Along this difficult path the Nausett warriors and their families were now slowly winding their way, many of them on horseback, followed by their squaws and their children on foot; and others, less barbarous, leading the steeds on which the women and infants were placed on the summit of a pile of baggage, and carrying their own bows and quivers, and long and slender spears.

It was a picturesque scene: and the low chanting song of the distant Indians—to which their march kept time—sounded sweetly, though mournfully, as it rose on the breeze to the elevated position occupied by Oriana and her two companions. The latter seemed fully occupied—the one in pointing out, and the other in observing the route of the travelers. But the eye of Henrich was not unobservant of the beauties of the prospect; and that of Coubitant was restlessly roving to and fro with quick and furtive glances, that seemed to indicate some secret purpose, and to be watching for the moment to effect it.

Some of the Nausetts in the path below looked upwards; and, observing their young Sachem and his companions, they raised a shout of recognition, that caused the rocks to echo, and also made the brows of Coubitant to contract. He saw that he must delay his purpose until the travelers were out of sight: and this chafed his spirit: but he controlled it, and proposed to Henrich and Oriana to seat themselves on the verge of the precipice, and watch the course of the travelers, while he went to reconnoiter the steep path by which he designed to join them. They did so, and the hushes that grew to the edge of the steep declivity shaded the spot, and hid them from the retreating form of Coubitant.

For some time they sat together, admiring the beauty of the scene before them, and watching the long procession in the defile below, as it wound, 'in Indian file,' between the rocks and tangled bushes that cumbered the vale, until it was almost out of sight. Rudolph lay beside them, apparently asleep; but the slumber of a faithful watch-dog is always light, and Rodolph was one of the most vigilant of his race. Why did he now utter a low uneasy moan, as if he dreamt of danger? It was so low that, if Henrich heard it, he did not pay any heed to it, and continued talking to Oriana of their approaching journey, and of their plans for the future, in perfect security.

But their conversation was suddenly and painfully interrupted. A fierce bark from Rodolph, as he sprang on some one in the bush close beside Henrich, and the grasp of a powerful hand upon his shoulder at the same instant, caused the young Sachem to glance round. He found himself held to the ground by Coubitant, who was endeavoring to force him over the precipice; and would, from the suddenness and strength of the attack, have undoubtedly succeeded, but for the timely aid of Rodolph, who had seized on his left arm, and held it back in his powerful jaws. He was, however, unable to displace the savage, or release his master from the perilous situation in which he was placed; and, owing to the manner in which Henrich had seated himself on the extreme verge of the rock that overhung the precipice, it was out of his power to spring to his feet, or offer any effectual resistance. The slender but not feeble arm of Oriana, as she clung frantically to her husband, and strove to draw him back to safety, was, apparently, the only human power that now preserved him from instant destruction. Not a sound was uttered by one of the struggling group; scarcely a breath was drawn—so intense was the mental emotion, and the muscular effort that nerved every fiber during these awfully protracted moments.

But help was nigh! He, in whose hands are the lives of His creatures, sent aid when aid was so needful. A loud cry was heard in the thicket; and, as Coubitant made one more desperate effort to hurl his detested rival from the rock, and almost succeeded in flinging the whole group together into the depths below—he felt himself encircled by arms as muscular as his own, and suddenly dragged backwards.

Henrich sprang on the firm ground, and beheld his faithful friend Jyanough in fierce conflict with the treacherous Coubitant, and powerfully assisted by Rodolph, who had loosed the murderer's arm, but continued to assail and wound him as he struggled to draw his new antagonist to the brink, and seemed resolved to have one victim, even if he shared the same dreadful fate himself. Henrich flew to the aid of his friend, leaving Oriana motionless, and almost breathless, on the spot where she had endured such agony of mind, and such violent bodily exertion. For once, her strength and spirit failed her; for the trial had been too great, and faintness overcame her as she saw her husband again approach his deadly and now undisguised foe.

Coubitant saw her sink to the ground, and, with a mighty effort, he shook off the grasp of Jyanough, and darted towards Oriana. He had thought to carry her off, a living prize, after the murder of her husband; but now his only hope was vengeance and her destruction would be vengeance, indeed, on Henrich.

But love is stronger even than hate. The arms of Henrich snatched his unconscious wife from the threatened peril; and, as he bore her away from the scene of conflict, Jyanough again closed on the villain, and the deadly struggle was resumed. It was brief, but awful. The strength of Coubitant was becoming exhausted—his grasp began to loosen, and his foot to falter.

