultivation was of that sluggish and negligent description which was to be expected from the indolent character of the Indians, it being entirely entrusted to the squaws, the men considering labor beneath their dignity. The object was attained, if the plants were sufficiently protected against the encroaching weeds to enable them to overtop the latter, after which they were left to take care of themselves. Yet, notwithstanding all this negligence, prodigal Nature rendered a rich return. It has been said (with what truth we know not) that the weeds of a soil depend upon the race which cultivates it—they which spring from the sweat of an Indian being different from those which embarrass the toil of the white man or the negro. If it be so, then have we perhaps another proof of the kind accommodation of mother Earth to her children, excusing for the reluctant Indian that labor which she exacts from the hardier white and black man.

As Arundel passed by the bark wigwams, he was able to form some opinion of the mode of life of the Taranteens. Indolently thrown upon the ground in front of his lodge, in the soft summer morning, he beheld its master inhaling the fumes of that pernicious but seductive plant, which is one of the few gifts the North American savage has transmitted to his conquerors, that promise to perpetuate his memory. Little children, of whom seldom more than two or three were to be seen in any wigwam, played around him, now and then obtaining a word of notice, while the patient squaws were either engaged in ordinary culinary preparations, or, if more than one wife were in the lodge, dividing their labors among themselves, the one cooking, a second mending moccasons or robes, and a third preparing to start with her agricultural tools, made of Quohaug shells, (a large kind of clam,) for the maize field. Here and there he could see young men armed with bows and arrows, leaving for the surrounding woods, in pursuit of that game on which was their principal dependance for food. Only one old person did he behold, whence he inferred that their precarious life was unfavorable to longevity. He lounged throughout the whole encampment without interruption, sometimes regarded with a frown, sometimes with a smile, but for the most part treated with indifference.

The monotony of Indian life affords little to interest during the week spent by Sir Christopher and Arundel among the Taranteens. It was passed by the latter in daily hunts with some young Taranteens, with whom he had contrived to ingratiate himself, and to whom his gun was no unwelcome assistant in the chase. The Knight had assured him of the absence of all danger from the Indians, but even without such assurance, Arundel would have preferred to encounter some peril rather than submit to the tedium he must otherwise have endured.

As for Sir Christopher, his preconcerted meeting with Father Le Vieux, and the conversation betwixt them, prove that he had other objects besides the establishment of peace between the English and the Taranteens. The determination of the question of peace or war seemed to be left entirely with the Father. We may consider his remaining in the village was for the purpose of waiting for the announcement of the conclusion to which the Indians, under the direction of the Jesuit priest, should come, and also to arrange their mutual plans; for, taking advantage of the absence of Arundel, which, as is seen, he encouraged, the Knight had frequent conferences with the priest, the grand object of which was to advance such measures as might obtain the whole of North America for the Catholics, as South America had already been secured. It would seem that, although the Knight had the accomplishment of that result as much at heart as the priest himself, his national pride and patriotism relucted at the idea that English colonies should become possessions of the hereditary enemies of his nation. It was to combat this notion, and to satisfy him of his duty, to trample upon it at the foot of the cross, that the arguments of the father were directed. The plan of Sir Christopher was to supplant and overpower the Puritans with English Catholics, which, by the aid of the immense wealth of the Church, and the ability of the enterprising Jesuits, he doubted not might be done, but not to make the colony French. Devoted Catholic as he was, he was unable to renounce his love of country.

Not so with the father. With the sagacity of a priest, he placed no dependence upon any portion of a people whose councils were ruled by Protestants, and with the conceit of a Frenchman, he had unlimited confidence in la grande nation; besides, he had been a witness, and partaken of the sufferings of his brethren, the French Jesuits, among the savages, and he relied much on a zeal, the superior of which the world has never seen, and which he believed sanctioned by heaven, and in spite of himself, and try as he might to persuade himself of the contrary, national feeling (as in the case of Sir Christopher) mingled with the aspirations of the religionist. He would, indeed, rather than fail, have courted the Turk himself, on whom he looked with eyes about as favorable as on a Protestant, but he preferred that his own nation, as well as his own order, should monopolize both the glory and the advantages of the achievement. These feelings, secret almost to himself, he carefully kept concealed from Sir Christopher, whom he regretted was not a countryman, and confined himself to the religious aspect of the case. No opportunity to remove a doubt, or inflame the zeal of his coadjutor, did he allow to escape.

"There is but one Church," he said, in one of their conversations, "and only through her sacred portals is the kingdom of heaven to be entered—a truth received by every Catholic—else, vain and unmeaning was the solemn tradition of the keys to St. Peter. They who are not for her are against her, and must be subdued to obedience by mild means if they will suffice—by harsh, if necessary."

"To these truths I give my entire assent," said the Knight.

"I doubt it not—I doubt it not; but let all take heed, my son, not to exhaust belief in the shadowy region of theory. Truth should be an armed soldier to step out to deeds."

"Lord! strengthen me," said the Knight, humbly.

"Such," said the father, "is the prayer of every true Catholic. Forgive me, my son, if, for the refreshing of my own resolution, and the strengthening of thy soul, I repeat familiar truths, but which cannot be too often reiterated, or long enough meditated upon. Methinks that as I give their vocal sweetness to the air, these old woods do assume a more reverent aspect, and a tide of holier transport streams through my heart. Holy Jesus! I would have no will; I would have no mind but thine. Swallow me up in thine ineffable perfections."

The two crossed themselves at the sacred name, and the Knight softly said, "Amen."

