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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXIV.

Well skilled he was in regulating laws, So as by law he could defend the cause Of poor distressed plaintiff, when he brought His case before him and for help besought. Above all other men he loved those Who gospel truths most faithfully unclose, Who were with grace and learning fully fraught.

MORTON'S NEW ENGLAND'S MEMORIAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXV.

Nought is on earth more sacred or divine, That gods and men do equally adore, Than this same virtue that doth right define, For th' heavens themselves, whence mortal men implore, Right in their wrongs, are ruled by righteous lore.

SPENSER'S FAERY QUEEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir Christopher," answered Winthrop, mildly, "you know as well as I that such practices are alien to the spirit of British law and unused by us. Touching this unhappy female, I think it meet to say no more at present, but will wish you success in the vindication of yourself."

"For myself," replied the Knight, "I care little. The character of a man is like a garment, which, when soiled, may be washed and restored to a likeness of its pristine beauty; that of a woman resembles white paper, whereupon if a drop of blood has ever fallen, it may never be erased. But what are the accusations devised against me?"

"Sir Christopher," answered Winthrop, with some hesitation, "it were hardly orderly to communicate them to you now. Before the Council, perhaps, should you hear them first. And yet see I no reason why, in harmony with the merciful spirit of our law, they should not be disclosed. We desire to overpower no man by surprise, or to deprive truth of a single aid. You shall know."

Here Winthrop entered into the particulars, which it is, we trust, unnecessary to set down, as the reader is supposed to be already informed of them. He mentioned the contents of the letters from England, but did not exhibit them, concealing nothing except what appertained to the examination of the Lady Geraldine, all inquiries respecting which he either evaded or directly refused to answer. Courteously, indeed, was it done; nor could Sir Christopher deny that the information was rightfully withheld. It was only in accordance with the usual proceedings of courts of justice, when those who are considered accomplices are examined apart from one another, in order that they may not, by a knowledge of each other's answers, be better able to frame their own.

To every accusation Sir Christopher opposed a steady denial. "That falsely suspected as I am," he said, "of other crimes and misdemeanors, I should also be deemed an usurper of a title that does not belong to me, surprises me not. But grant me time to send home (as the English in the colonies affectionately call England to this day,) and I will prove my knighthood honorably won upon a stricken field, by irrefragable testimony. I will not deny that I have the honor of an acquaintance with Sir Ferdinando Gorges, but I am in no sense his agent, nor in any wise hold communication with him, save as a friend. For the note-book found at my lodgings, and deemed conclusive proof that I am a Catholic, I aver that the memorandum therein contained refers not to myself but to one whom it concerns not you that I should name; and it furnishes no evidence against me, except what arises out of the fact that I acknowledge one who is of Rome to be my friend."

"Whatever my private thoughts," said Winthrop, "it were useless to express them, seeing that thy fate hangs not entirely upon me. With no unnecessary severity," he continued, in a kinder tone than he had hitherto adopted during the conversation, "will I treat one, whom, before these unhappy suspicions were raised, I was beginning to love as a brother; and, if thou wilt pledge me thine honor neither to attempt escape, nor by word or deed to practise aught against the Commonwealth, thou shalt have liberty of the precincts of the settlement until the Council shall take further orders."

"I accept thine offer," answered Sir Christopher, "and plight thee my knightly troth to observe the conditions. And in this, my adversity, it is a consolation to know that the noblest spirit who is to sit in judgment on me, believes me not wholly lost to the duties and sensibilities of a gentleman."

The Governor, without reply, summoned Lieutenant Venn, who was in waiting; and, after communicating to him the conclusion to which he had come, requested him to escort the Knight to his lodging.

A few days passed, during which Sir Christopher was seemingly in the full enjoyment of freedom, though closely watched. He attempted to speak with the Lady Geraldine, but was refused permission; and upon her being told of his desire, she sent him word that she had no wish to see him. No objection, however, was interposed to his intercourse with Arundel, who, with his lovely mistress, did all in their power to console the Knight and the unhappy lady in their misfortunes. The relation which the latter stood to the colony affected not the young people, except to excite their sympathies for those whom they considered unjustly suspected and prosecuted.