'Spare him!' cried Henrich, as he saw the combatants on the verge of the craggy platform, and feared they would fall together on the rocks beneath. 'Spare him; and secure him for the judgement of Tisquantum.' And again he laid Oriana on the ground, and rushed to save alike his friend and foe.

'He dies!' exclaimed Jyanough. 'Let him meet the fate he merits!' And springing backwards himself, he dashed his antagonist over the rock. One moment Henrich saw his falling form, and met the still fiery glance of that matchless eye—the next, he heard the crash of breaking branches, and listened for the last fatal sound of the expiring body on the rocks below. But the depth was too great: an awful stillness followed; and, though Henrich strove to look downwards, and ascertain the fate of his departed foe, the boughs and creepers that clothed the perpendicular face of the rock, entirely prevented his doing so.

'He is gone!' he exclaimed; and not in a voice of either joy or triumph, for his soul was moved within him at the appalling fate of such a man as Coubitant and at such a moment! 'He is gone to his last account: and O! what fearful passions were in his heart! Thank God, he did not drag you with him to death, my faithful Jyanough! But tell me,' he added—as they returned together to where Oriana lay, still unconscious of the dreadful tragedy that had just been enacted so near her—' tell me, my friend, how it was that you were so near at hand, when danger, which I could not repel, hung over me, and your hand was interposed to save me?'

'My mind misgave me that some treachery was intended,' replied Jyanough, 'when I saw that wily serpent leading you to the mountain's brow; and my suspicions were confirmed by his evident reluctance to my joining the party. Rodolph's expressive countenance told me, too, that there was danger to be feared; and no red man can excel Rodolph in sagacity. So I resolved to be at hand if succor should be needed; and, having waited till you were all fairly out of sight and hearing, I followed slowly and stealthily, and reached the verge of the thicket just in time to hear the warning cry of your noble dog, and see that dastardly villain spring upon you from the bush. The rest you know: and now you will believe me, when I own my conviction that your destruction has been his object since the time I joined your camp: and that, to accomplish it, and obtain possession of Oriana, he returned to Tisquantum's tribe, and has worn the mask of friendship for so many months. My soul is relieved of a burden by his death; and forgive me, Henrich, if I own that I glory in having executed on him the vengeance he deserved, and having devoted him to the fate he designed for you.'

Henrich could not regret the death, however dreadful, of one who seemed to have been so bent on the destruction of his happiness and his life; but the thought of all the guilt that lay on Coubitant's soul, unrepented of and unatoned, saddened and solemnized his spirit; and he only replied to Jyanough's exulting words by a kindly pressure of his friend's hand, as they approached Oriana.

Her senses bad returned, and, with them, a painful sense of danger and of dread, and she looked anxiously, and almost wildly, around her, as Henrich knelt beside her, and gently raised her from the ground.

'Where is he?' she exclaimed. 'Where is that fearful form, and those eyes of unearthly fire that glared on me just now? You are safe, my Henrich,' she added; and, as she looked up in his face, tears of joy and gratitude burst from her large expressive eyes, and relieved her bursting heart. You are safe, my Henrich: and oh that that dark form of dread and evil might never, never, cross my path again!'

'Fear not, Oriana,' replied Jyanough, 'he never more will darken your way through life. He has met the death he designed for Henrich, and let us think of him no more. It is time to return to the camp; and your husband and I will support you down the hill.'

'I am well, quite well, now !' cried Oriana, and she rose from the ground, and clung to Henrich's arm, as if to assure herself of his presence and safety. 'I could walk through the world thus supported, and thus guarded, too,' she added, as she stroked the head of the joyous Rodolph, who now bounded round her and Henrich with all his wonted spirit. 'I owe much to my two trusty friends; for, but for their care and watchfulness, what would now have been my dreadful fate! Let us leave this spot—so beautiful, but now so full of fearful images!'



CHAPTER XVII.

'Hither and thither; hither and thither! Madly they fly! Whither, O, whither! Whither, O, whither? - 'Tis but to die! Fire is behind them: fire is, around them: Black is the sky? Horror pursues them; anguish has found them: Destruction is nigh! And where is refuge? where is safety now? Father of mercy! None can Save but Thou?' ANON.

'What is that distant cloud, Henrich?' inquired Oriana, as they rode by Tisquantum's side on the evening of the day of their journey towards the Missouri. 'It seems like the smoke of an encampment, as I see it over the tall waving grass: but it must be too near to be the camp of our people; unless, indeed, they have tarried there, waiting the arrival of Coubitant, who never will rejoin them more.'