"But let us be cautious," continued the priest, "not to deceive ourselves as do some, who fancy themselves sound, and yet are diseased; who mix up the suggestions of the carnal understanding with heavenly promptings. Said not holy St. Augustine, credo quia impossibile et? There are minds too shallow to perceive the profound wisdom of the maxim, and scoff at it as an absurdity. By God's grace, my son, we are not of the number. We see it; we feel it. Thanks to the discipline wherewith we have been exercised. Our souls do calmly repose on this truth, and in its strength shall the servants of the church triumph. What is impossible to man, is possible with God."

"I embrace this truth," said Sir Christopher.

"Nor when commanded by a superior is it ours to question, in imaginary wisdom, as is the manner of the world, the propriety of the order. As an archangel, commissioned by the Supreme Intelligence to execute his decrees, and pour pestilence or famine upon a land devoted to destruction for its sins, may not say what doest thou, so must not a servant of the Order of Jesus doubt the inspiration of him whom he is bound to obey. Does he so, he is too weak for the post whereunto his presumption has aspired, and false alike to himself and the cause he espoused. Not unto the weak in mind, but to the strong in faith, is committed the cause of the Church."

"Holy Father," said the Knight, "your words probe the secrets of my soul. I do intend, and practice always, perfect obedience to my superior, knowing that whatever is ordered by him whom the ordinance of God, and of our holy Order hath set over me, I may not only perform without sin, but that the same will redound to my salvation; and yet, in spite of fastings and prayers, do involuntary doubts sometimes creep into my mind, which I hasten to banish, as the whisperings of the devil."

"They are—they are the instigations of Sathanas," said the priest, crossing himself. "O, my son, whenever these temptations occur, remember thy vows and obligations, and betake thyself more diligently to prayer and penance. But, Sir Christopher, it becomes me not to address thee as a babe in Christ. Though it be thy pleasure to remain in an inferior position, thou hast a mind which soars with the highest in the order, and comprehends the theory and working of our regimen. Upon the divine pattern have we modeled our system, and the operation of the same must run parallel therewith. As at the head of the Universe Stands the Law-giver and Ruler, so with us; as obedience to him is order and truth, so with us; as to accomplish his purposes he makes use of all influences, tempest, lightning, plague, pestilence, the sword, as well as of the breeze of health, the refreshing rain and golden sunshine, now melting with his smile, and now terrifying with his frown, so do we. Teaches not God by his example how to govern his world?"

"Aye, possessed we his wisdom," said the Knight.

"Doubt not, that if with a holy motive we seek to do his will, He will furnish the wisdom. Blessed unto the children of Israel was their obedience, when hearkening unto Moses, God's vicegerent to them, they did, stifling all suggestions of infatuated reason which would stamp the deed as a cruelty, put to the edge of the sword thousands of men, women, and children, of the unhappy Canaanites. Who will doubt it right? And thinkest thou the authority of Moses over a few wild tribes more prevailing, and an act sanctioned by him a temporary guide, more pleasing than one approved by the successors of St. Peter, more solemnly and extensively invested with the divine power, and destined to exist to the end of the world? If the offending heathen might lawfully be slaughtered at the command of the Jewish leader, it is impious to shrink from sacrifices like those on the altar of St. Bartholomew, when required by the Vicar of Christ. If by direction of one entitled to give the order, I slay my brother, my motive being obedience, and the promotion of the interests of the Church, the greater is my reward for overcoming the weakness of the flesh, and forcing it, albeit, reluctant, to obey. Emptied of myself I am filled with divine grace. The creature is enabled to be made the sword of the creator. A higher reason, incomprehensible because so high, is substituted for the lower, and the dogma of St. Augustine becomes an animating principle and a living power. Try, prove, search, examine thyself, my son, and thou wilt find these doubts do arise from the rebellious reason ever ready to set itself up as God, and to demand the worship which belongs to Him. Each one would be a law unto himself, and hence as many laws as law-givers. Let the reason of man prevail, (an impious thought, and an impossible fact,) and the seamless coat of Christ is rent, a deluge of all manner of heresies and abominations follows, and Zion in sackcloth mourns her blighted hopes. Behold the condition of the world, how it confirms my words!"

"Father, feeling as well as the unsanctified reason, does at times rebel."

"Alas, they are conspirators together. How willingly the one echoes the fancies of the other, while they deal out mutual encouragement! But it needs not to say, to thee at least, that feeling can be no criterion of truth; or, rather, that the disturbance of the faculties, baptized with the name of feeling, and which springs from a corrupt nature, must be hostile thereto. There is in high contemplations on man's duties, but one infallible test of truth, viz: the Holy Scriptures, as interpreted by the faithful witness, the Church. To them, my son, the one as the record, and the other as the inspired interpreter, is it our duty, and should be the business of our lives, to bring into subjection the rebellious passions, the fainting weaknesses and erring reason. Inspired by this grand truth, behold thousands of devoted men and women, weak with human infirmity, but sustained by courage from on high, renouncing the dulcet, but transitory enjoyments of this life, to encounter, for the salvation of their souls, and of others, privation and sorrow, and painful death. Quœ terra non plena nostri laboris? Yet, O how contemptible is the suffering, when compared with the joy of the hope which is set before us—of the starry crown that awaits the willing martyr! Feed thy soul, my son, on these divine contemplations, until they become a part of thyself, and the path that leads to a bloody grave shall be strewed with roses. Be the motto of our order forever before thine eyes. From the mystical words in majorem gloriam Dei, shall beam a light brighter and more blessed than that of the sun, for it flows from the throne of the Eternal."

With suggestions and arguments like these did the enthusiastic father endeavor to animate and confirm the less exalted resolution of his fellow-laborer. Nor were they without an influence. As the thirsty traveller, faint and worn with the toil and heat of the day, drinks of the refreshing spring, and bathes his brow in its cooling waters, and goes strengthened on his way, so did the Knight derive vigor from his words.