It might be supposed that in these circumstances Sir Christopher would betray some anxiety or gloom. Far from it. The command over his emotions which nature and discipline had given him, concealed his trouble of mind. He seemed to think but little of himself, and to be principally occupied with the approaching nuptials of Arundel and Eveline, who, immediately thereafter, were to sail for England in the ship commanded by the jolly Captain Sparhawk. The ceremony, in order to give it the greater dignity, was to be performed by Winthrop himself, the right to tie the mystical knot being, among these planters of new customs in a new world, confined to the civil magistrate. Strongly, at first, did the young lady object, and it needed all the eloquence of her lover, and all her affection for him, to prevail upon her to dispense with the priestly blessing. However, there was no alternative, if they meant to be married before their departure; and the circumstances of their situation and mutual inclination were persuasive arguments. Voyages, too, were not then as safe as now; and to the romantic girl contemplating the dangers of the sea, there was something sweet and even fascinating in the thought, that if she perished, she should die in the arms of her husband. This last consideration, above all, prevailed to overcome her scruples, and the uncanonical marriage was accordingly determined upon.

At length the day arrived for the hearing of Sir Christopher, and, attended by Arundel, he presented himself before the Council. It is unnecessary to enter into details. The result is all that need be stated. The accusations contained in the letters, though denied by the Knight, (who vehemently protested against the liberties taken with those addressed to himself, on which latter was founded the charge of being in correspondence with Sir Ferdinando Gorges, the most dreaded enemy of the colony,) obtained credence with his judges. Winthrop blushed when reproached with the violation of the letters; but the rough Dudley justified and commended the act, as fidelity to public interests. There was a settled conviction in the minds of all of the Assistants, that the Lady Geraldine was other than she seemed; and the conclusion they had arrived at concerning her were not of a nature to operate favorably for the Knight. The memorandum in the note-book was also considered weighty evidence. It was recollected, that long before suspicions were conceived concerning Sir Christopher, and when he stood highest in the favor of the principal inhabitants, he had, in speaking of his travels in foreign parts, mentioned that he was at the very place where, and at the time when the scapula was assumed; and his ascribing the reference to another, was regarded as only an awkward attempt at deception. It was thought plainly to betray him as a member of a religious order among the Roman Catholics. Winthrop himself was of that opinion, and that, without more, was sufficient to support an unfavorable decision. The idea of having covert Papists lurking in their midst was not to be tolerated, and, by whatever means, they were to be got rid of. Allusion was made to his embassy to the Taranteens, and services rendered on that and other occasions, but they were deemed insufficient to neutralize his guilt; yet, in consideration of those services, they forbore to inflict any severe punishment. The sentence of the Council was, that both the Knight and lady should be sent back to England in the next ship, and forbidden to return.

"All England shall ring with the report of your injustice," cried Sir Christopher, when the decision was announced. "Ye do yourselves more wrong than me, and the time will come when ye shall hang your heads with shame for the deed. Ye have power, it is true, to extrude me from this new world, but my presence will be a bane to you in the old. I go with solemn protest against your violence."

"Enough," said Winthrop, rising with dignity, "of threats which we notice not, because we are above them. The men who are founding an empire, whose future extent and power human sagacity cannot limit, and who, for the sake of present liberty of thought and action, and of prospective blessings for their descendants, have renounced and count as naught the vanities of this world, fear no arm of flesh. Their shield is the Lord of Hosts. This Council is dissolved."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

"To feel that we adore With such refined excess, That though the heart would burst with more, We could not live with less."

MOORE.

Fair rose the morn of the day which was to unite the destinies of Miles Arundel and of Eveline Dunning, as if to make some amends for the clouds which had attended the progress of their affection.