'I see the cloud you speak of, Oriana; and I have been watching it with some anxiety for several minutes. It cannot be what you suggest, for you know your father received a message from the trusty Salon—next in command to Coubitant—to tell him that their leader not having joined the party as he promised, a search had been made, and his mangled body found at the foot of the rock, where, it was supposed, he must have fallen in attempting the sleep descent. Salon's messenger further stated that, having buried the corpse where it lay, he had led the people on, and should pursue the path pointed out by Coubitant, and hasten to prepare the necessary huts for our reception. I dispatched the messenger again with further directions to Salon; and ere this, no doubt, the encampment is formed on the shores of the great river to which we are journeying. 'Father,' he added, as he turned towards Tisquantum, 'your eye is dim, but your sagacity is as keen as ever. Can you discern that rising smoke, and tell us its cause?'

The aged Sachem had been riding silently and abstractedly along. The tall dry grass—now ripe, and shedding its seeds on every side—rose frequently above his head; for he was mounted on a low strong horse, and he had not observed the cloud that had attracted the attention of the younger travelers. He now paused, and looked earnestly to the south, in which direction the smoke appeared right before the advancing party, and from whence a strong and sultry wind was blowing. As the prairie grass rose and fell in undulating waves, the old man obtained a distinct view of the smoke, which now seemed to have spread considerably to the right and left, and also to be approaching towards the travelers.

The narrow, zigzag track of the deer and the buffaloes was the only beaten path through the prairie; and this could only be traveled by two or three horsemen abreast. The old Sachem, and Henrich, and Oriana, led the party; and Jyanough, and Mailah, and young Lincoya, all well mounted, rode immediately in the rear. The attendants of the two families, and a few experienced warriors, some on foot and some on horseback, followed in the winding path.

On the halt of the foremost rank, the rest rode up, and were immediately made aware of the ominous signs which hitherto they had not noticed. Instantly terror was depicted in every countenance; and the deep low voice of Tisquantum sank into every heart, as he exclaimed, 'The prairie is on fire!'

'Turn!' cried Henrich, 'and fly! Let each horseman take one of those on foot behind, and fly for your lives. Cast the baggage on the ground— stay for nothing, but our people's lives.'

He was obeyed: men and women were all mounted; and Henrich snatched his boy from the arms of the woman who carried him, and, giving the child to Oriana, took up the terrified attendant on his own powerful steed.

The wind rose higher: and now the roar of the pursuing flames came fearfully on the fugitives, growing louder and louder, while volumes of dense smoke were driven over their heads, and darkened the sky that had so lately shone in all its summer brightness.

Headlong the party dashed along the winding path, and sometimes the terrified horses leaped into the tall grass, seeking a straighter course, or eager to pass by those who had fled before them. But this was a vain attempt. The wild pea-vines, and other creeping plants that stretched among the grass, offered such impediments to rapid flight, as forced them again into the path.

And now the wild inhabitants of the broad savanna came rushing on, and joined the furious flight, adding difficulty and confusion to the horror of the scene. Buffaloes, elks, and antelopes, tore madly through the grass, jostling the horses and their riders, and leaving them far in the rear. The screaming eagle rode high above among the clouds of smoke, and many smaller birds fell suffocated to the ground; while all the insect tribe took wing, and everything that had life strove to escape the dread pursuer.

It was a desperate race! The strength of the fugitives began to fail, and no refuge, no hope, seemed near. Alas! to some the race was lost. The blinding effect of the dense smoke that filled the atmosphere, the suffocating smell of the burning mass of vegetable matter, and the lurid glare of the red flames that came on so rapidly, overpowered alike the horses and their riders: while the roaring of the fire—which sounded like a mighty rushing cataract—and the oppressive heat, seemed to confuse the senses, and destroy the vital powers of the more feeble and ill-mounted of the fugitives. Several of the horses fell, and their devoted riders sank to the ground, unable any longer to sustain the effort for life; and Henrich had the agony of passing by the wretched victims, and leaving them to their fate, for he knew that he had no power to save them.

Many miles were traversed—and still the unbroken level of the prairie spread out before them—and still the roaring and destructive flames came borne on the mighty winds behind them. A few scattered trees were the only objects that broke the monotony of the plains; and the hills, at the foot of which they had traveled that morning, and where alone they could lock for safety, were still at a great distance. At length, the aged Tisquantum's powers of endurance began to give way. The reins almost fell from his hands; and, in trembling accents, he declared his total inability to proceed any further.