At their last meeting, Father Le Vieux announced the conclusion to which he had persuaded the Taranteens.

"Hostilities at the present time were premature," he said. "The tribes are not sufficiently united to make head, with all the assistance we can afford, against the heretics. We will wait awhile, until the present supposed outrage is followed by another—and, in the position and temper of the English, it is inevitable—which shall rouse other tribes. Be sure, the Taranteens will not forget. The war-whoop must sound simultaneously, from the Kennebec to the mouth of the Connecticut, or our labor will be worse than lost. Meanwhile, a great advantage has been gained. A gulf is now between the proud Englishman and the Taranteen, over which neither will pass. Your report, then, to them who sent you will be peace. Thus will their confidence in you and your influence be increased." [At the same time the father gave a letter for Sister Celestina.] "Tell her," he continued, "of my admiration of her devotion. Blessed be she among women!"

Thus they parted, the priest to return to his self-sacrificing labors among the Indians, at no distant period to end in that crown of martyrdom after which his soul panted, and the Knight to his post of observation near the English colony.

CHAPTER XXII.

Anonymous.

During the absence of the Knight and his young friend, events had occurred which require us to shift the scene of our theatre to Boston and its environs.

The indefatigable Spikeman continued to prosecute his intrigues with his accustomed audacity. The evil passion which he had conceived for the pretty Prudence, so far from being checked by the repulses he received from the wily maiden—repulses which left room for hope—only stimulated to redoubled exertion. He was like a sportsman, whose eagerness in the pursuit of game is only heightened by its shyness and difficulty of capture; and, with no disparagement of the virtue of the coquettish girl, it must be admitted that, for the want of something better to exercise her active faculties, (the difficulties of her interviews with Philip having increased since his banishment,) she found a mischievous delight in the power she possessed over Spikeman, and in playing off her caprices at his expense. So far, indeed, by her blandishments, had she succeeded in blinding his eyes and subjecting him to her power, that she herself wondered at her success. The path which she was treading was dangerous, but her youthful presumption, and the pleasure she derived from the influence which the insane passion of the Assistant gave her over him, stopped her ears to the warnings of prudence and the suggestions of propriety. If Philip Joy, whom with no divided affection she loved in her own way, had known all, he would scarcely have been so contented at the dwelling of Sir Christopher. Yet, as we have seen, did Prudence make no secret to Philip of the admiration of Spikeman; and, after the first conversation in which she disclosed it, had more than once laughed with him at the advances of her antiquated lover. But her disclosures were made in such a manner—with such a half-telling of the truth—with such a revelation here, and a concealment there, as to provoke more merriment than apprehension.

Nor, while indulging a feeling which cannot be called love, was Spikeman regardless of his hatreds. He strove by every means to excite distrust and ill-will against Sir Christopher and Arundel. As for the humble Philip, he hardly looked upon him any longer as a rival, such had been the success of the deceitful Prudence. With these preliminary observations, the reader is prepared for what follows.

It was at the house of the Assistant Spikeman, and there were no persons in the room save himself and Prudence. The door was closed, and the girl was standing with a besom in one hand, while the Assistant, who was seated, had hold of the other, and was looking up into her hazel eyes. He drew her down with a force which was not resisted, and imprinted a kiss on the cheek she half averted.

"Prudence," he said, "how long shall I languish? Verily am I as one who longs for the dawn."

"You do not love me half as much as you pretend," said the girl, still standing by his side, and suffering her hand to be pressed by his. "There is too wide a difference betwixt us, and I am all the time afraid you are only making a fool of me."

"By this palm, softer than the down of the cygnet; by thy lips, redder than rubies; by thy diamond eyes, I swear I love thee dearer than my own soul," exclaimed Spikeman.

"How can you speak of your soul," said Prudence, smiling as she spoke, "when you know you are talking and acting like a wicked man?"

"Canst thou not understand the liberty of the saints? Is it not written, that to him only who thinketh a thing to be evil, it is evil? Surely, I have explained all this, even unto weariness?"

"Aye, it may be so with thee; but I am no saint. I am afraid I'm doing very wrong."

"If you thought so," replied the Assistant, gently drawing her down upon his lap, "would you occupy this place; would a smile beautify those intoxicating lips, and would I read paradise in thine eyes?"

Prudence threw her arm round Spikeman's neck, and sunk her face upon his shoulder, as if to evince her tenderness and hide her blushes, but in truth, to conceal a disposition to laugh.

"I wish," she said, presently raising her head, and looking Spikeman bewitchingly in the face, "I knew whether you really mean what you say?"

"Thou art unjust to me, Prudence. Have I not given every possible proof of affection? What hast thou asked that I have withheld? Have I not treated thee as the elect lady of my soul?"

"Nay, there be some things which you refuse to tell me. I am foolish," she added, forcing some moisture into her eyes; "but—but—"

"But what, O garden of delights?" asked Spikeman, kissing the hypocritical tears away.

"When you refuse me anything, I think you do not love—love me."

"Ask, and thou wilt be convinced of the contrary."

"I am but a woman," she said, looking at him with a smile so sweet that we almost pardon poor Spikeman his infatuation, "and I feel like dying when I know there is a secret, and cannot get at the bottom of it."

"What secret? I understand thee not."

"If you yourself had not dropped a hint, I had never thought of it; but it was about this Knight they call Sir Christopher Gardiner, whom Governor Winthrop thinks so much of."

"We will cure him of that folly. What foolish thing have I said to this girl?" thought the Assistant. "Prudence," he added, "this is a matter that cannot concern thee. Thou wouldst not have me speak of secrets of State?"

"Said I not right!" exclaimed Prudence, rising, and preparing to leave the room, "that your love was but a pretext? How, I want to know, is a secret of State better than any other? Now, had I given poor Philip half the encouragement which my silly fondness for thee—O, dear!—" and she put her hands up to her eyes.