With a tear in her eye, and smiles in the dimples of her plump cheeks, Dame Spikeman looked on the adorning of the lady for the marriage ceremony, by the cunning fingers of Prudence Rix. She thought, as she gazed on the fair, young face, of her own maiden beauty, of the timid happiness that palpitated in her bosom on her wedding-day, of the dress that heightened her charms, and (shall I so soon acknowledge it?) of what would be becoming for herself on a like occasion, wherein she was to bear a principal part, and the too-fascinating Master Prout another. Let not the solemn pretender to decorum, who, in proportion to his demureness, is apt to be worse than others, with owlish visage quote, "frailty, thy name is woman," or, "e'er those shoes were old," or whatever musty apothegms besides, as stale and senseless. The name of Frailty is no more woman than man, and old shoes have no business at weddings. Stand aside O censorious reader, (I desire not thy acquaintance,) while I whisper to both maid and widow, what, probably, they have often pondered—that life is short, and that in Heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage.

"Bless thy sweet face!" said the dame. ("Pull down the stomacher a little, Prudence; an' it had been a thought longer it were better.) Ne'er saw I so lovely a bride."

"It is the latest London fashion," muttered Prudence, "that hath come to these outlandish parts, where, thank the Lord, our stay will not be much longer than the stomacher."

"What is the girl chattering about?" said the dame. "Why, Prudence Pert, thou wilt tear the beautiful satin with thine impatience."

"You have already made me prick my fingers three times, dame," answered the waiting-maid, pettishly. "I never could dress my young lady aright, when I was talked to. There! O dear! you have made me cut a ribbon in the wrong place!"

"Did ever one see the like!" exclaimed the widow, as, with a jerk of the petulant Prudence, a few stitches now gave way. "Why, minx, thou art as much flustrated as if thou wert to be married thyself."

"I know somebody, I guess," said the girl, in so low a tone as to be heard only by her mistress, close to whose ear was her mouth, "who would like to be flustrated in that manner."

Eveline could not restrain her smiles at the impertinence of her maid, and her gaiety seemed to please the good dame.

"Thou art a sensible child, Eveline," she said. "Now have I known many a wedding, and generally there are quite as many tears as smiles at them. I like not that, exactly, though I believe I was as great a simpleton as most, when I mar—(here the dame decorously put her handkerchief to her eyes to receive the tears which she did not shed)—when I—; but I must not think of my sorrow, when thy happiness is just commencing." (Dame Spikeman wiped her eyes, and went on more composedly.) "There is nothing thou hast cause to fear, and thou wilt soon get used to it. But, who is to be thy bridesmaid?"

"It was my intent to have had little Neebin," replied the young lady. "It would have sounded so prettily in England to say that an Indian Princess stood up with me, for Miles says that she is the sister of a great king—of Waqua—; thou dost recollect him, Prudence?"

"The funny salvage," said the girl, "who mistook a painting for a live man. But to think of the like of the sister of an Indian, though he be a handsome fellow, going to the 'menial halter with my mistress!" she added, tossing her head.

"The danger is past, Prudence," said Eveline, "for Miles tells me she has run away from the Governor's, and was last seen in the woods with one of her brother's Paniese, as the savages call their greatest warriors, Town—, Town—, I forget his name, but they were going in the direction of their own country."

"Toweringantic was the salvage's name," said Prudence. "I remember it very well, because it sounds so like English."

"That is it not precisely," said the young lady, with a smile; "but it matters not about the name. Our little Princess has fled to her home, and I am left without a bridesmaid."

"The ungrateful heathen!" exclaimed the dame. "Only to think of her deserting the comfortable house of our right worshipful Governor, and instruction in the Christian graces by godly Master Phillips, for the smoky wigwams and powawing of the Indians. The girl, I am sure, will come to no good, and I will never trust one of these Canaanites again."

"Nay; but dame," said Eveline, "I rejoice that she escaped. I did much pity her in her captivity, for she seemed to me like a wild bird, that hath all its life been accustomed to fly in the air, which had been caught and put into a cage, where it sits constantly with moping head and drooping wings, forgetful of the songs which made its woodland home so sweet."