"Come," said Spikeman, pursuing and bringing her back, "name not the presumptuous varlet. On one condition I will tell thee, even though it ruin me."

"What may that be?" inquired the girl.

"I have long solicited an interview where we should not be liable to interruption. Grant me that, and I will conceal nothing."

"Thou dost grant nothing without a condition. I do not know," she added, tossing her head, "whether I care anything, after all, about this mystery. I dare say there is nothing in it, and, as you say, it concerns me not."

"Be not angry, sweet Prudence. Ask, and I will answer all thy questions."

"You know, too, how much I would do to pleasure you," sighed Prudence. "Ah! me, how weak a thing is a woman's heart."

"Then you will not deny me? Know then that letters have arrived from England, charging this knight, or pretended knight, with diverse grave offences."

"And what may they be?" inquired the girl.

"He is complained of as a fugitive from justice," answered Spikeman, who meant to communicate no more information than he was obliged to.

"The sweet, handsome gentleman! I do not believe he ever harmed any one. But what did he?"

"Of that I am not positively informed, not having seen the epistles, they being addressed to private persons."

"Have they anything against Master Miles, too?" asked Prudence.

"I doubt not that he is the worse of the two, if all were known."

"These be dreadful lies about the nicest and properest men in the country," cried Prudence. "And what will be done with them when they come back?"

"That I cannot tell; but be sure we shall find some means of getting rid of them. And now, Prudence—"

"I do not know that I made any promise," she said, archly; "and you have told me very little, after all."

"I have told thee all I know. Keep now equal good faith with me."

"It would be very improper," said the girl, turning away her face, "to invite a man to a secret meeting; but I sometimes wander on the edge of the forest to gather wild flowers, and hear the birds sing, and if you should come thither by accident, at the same time, nobody, I suppose, would find fault."

"But when—but when, lovely Prudence? Ah! you comprehend not the longing of my soul."

"That I cannot say now. I am only a servant girl, and must obey the directions of my mistress, which are often very unreasonable, and order not my time."

"Would I were a king, for your sake! But shall it be soon?"

"As soon as may be, and I will let you know the time and place." So saying, she broke away from the enamored Spikeman, and ran to acquaint her young mistress with all that had happened.

The young lady felt seriously alarmed at the communication of her confidante—an alarm increased by the vagueness of the information, as in a dark night the fearful imagination invests with terrors some object, which, in the light of day, proves to be a harmless bush or stump—and the two young women consulted together if any thing could be done to avert the threatened danger. They could think of nothing better than to acquaint Arundel with it, which Prudence took upon herself to do.

"But how," inquired Eveline, "is it to be done?"

"You forget Philip Joy, madam," said Prudence.

"I might have known better than to distrust your wiles and stratagems, you cunning girl," said her mistress; "but have a care of thyself. I sometimes feel much anxiety on thy account—but I forbid this meeting with Master Spikeman."

"An' it be so," answered the waiting-maid, pouting, "you may find some one else, Mistress Eveline, to tell you about the plots of the old dragon, who has us in his claws."

"For shame, thou petulant thing! yet tell me now all thy design."

"You tell me not all your thoughts about Master Miles, and why should I acquaint you with mine about Joe?" said Prudence, bursting into a laugh.

"There is some difference, methinks, between the cases—have thy way though. I have confidence in thee, Prudence, and believe thee as witty as pretty. Thy own goodness and love for the soldier Joy shall stand by thee like guardian angels, to save from harm. Yet like I not this tampering with anything that looks like evil."

The girl knelt down by the side of her mistress, and taking the young lady's hand, laid it on her heart.

"Thou feelest," she said, "how it beats. Dost understand what it says?"

"Methinks it repeats only, Philip, Philip, Philip," said Eveline, smiling.

"Where one fillip belongs to him, a great many belong to thee," answered the waiting-maid, affectionately. "It will be time enough to let him have more when I am sure all his are mine."

The young lady bent down, and, throwing her arms round the maiden's neck, kissed her cheek.

"What have I done to deserve such affection?" she murmured. "O, Prudence, thou art a treasure to me; but be cautious, be cautious, my girl. Not for all the blessings which thy loving heart would heap upon me, would I have the least harm befall thee."

A few days after, as the summer sun was setting, and his last rays lighting up the tops of the trees into a yellow sheen, and kindling into liquid gold the placid surface of Massachusetts Bay, a female figure was to be seen hovering on the margin of the wood in that neighborhood. In consequence of the inequalities of the ground, and of some intervening bushes and trees, the collection of houses that lay along the shore of the bay was not visible from the spot where she was walking, nor was there a path to indicate that it was a place of any resort. It seemed to be a spot well adapted to privacy. No sound was to be heard, save the occasional tap of a woodpecker, or the whirr of the wings of a partridge, as, startled by the approach of the person, he suddenly rose into the air, or the songs of the robins, bidding farewell, in sweet and plaintive notes, to the disappearing sun. The female walked on, stopping now and then to gather a wild flower, until she reached a spring which bubbled at the foot of an immense beech tree. It ran a rod or two in a silvery stream from its fountain, and then leaping down a miniature fall into a sort of natural basin, surrounded with rocks, expanded itself into a small pool, as clear as crystal. Around the basin were gathered companies of such wood-flowers as love the water, conspicuous among which, both for number and beauty, were the yellow and orange blossoms of the elegant "jewels," as boys call them. Advancing to this little mirror, the female took a seat on one of the rocks, on the edge of the water, and bending over, appeared to contemplate, with no little satisfaction, what she beheld there; and to tell the truth, it was a pretty face, and justified some vanity. Black hair and hazel eyes, red lips and blooming cheeks, and a well-formed person, composed a whole whereon the eye rested with pleasure. Prudence, (you have guessed it was she,) after looking at the reflection of herself awhile, and smoothing down a stray tress or two, selected from the flowers in her hand some of the most beautiful, and humming a tune, commenced arranging them in her hair. She was some little time about her toilette, either because her taste was difficult to be suited, or because her employment afforded an excuse for looking at what was certainly more attractive than the flowers themselves. She was so long about their arrangement, that she had hardly completed it, and had time to twist her neck into only five or six attitudes, to see how they became her, when a rustling was heard in the bushes, and immediately the Assistant Spikeman stood by her side.

"Verily, sweet maiden," he said, "thine eyes outshine the stars, which will soon twinkle in the sky, and the flowers around thee pine with envy at beholding a blush lovelier than their own."

A sudden and unpleasant interruption put a stop to the fine speeches of the debauched hypocrite, for he had hardly concluded the sentence, when, without a warning, a strong hand grasped his throat, and he was hurled with irresistible violence to the ground. As the Assistant was lying prostrate on his face, he could hear Prudence, with screams, each fainter than the former, running in the direction of the settlement, while, without a word being spoken, his arms were violently forced upon his back and bound, an operation which his struggles were unable to prevent. This being performed, he was suffered to rise, and, upon gaining his feet, he saw himself in the presence of Sassacus. The blood fled the cheeks and lips of Spikeman as he beheld the savage, and felt that he was in the hands of one whom, without cause, he had injured, and who belonged to that wild race, with whom revenge is a duty as well as a pleasure. His knees trembled, and he was in danger of falling to the ground, as the thought of death, whereof horrid torments should be the precursors, flashed through his mind. But the trepidation was only momentary, and soon, with the hardihood of his audacious nature, he steeled himself to dare whatever should follow—and it marks the character of the man, that the bitterness of the moment was aggravated at the thought of the vanishing of the fond dreams with which he had idly fed his imagination.

His captor called out in his own language, and presently another Indian came running up. A few words passed between them, when the latter stepping forward, Sassacus made a motion to Spikeman to follow, placing himself at the same time in the rear. Resistance would have been unavailing, and could serve no other purpose than to rouse the passions of the Indians, and invite immediate injury. Something might yet happen to his advantage. He might be rescued, or effect his escape, or the chapter of accidents might have something else favorable, he knew not what, in store. The Assistant, therefore, quietly submitted, and followed as ordered.

Their course lay directly through the densest portions of the forest, and as the rapidity of their progress was impeded by the constrained position of the captive's arms, Sassacus, as if in contempt of any effort to escape, cut the ligatures with the knife that hung at his neck, intimating the motive at the same time by an acceleration of speed. As Spikeman was thus hurried along, his thoughts went after Prudence, and he wondered what had become of her. Notwithstanding his own peril, he felt (and it proves the deep interest he cherished for the girl) a melancholy pleasure in the hope that she had escaped, not that even though she had fallen into the hands of the savages, he would have entertained fears for her life, but she might have been doomed to a hopeless captivity, far away from friends, whom she was never to see again, and condemned, in some distant wigwam, to exchange the comforts of civilization for a wild life, which, to her, could bring only wretchedness. Bad as was Spikeman, and lamentable as might be his infatuation for the girl, there was even in that, something which redeemed it from being utter evil.

Daylight had now faded entirely away, but the Indians abated not their speed, and pursued their course in a straight line, as though guided by an infallible instinct. In this manner they proceeded for nearly two hours, and, at the expiration of the time, arrived at a collection of three or four lodges of the rudest structure. Several of the natives were lying on the ground, smoking their pipes, but they took no other notice of the newcomers than looking at them as they came up. Sassacus led the way into the largest wigwam, and, having directed his prisoner to sit down, left the cabin.

Spikeman knew well enough that, with all this seeming inattention, he was vigilantly watched, yet could he not forbear from walking to the entrance, looking around at the same time, if, by chance, he might espy a weapon. He saw none, however, and two stout Indians made motions to him to return. Meditating on his situation, and casting about in his mind for expedients, either to evade his captors or to change the resolution of the Pequot chief, which, he doubted not, aimed at his life, he resumed his seat. He was unable to remain more than a few moments in quiet, and presently again approached the opening, and this time beheld a sight which curdled his blood.

It was a stake driven into the ground, at a distance of not more than a rod from where he stood, around which several Indians were heaping up faggots of dry sticks and broken branches. Spikeman shuddered, and tasted, in almost as lively a manner as if he were already experiencing them, the agonies that awaited him, for he could not doubt that the preparations were made on his account. The conduct of his keepers, therefore, was unnecessary, who pointed first to the pile, and then to himself, intimating thereby that one was designed for the other. The effect produced on him was such that he could hardly restrain himself from attempting to burst through his guards, either by some miracle to get free, or to obtain an easier death from the tomahawk or arrow. But in all the horrors of these dreadful moments, the mind of Spikeman remained as clear as ever, and he saw plainly the impossibility of evasion, and the folly of supposing that the Indians would be tempted to throw a tomahawk, or discharge an arrow against an unarmed man, whereby they might rob themselves of the fiendish pleasure they anticipated—besides, thought the miserable Spikeman, I should be more likely to receive the stroke of death when their passions are excited, than at present; and with a desperate calmness, and striving to defy the worst, he awaited what should happen.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Byron.

When Sassacus left Spikeman, it was only to step into a lodge not half a dozen rods distant. Though smaller than the one into which the prisoner had been introduced, it was superior in comfort, as was, indeed, to be expected, being that of the Sagamore himself. Here he found the soldier, Philip Joy.

"What means this, Sassacus?" exclaimed the soldier, as the Pequot entered. "Was it not our covenant that the life of the white man should be spared?"