"I did never like to disagree in opinion with thee, Eveline," said the dame, "and leastwise would I do so, of all days in the year, on thy wedding-day; so have it as thou wilt. For thy sweet sake, whom I am so soon to lose, I could find it in my heart to be pleased at anything the little savage might do, were she twenty times a heathen Amalakite or Jebusite."

"Dame," said Eveline, kissing her comely cheek, "how shall I ever be able to repay thy motherly kindness? O, wherever I may be, and whatever my lot, I will ever think of thee as my second mother."

"Dear child," replied the dame, moved to tears, which flowed with womanly facility, "never had mother a sweeter and more loving daughter than thou hast been to me. Hast thou not done more than most daughters, in giving me all the property that remains to thee here?"

"Speak not of it, dame," answered Eveline, "though it is Miles' gift, for he desired me to give it thee."

"Oh! dame, do not disturb my young lady more, for if you get her crying, think how her eyes would look," here interposed Prudence, very sensibly.

"It is time that I were attending to my own apparelling, which, in looking at thee, I quite forgot," said the widow, rising, and leaving the apartment.

The marriage, which took place at the house of the Governor, was private, and attended only by some of the principal personages of the colony and their families. Besides the Knight of the Golden Melice, Sir Richard Saltonstall, who was to sail in the same ship with the young people, came with his two daughters, as did also Master Increase Nowell, and Master Bradstreet. No minister was present, the order resenting, it may be, in a quiet way, an invasion of their prerogative, which excluded them from business of this sort; but in the solemn and graceful manner in which the accomplished Winthrop performed the ceremony, no one noticed any deficiency, not even Eveline herself, who, indeed, was thinking of other matters. Winthrop concluded his part with a little speech, in which he reminded the young couple of the new duties they had assumed, and of the loving mystery whereby two souls were united into one, like two brooks, which, pouring each into the other their bright waters, flow on, inseparably joined, to the ocean of eternity. Something he said, too, of the blessedness of a true faith, as a crowning glory, without which the world was but an unprofitable desert.

Scarcely had the congratulations which followed the sweet voice of the Governor ceased, when a stranger, an honored friend of Master Bradstreet, and who had come with him, stepped forward, and saluting Arundel by the title of the Earl of Cliffmere, informed him that he had matters of importance to communicate.

"I had waited upon you, my lord, before," he said, "even upon the instant of my arrival, had I known where to find you; but I suspected you not under your assumed name."

"I welcome you," said the Earl, advancing and taking the stranger's hand, "I welcome you, Master Hatherly, to the new world, which I this day leave, probably forever. As for thy news, I think thou art anticipated: I am informed by letters brought by the vessel wherein you came, that my father and eldest brother are no more, and that the coronet which I would willingly place upon their living brows, alas, is mine. Wonderful is the drama of life. I abandoned rank and fortune," he added, looking with eyes swimming in love upon his wife, "to seek that without which they possessed no value. They have pursued me across the sea, and, besides, I have obtained my dearest treasure."

The astonished Eveline hid her face in the bosom of her husband, while tears of happiness fell fast. Bewildered, amazed at the discovery of the rank of her lover, she knew not what to say; but amid all her confusion, prevailed triumphantly a sense of sparkling joy, of full contentment, and of radiant hope.

"Why should I conceal from you, noble Winthrop, from you, my valued friend, Sir Christopher, or from any of you, my other friends, with whom I would leave no unsatisfactory remembrance of myself, the little romance that brought me among you," continued the Earl. "Know, that a second son of the deceased Earl of Cliffmere, I wooed, in the character of an humble painter, the sweet daughter of Edmund Dunning. He aspired higher than to unite the destinies of his only child with those of an unknown artist, and looked coldly on my suit. He left England with her, and I, unable to endure the pangs of separation, desired to follow. My mother knew of my attachment from the beginning, and to my entreaties yielded her acquiescence to my desires, for she loved me greatly, and had informed herself of the worth of her to whom I had given my heart, but required me to wait for the permission of my father (absent at the time on the continent) before I followed Eveline to this new world. That permission I received, and straightway departed. Still I continued to conceal my true name and station from even Eveline herself, for a reason, perhaps, more romantic than rational; for, with selfish jealousy, I chose to be loved for my own sake, nor did I mean my secret should be revealed until I had presented my wife to my parents,—but the curtain has been unexpectedly lifted, and ye know all."