"My brother did not mean what he said when he asked that his enemy might be permitted to run away. Who, when he catches a wolf, says, 'Wolf, Indian set the trap only to see whether it would hold fast your legs. The wise hunter talks not so, but strikes the wolf on the head.'"

"Sassacus," said Joy, "this may not be. If you had caught Master Spikeman, by your own cunning, it might have been different; but it was the white girl and I who devised the scheme, and I told you where to place the ambuscade, which has been successful. Were you to murder this man, the guilt would rest more on Prudence and me than on you, whose savage and un-Christian notions may partly excuse so dreadful an act."

"My brother's heart is soft, like moss, but the heart of Sassacus is a stone. My brother must learn to harden his heart, and he shall soon behold a punishment becoming a great Sagamore. My brother thinks and feels like a Christian. Good! but he must let Sassacus feel like an Indian."

"Let him go," said Joy, "and he shall pay you store of wampompeag and colored cloth. Of what use can it be to you to put him to a horrid death?"

"Wampompeag and colored cloth are good, but Sassacus is a great chief, and they cannot make him forget an injury. Before the white men came, his ancestors punished and rewarded, and he will not surrender the prerogative of his family."

"By the bones of my father," swore the soldier, "I will not permit this cold-blooded murder. Hated I him ten-fold more than I do, I would defend his life at the hazard of my own. Where is my gun?" he demanded fiercely, seeking after it. "Who has dared to remove it?"

"Sassacus took it away, that his brother might do no mischief with it," said the Pequot.

"False Indian!" exclaimed the soldier, passionately; "call me not again your brother. I will have nothing to do with one whose promises cannot bind, and who loves revenge more than honor."

"Sassacus never breaks his word, but, if he did, it would be only imitating the white men. Would my brother speak to my prisoner, whom, at this moment, he loves more than the justice of an Indian?"

"Why should I speak to him, when I should hear only curses?"

"Then remain here to behold the punishment of the bad white man."

He strode out of the lodge, while the soldier, burning with indignation, disposed himself so that, unseen, he might notice all that was done, and determined, unarmed as he was, to interpose.

Presently Sassacus re-appeared, emerging from the larger lodge, followed by the Assistant, whose arms were bound again, and who was conducted by two savages, holding him by either arm. They led him straight to the pile around the stake, which the Chief ordered to be lighted, and whose billowy flames were kept rolling up by additions, from time to time, of the dry wood which lay in abundance around. Seated on a log not far from the fire, whose heat might indeed be felt, Sassacus commanded his prisoner to be brought before him.

"Bad white man," he said, "look on yon flames! Are they like that hell which thy powaws say is prepared for such as thou?"

Spikeman turned his ghastly face away from the blaze, with a shudder, but he said nothing.

"The white man is silent," said Sassacus. "He acknowledges the justice of his doom. Lead him to the fire."

Spikeman, notwithstanding the horror of his situation, succeeded in a measure in concealing his feelings, and, affecting an indifference to his fate, advanced a few steps with the two Indians, who held his arms, when, suddenly making a violent effort, he burst the withes with which he was carelessly bound, and, throwing them both off, started to run. The opportunity had probably been given purposely by the savages, for their diversion, and in order to protract the terrors of the captive, and knowing that flight was impossible. But, blinded by the glare of the fire, Spikeman remarked not a trunk of a tree in his path, and, stumbling over it, fell to the ground, bruised and torn, and before he could rise, found himself again held fast. Cursing his ill luck, he made no further resistance, but sullenly suffered himself to be led back. Philip Joy, on seeing Spikeman break away, started from his place of concealment; so that the two were confronted on the latter's return. The sight of Philip awoke a hope in Spikeman's bosom, who begged him to intercede with the savage.

"I have done so already," answered Philip; "but he will not listen to me, and has deprived me of my arms."

"Speak to him again—he will regard what you say. Save my life, and I will make recompense a thousandfold for any wrong I have done you or him."

The Pequot, smiling, stood by, quietly listening to the colloquy, and before Philip could address him, said:

"Did Sassacus promise his white brother to let the dog (pointing to Spikeman) run away?"

"You did; but care no more for your word than if you were no chief."

"My brother's, is a pappoos speech. Sassacus never broke his word; he only tried whether the dog was as brave as he was bad. White man," he added, turning to the Assistant, "thou art free. A great chief disdains to give thee the death of a warrior. Go back to thy people, and tell them what return the Sagamore of the Pequots makes for thy breach of hospitality. His promise to his brother saves thy life this time. But, beware! A Sagamore does not forget. Be a snail that keeps its head within its shell. If the snail puts it out, Sassacus will step upon it. Depart."

He gave directions to a couple of his sanops to conduct the Assistant to the verge of the forest, and, turning away, walked to his lodge. He was followed by Philip, who had now recovered from his amazement, and, understanding the conduct of the chief, felt ashamed at his own want of discernment and distrust.

"Is my brother satisfied?" inquired the Pequot.

"Sagamore," answered Philip, "I wronged thee. It shall be a lesson to make me more cautious in judging of thy actions."

"It is well. My brother will hereafter remember that the thoughts of a chief do not always shine in his face or sound in his words. My brother will forgive me," he added, smiling, "for shutting his eyes a little while very tight. It was that my brother might be the more pleased when he opened them."

"A trusty friend, this Indian, after all, in his way, (thought Philip, as he gazed on the face of the Pequot, which had settled into its usual gravity), and loves a jest, too. Who would have thought it? Methinks he has the better of it with Master Spikeman, though I misdoubt if he considers the score as settled."

As for the Assistant, thus suddenly and unexpectedly reprieved from a shocking death that seemed certain, he was stupified at the abrupt change in his circumstances, and, as he hurried on, half doubted whether it were not a dream. As he threaded the intricacies of the wood, he had time to compare and weigh events, and was thus enabled to come to some sort of conclusion. He recollected now many little things in the conduct of Prudence, which would have opened the eyes of any one not blinded by an absurd passion, and saw how, while seeming not averse to his pursuit, she had, in fact, only tempted on from one folly to another, until his whole being lay disclosed to her, without herself making any corresponding return. He doubted not that she had been all the time in correspondence with Joy, and with him had concerted the plan whereby he had been betrayed into the hands of the savage, to be outraged and mocked, and made to suffer all but the bitterness of death. He gnashed his teeth with rage as these reflections stormed through his mind, and, far from being grateful for his deliverance, resolved to exert the whole force and subtlety of which he was capable, to revenge himself on his tormentors. The fire of his indignation burnt not so fiercely against the Pequot, yet he, too, was embraced in the schemes for vengeance, for Spikeman fully comprehended, from his parting words, that the enmity betwixt them could be satisfied only by the destruction of one or both. Turning all these things over in his mind, he quickly formed a plan, which he determined to put as soon as possible into execution.

The dawn broke before his guides left the Assistant; but it was too early to venture to return home, instead of which, he sought his store-house, and there passed, meantime, awhile, brooding over schemes of revenge. Of himself he was powerless; it was therefore necessary to set other forces at work, and, in the letters which had been received reflecting on the character of the Knight, he thought he saw the means of driving, not only him, but Arundel also, out of the colony; and they being once removed, he trusted to his ingenuity to rid himself of the simple soldier and the Indian. The political power of the colony, in short, was to be compelled to effect his private designs. This, in the condition of the little State, was no difficult enterprise. In a strange land, hemmed in by savages, whose power they were unable to estimate with any degree of certainty, and who, however contemptible singly, were formidable by reason of their number—upon whose friendship they could never securely rely—on the eve of a war, probably, with the Taranteens—distrustful of even some of their own people, who murmured at the severity of the discipline they were subjected to—the government felt that they had need of all the eyes of Argus, and of as many ears, to guard against the dangers by which they were beset. They were like, in one respect, to the timorous rabbit, snuffing the faintest hint of danger in the breeze; but unlike him in that, they sought safety, not in avoiding, but in anticipating and confronting danger.

"Dear life!" cried Dame Spikeman, as the haggard face of her husband presented itself in the morning, "where hast thou been all the night? You look mightily cast down, and—O Lord! Heaven forgive me!—you have a wound on the side of your head. Husband, what is the matter?"

"Why, dame," answered the Assistant, "is it a new thing for me to be absent one night? Bethink thee how often my occasions call me to the plantation?"

"Out upon the weariful plantation! O, sweetheart!" said the jealous but fond wife, "I like not these absences. But, how got you this hurt?" she inquired, parting his hair on the temple, and exposing the dried blood.

"It is only a scratch I received in the forest, and hardly worthy thy notice, dame. But where is Mistress Eveline? and I see not Prudence?"

"The young lady is still in her chamber, and, as for the waiting maid, I heard her but five minutes since singing away as if there were no music in the world but her own. Truly, it sounded more like a snatch from some profane ballad than a godly hymn. I will tutor her about this levity. Now do not be angry, dear life," added the dame, whose heart was made more tender, and her tongue more communicative, by the anxieties she had suffered during the night, on her husband's account; "but I have fancied that you looked at the girl oftener, sometimes, than was becoming in a man who had a wedded wife who never said him nay."

"Fie, Dame," said the Assistant, laughing, and pinching, and kissing her still tempting cheek; "what crazy fancies be these? Consider my years, and profession, and dignity, and, most of all, my love for thee. Why, this is very midsummer madness."

"I suppose I am foolish," replied the dame, wiping a tear away, "but I feared, lest the girl might derive some encouragement from it, though otherwise, Prudence is a good lass, and obedient, and I have no other fault to find with her; but I recollect now, when I was a girl, how I did feel when you came near me, and I have not got over all these feelings yet, nor do I choose that Prudence should have them. So, dear husband, it were safer for the girl that you should look oftener at me, and less at her."

"My good, and faithful, and loving wife!" exclaimed the Assistant, enclosing her in his arms, and feeling something like compunction at the moment, "you deserve a better mate. But trouble not thyself with such misgivings. Do not this wrong, sweet, to thine own charms, and to my profession and station, as one of the congregation and a magistrate."

"Nay," answered the pleased wife, "I distrusted thee not so much as the presumption of the damsel; and if the devil goes about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour, as we know he does, from the precious book, what place is more likely for him to be in than these awful woods, filled with red heathens, whom I take to be little better than his children; and whom would he sooner devour, than a pretty maiden like Prudence?"

"Enough of this, dame," said the Assistant, with difficulty suppressing a smile at his help-mate's simplicity. "Bethink thee, that though thy loving words are a feast to the spirit, the body requires more substantial fare?"

"True, and you shall have it forthwith, although, you wicked man, I did sleep hardly a wink for thinking of thee." So saying, the dame hurried off to hasten the morning meal.

The Assistant watched the countenances of Eveline and her attendant that morning at breakfast, and, in spite of the efforts of the former to appear unconstrained, and the demureness of the latter, detected, he thought, sufficient to justify his suspicions. He doubted not that the girl had betrayed his weakness to her young mistress, and that all along he had been a laughing-stock for both. "I will teach them," he said to himself, as he reflected with bitterness on his failure, "how to offend one who has the power and the will to crush them. The banishment of her minion, who, a love-sick swain, has followed her across the sea, only to be sent back a disappointed fool, will answer for my young lady; and as for the girl, the slitting of Joy's ears and nose, and an acquaintance of her own pretty feet with the stocks, will suffice. It shall not be said that the sword of the magistrate was put into my hands in vain."