"I congratulate you, my lord," said Winthrop, "and will venture to do so also in the name of all present, upon the auspicious termination of your fortunes among us, and only lament that so little time is left us to express our respect. When returned to our dear mother England, from whose bosom we are self-banished, yet whom, with filial reverence, we love, we trust that you will not forget your brethren in the wilderness. It is upon the far-seeing judgment of those in high places, as well as upon the zeal of the people, [all under God,] that we rely to assist us in extending the material and earthly power of our country, as well as in spreading the doctrines of true religion."

"Be sure, sir," answered the Earl, "that I will endeavor to do my duty toward you according to my honest convictions. And now, Eveline, bid farewell. The favoring breeze is bellying in the half unfurled sails, gallant Captain Sparhawk is impatient, and we must away."

Lady Eveline fell upon the neck of the weeping Dame Spikeman, and after kissing her repeatedly, exchanged farewells with those around her, [as did all about to depart,] and then, accompanied by a numerous train, the passengers proceeded to the ship, whither the Lady Geraldine had preceded them, and where, also, they found Philip Joy. The sails were cast off from the yards and hoisted home; the fair wind gracefully curved the canvas, and the good ship, with silver waves breaking at her prow, and a stream of light following in her wake, gallantly stood down the bay.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

So, splendid dreams, and slumbers sweet, To each and all—Good Night.

WILLIAM E. HURLOUT.

Here might this tale be permitted to end, were it not that a doubt has arisen in my mind whether some particulars do not need explanation. Doubtless the nimble wits of the sagacious have fathomed to their satisfaction all that seemed mysterious; but there may be others who, either less imaginative or more indolent, would like an elaborate elucidation. These latter I invite to accompany me across the blue Atlantic to the pleasant town of Exeter, in the lovely county of Devon, in England.

In the nave of the splendid old cathedral of that town, two men, engaged in conversation, are walking backwards and forwards, one of whom we recognize as the Knight of the Golden Melice; the other is a stranger. Through the stained glass, the dim light of a winter's afternoon falls indistinctly on the stone floor, while from behind the screen which separates the open area where they are pacing from the portion devoted to religious worship, the solemn tones of an organ (for it is the time of evening service) are floating around the massy pillars and among the sculptured arches, as if imploring saintly rest for the high born nobles and reverend bishops who, for hundreds of years, have lain in their marble tombs around. None are present save the two, and, as with reverent feet they tread, they seem dwarfed into children by the huge proportions of the building.

"Two beings more blessed with mutual affection than the young Earl of Cliffmere and his lovely countess I know not," said the Knight, continuing the conversation. "Three weeks remained I with them in their magnificent palace at London, the attractions whereof were tenfold heightened by his courteous bearing and her graciousness. Nor could I without difficulty tear myself away, so lovingly they delighted to dwell upon the time when, as Miles Arundel, he wooed Eveline Dunning, or hunted with me, in the wilds of America, and so sweet were their attentions to my chafed spirit. With them is my trusty Philip, whose trials are now over, while he basks in the favor of the Earl and the smiles of the pretty Prudence, his wife, undisturbed save by her occasional coquetry, which only serves, I suppose, to make his love more piquant."

"A pleasing episode in your romantic life," said the stranger; but know you perfectly how you came to leave America so suddenly?"

"There is a mystery connected therewith which hath ever puzzled me," replied the Knight.

"How felt you in reference to the plan of converting an English into a French colony?"

"I did never either feel therefor inclination, or give it the approbation of my judgment. I cannot forget that I am an Englishman."

"And did Sister Celestina know your sentiments?" inquired the stranger.

"Surely. Wherefore should I have hesitated to bestow on one so devoted my absolute confidence?"

"Ne crede principibus," said the stranger, "is no more worthy of acceptance than ne crede feminis."

"Chosen friend of my soul, sworn brother of my heart," exclaimed the Knight, "I conjure thee to tell me what thou knowest or dost suspect of these mysterious circumstances."

"Thou hast borne, beloved friend, a cross, whereof thou knewest not. You were betrayed, like him whose name you bear even in the house of your friends."

"A light begins to dawn upon my mind. And Sister Celestina—"

"Aye, Sister Celestina, or, as she must now be called, the Abbess of St. Idlewhim, was the traitress. Yet, why call I her so? She did but obey her vow."

"May it please thee, Albert, to be more explicit?"

"Know, then," said the stranger, "that it was in consequence of representations from Sister Celestina thou wast recalled."

"How knowest thou this to be true?"

"Ask me not, for that I dare not reveal; but I swear, by the bones of Loyola, and by our mutual friendship, that it is the sincere truth. Father —— (I will not breathe his name, he added, looking cautiously around,) loves thee not. Thou wert in his way, and he had thee removed from England. He is strong now and fears thee no longer, and has had thee sent ignominiously home, seizing hold of the idle suspicions of a woman as a pretext."

"I see now," said the Knight, "reasons for her conduct, which at the time seemed inexplicable. But what reported Celestina to him?"

"Recollect you your offer to join the congregation?"

"It was but a stratagem."

"But so could she not understand it. Besides, she mistrusted thine intimacy with Winthrop, and his influence over thee."

"I loved the man for his gracious qualities, heretic though he be; but he never influenced me."

"The intense zeal of Celestina, guided only by her womanly instincts, was unable to comprehend thy feeling. She communicated her suspicions to the Father, and it was his pleasure to receive them as truths and act accordingly. It was the father who wrote the letters, signing thereto feigned names, and charging thee with crimes as feigned. It was he who, to avert suspicion from our order (for news had come that the jealousy of the prick-ear'd heretics was aroused, and that they were on sharp look-out for Catholics,) hesitated not to slander the Sister, his own confidential agent, trusting, by the magnitude and foulness of the charges, so to fill the minds of your judges, that other surmises would be thrust out, and thus the ground be preserved for further operations."

"I understand," said the Knight, "that my successor has departed."

"He has gone. Sister Celestina, in her elevation, forgets her temporary humiliation, and Sir Christopher Gardiner—"

"Is the victim of a woman's suspicions and of a monk's policy. Albert, I thank thee; my mind is now at ease, and I shall no longer beat the air in vain attempts to discover my accusers; unsubstantial figments of the Father's imagination. But why told you me not on my arrival in London, when I did so eagerly search for the infamous varlets who had attempted to attaint my honor, and when vain, of course, were my exertions?"

"I was not then permitted. And now, I rely upon thy discretion to bury the secret in thy breast. Any other course might be fatal to us both."

"Fear me not," said Sir Christopher. "I have been examining my heart, and find I bear no malice against the holy Father. It was time we should be removed, and the means, though harsh, were politic; for suspicions of our being Catholics were rife, and what may sound strangely, our friendship, Albert, served to confirm them."

"Explain thy meaning."

"Out of my love to thee, and as a remembrancer for myself, I had made a note in my pocket-book of the time and place of thy admission into the holy Catholic Church, of the taking of thy scapula, and of thy degrees, whereunto I had appended no name. This book escaping from my pocket, was found and delivered to my judges, and considered pregnant proof against me."

"The writing was a great imprudence," said the stranger.