While the Assistant was busying his brain with machinations like these, the opportune arrival of another ship from London, with letters to himself, containing accusations against Sir Christopher Gardiner, filled his heart with joy, and furnished additional means to facilitate his purpose. Without delay, he took them to Winthrop, and demanded a private audience. After reading the letters received by Spikeman, the Governor opened his desk, and handed to his councillor others addressed to himself, and which had arrived by the same opportunity. Greedily did the Assistant devour their contents, and unbounded, though concealed, was his joy at finding them in one particular of the same purport as his own. His face, however, was sad, and his voice mournful, as, returning the epistles, he said—

"A grievous thing is it, that hypocrisy, so finished, should walk the earth. It is a day of rebuke and of scandal to us, as magistrates, that we should be so deceived."

"I am not altogether convinced," said Winthrop, who, steady in his friendships, and prepossessed from the beginning in favor of the Knight, was loth to think evil of him, "that these charges are true. My own letters mention them only as reports—thine speak of them more positively. Vouch you for the truth of your correspondent?"

"There is no man more truthful," answered Spikeman, who, had it been necessary, would have been a guaranty for Beelzebub himself. "I have known him long. He has never deceived me, nor can I imagine motive therefor now."

"So fair, and yet so false!" murmured Winthrop; "and yet we know that the evil one appears sometimes as an angel of light. I will not trust in human appearance more. What shall be done with him on his return?"

"Let him be sent out of the colony, and they who are leagued in his plots with him," said Spikeman. "I understand now the wonderful eagerness of Master Arundel to be joined with him in this embassy. Birds of a feather, says the proverb, do fly with greatest joy together. Out upon this false Knight, for his pretended love of retirement; upon his leman, this lady Geraldine, forsooth; and this squire of dames, Master Miles Arundel, whose counterfeited affection for my ward may be only another cloak for most pernicious plots."

"Thou art becoming suspicious of all the world. Master Spikeman," said Winthrop, smiling.

"And is it not time to be suspicious, when those who have been honored with the confidence of our government, and to whom we have entrusted an important matter, are discovered to be no better than landlaufers and conspirators?"

"Dost distrust the good faith of the Knight in his embassy?" inquired the Governor.

"A bitter fountain cannot send forth sweet water, and should even the undertaking of this false Knight be successful in appearance, would not my suspicion be quieted."

"Come, Master Spikeman, remember that you may be called to sit as a judge on the fate of this gentleman, and that it becomes men in our positions to keep the mind free from injurious prepossessions, for only thus may justice, which is a ray from the effulgent countenance of Him who sits on the circle of the heavens, be attained."

"This is no private matter of mine own," answered the Assistant, "but a thing of public concernment; and I humbly trust, should ever my voice be demanded in its decision, that it will be raised to the glory of God, and the advancement of the interests of the colony which he has planted. But I should consider myself derelict to duty, and unworthy of the trust committed to me, were I to hold back my honest judgment, in view of the evidence now before me, subject to such modification as further examination may give rise to, especially when that judgment is asked for by the honored head of our oppressed Israel."

"It is my purpose," said Winthrop, rising, wherein he was imitated by the other, "to call together, this evening, at this place, for the due consideration of this subject, such of the Assistants as may be here present in Boston, and to advise with them thereupon, when and where I shall hope to be favored with the presence and counsel of my friend, whose zeal is never slack in aught that may redound to the welfare of the Commonwealth."

"My presence, God willing, may be depended on, worshipful sir," answered Spikeman.

A meeting of the Assistants was accordingly held at the house of the Governor the same evening, and the subject of the letters received from England, and the course to be pursued in view of their contents, considered in all their aspects. No great diversity of opinion prevailed in respect to the necessity of caution, in reposing any further confidence in Sir Christopher; but as for the proceedings to be adopted on his return, there was a considerable difference of sentiment. The more moderate, and least prejudiced against the Knight, at the head of whom was Winthrop, advised that he should be received with all honor, and the charges laid privately before him, in the first instance, and an opportunity afforded him to refute them. This they urged was the more just and honorable mode, inasmuch as the accusations came not before them invested with any judicial authority. But an opposite party, headed by Spikeman, strenuously insisted on another course. They contended, that in a matter of the kind, severity, and even what might look like precipitation, was better than a slackness, which might defeat their object. They pressed the point, that such was the number of letters received (some of them by private persons) reflecting on the character of Sir Christopher, it was impossible the information they contained should be concealed from the public, and that, consequently, even before the return of the Knight, news of it would reach his house. This, they said, would put the false Lady Geraldine on her guard, and afford opportunity to destroy papers, or whatever else might be in existence to inculpate the Knight. It was, therefore, their opinion, that the lady, with whatever might be found in the house to assist their judgment, should be instantly seized, and such other measures taken as to insure the arrest of Sir Christopher. There was, however, too much nobleness of feeling in a majority of the Council to relish invading the privacy of a female, on mere suspicion, while her protector was absent, engaged in business of the State. Winthrop looked displeased at the suggestion, and even the brow of the rough Dudley was corrugated into a haughty frown. As usually happens between differing opinions, a half measure was resolved upon, which satisfied neither party. It was to keep so strict a watch, that the moment of Sir Christopher's return should be known, and a file of armed men despatched by night, who should serve partly as a guard of honor, and partly as a restraint upon the person, to escort him to Boston. At the same time, with apologies for its necessity, his books and papers were to be secured, and the lady brought in all honor with him. This was the plan, should the Knight visit his house before coming to Boston; but if he arrived at the settlement first, he was to be detained and examined, after an account of his mission had been received.

CHAPTER XXIV.