"Confiteor, and whatever shame I may have endured I accept as the fitting punishment of my sins. Alas! my individual sorrows are swallowed up in grief at the thought of the condition of the Church. How doth she sit like a widow in affliction! The flood-gates of error are opened, and the world is deluged with impure streams. When I look on the marble images of the crusaders, lying with crossed legs upon their tombs around us, and on the cold faces of the abbots and mitred bishops, standing in solemn dignity in their niches, they seem saddened and indignant at a reverse that hath changed the very temple erected by Catholic piety over their ashes, and wherein the incense of acceptable worship was offered unto the Lord, into a place of resort for impious and deluded heretics with their tasteless rites. Here, with these mournful monitors around me, I cannot indulge in private resentment while my heart is breaking for the sufferings of my people."

"It is a holy and a commendable frame of mind, my brother," said the stranger. "O, if the spirit that animates thee were universal in our order, how might the wilderness of the world be made to blossom as the Rose of Sharon, and the lamentations of Sion be converted into songs of deliverance!"

* * * * *

THE LOST HUNTER:

A TALE OF EARLY TIMES.

By the Author of "THE KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN MELICE."

12mo. $1.25.

"The style is fluent and unforced; the description of character well limned; and the pictures of scenery forcible and felicitous. There is a natural conveyance of incidents to the denouement; and the reader closes the volume with an increased regard for the talents and spirit of the author.—Knickerbocker Magazine.

"The style is direct and effective, particularly fitting the impression which such a story should make. It is a very spirited and instructive tale, leaving a good impression both upon the reader's sensibilities and morals."—Eclectic Magazine.

"An interesting plot, dramatic incidents, characters well conceived and executed, picturesque sketches of American scenery, and a satisfactory denouement, are the elements of success which this new novel invites."—Ballou's Pictorial.

"The locale of the story is at Norwich, Ct., the time, a generation ago, and it embraces a wide range of characters, and brings into discussion a variety of subjects. There is no feature of the book more worthy of commendation than the Indian; this is worked up with great fidelity to the character, passions and legendary history of the aborigines, and exhibits a rare acquaintance with their characteristics. The surprises of the story to the reader are most felicitously arranged, and the conversations introduced are keenly bright."—Springfield Republican.

"The author of this work has not favored the public with his name—and why, we are at a loss to know, for it is one whose authorship no one need be ashamed to acknowledge. A train of incidents, now pathetic, now humorous, and now marvelous, is woven together with an ingenuity not less happy than remarkable. Any reader, so intense will become his interest, who shall peruse the first chapter, will find it difficult to lay the book aside before all its contents shall have been devoured. And more, and better, no one can read it without becoming wiser and better—it abounds with wholesome lessons."—Examiner.

"No clue is given to the author of this story, but it is marked on every page by evidence of a practised pen, of great dramatic power, of experienced judgment of character, and of rare powers of description."—St. Louis Republican.

"Something as bright and cheery as the blue skies and sparkling waters of the New-England land selected for the scene of narrative; as quaint and hearty as the early settlers of the northeastern States, whence it draws its sketches of character, and as wild and picturesque in places as the Indian legends of that 'long time ago' it so cheerfully describes.

"Savage life and scenes of the forest are interwoven like threads of purple and crimson with the pleasant homespun of colonial story; and, ere the reader has ceased to smile over the antics, adventures and sports of the odd specimens of early Yankee character that fill the foreground, he is charmed into silence by the poetic pomp of Indian tradition and the fiery display of Indian loves and hatreds.

"The Lost Hunter is a fine specimen of that class of American literature we have sought to encourage, and we will not mar the enjoyment of those whom we hope this notice may attract, by any brief, imperfect shadowing of the story. Buy it, read it, and you will find it amply worth the time."—National Democrat.

"We were prepared, by the original and facetious style of the preface of this book, for something out of the beaten track; nor have we been disappointed. The plot is ingeniously concealed, and well carried out. The delineations of character are admirable. The Indian legends, and specimens of Indian eloquence, are some of them surpassingly beautiful; while the history of the hero is so exciting, and withal so shrouded in mystery, that there is no sagging of the interest till the last page is reached."—Vermont Republican.

THE END