Leave me, my children!' he exclaimed, 'to perish here; for my strength is gone; and what matters it where the old Tisquantum breathes his last. Mahneto is here, even in this awful hour, to receive my spirit; and I shall but lose a few short months or years of age and infirmity.'

'Never, my father!' cried H enrich, as he caught the reins of the Sachem's horse; and while he still urged his own overloaded steed to fresh exertions, endeavored also to support the failing form of his father-in-law. 'Never will we leave you to die alone in this fiery desert. Hold on, my father! hold on yet a little longer till we gain the defile, where the flames cannot follow as, and all will yet be well!'

'I cannot, my son!' replied the old man. 'Farewell, my dear, my noble boy!—farewell, my Oriana!' And his head sank down upon the neck of his horse.

He would have fallen to the ground but for Henrich, who now checked the panting steeds, and sprang down to his feet in time to receive him in his arms.

Fly, Oriana!' he exclaimed, as his wife also drew the bridle of her foaming horse by his side. 'Fly, Oriana, my beloved! save your own life, and that of our child! If possible, I will preserve your father— but if not, farewell! and God be with you!'

One moment Oriana urged her horse again to its swiftest pace, as if in obedience to her husband's command—the next, she was at Mailah's side, holding her infant in one arm, white with the other she guided and controlled the terrified animal on which she rode.

'Here, Mailah!' she cried—and she clasped the child to her breast, and imprinted one passionate kiss on its cheek—' Take my Ludovico, and save his life, and I will return to my husband and father. If we follow you, well. If not, be a mother to my child, and may the blessing of God be on you!'

She almost flung the infant into the extended arms of Mailah; and then, having with difficulty turned her horse, and forced him to retrace his steps, she again rejoined those with whom she was resolved to live or die.

One glance of affectionate reproach she met from her Henrich's eyes: but he did not speak. With the assistance of Ludovico's nurse, who rode behind him, he had just lifted Tisquantum to his own saddle, and was preparing to mount himself, and endeavor to support the unconscious old man, and again commence the race far life or death. But it seemed a hopeless attempt—so utterly helpless was the Sachem, and so unable to retain his seat. Quick as thought Oriana unbound her long twisted girdle of many colors; and, flinging it to Henrich, desired him to bind the failing form of her father to his own. He did so: and the nurse having mounted behind Oriana, again the now furious steeds started forward. All these actions had taken less time to perform than they have to relate; but yet the pursuing flames had gained much way, and the flight became more desperate, and more hazardous. Again the prostrate forms of horses and their riders met the eyes of Henrich and Oriana; but in the thickness of the air, and the wild speed at which they were compelled to pass, it was impossible to distinguish who were the unhappy victims.

'Heaven be praised!' at length Henrich exclaimed—and they were the first words he had uttered since the flight had been resumed—' Heaven be praised! I see the rocks dimly through the clouds of smoke. Yet a few moments, and we shall be safe. Already the grass around us is shorter and thinner: we are leaving the savanna, and shall soon reach the barren defile, where the flames will find no fuel'

The horses seemed to know that safety was near at hand, for they bounded forward with fresh vigor, and quickly joined the group of breathless fugitives, who, having reached the extremity of the prairie, had paused to rest from their desperate exertions, and to look out for those of their companions who were missing, but who they hoped would soon overtake them.

Oriana snatched her now smiling boy from Mailah's arms, and embraced him with a fervency and emotion that showed how little she had hoped to see his face again. But her own happy and grateful feelings were painfully interrupted by her friend's exclamation of agony—

'Where is my Lincoya?' she cried. 'Did he not follow with you? I saw him close to me when I paused to take your child: and he is not here! O, my Lincoya! my brave, my beautiful boy! Have you perished in the flames, with none to help you?' And she broke forth into cries and lamentations that wrung the heart of Oriana.

She could give her no tidings of the lost youth, for she knew not whose fainting forms she had passed in the narrow shrouded path; and it was utterly impossible now to go and seek him, for the flames had followed hard upon their flight, and were still raging over the mass of dry herbage, and consuming even the scattered tufts that grew among the stones at the entrance to the ravine. So intense was the heat of the glowing surface, even after the blaze had died away, that it would not be practicable to pass over it for many hours; and the party, who had reached a place of safety, were compelled to make arrangements for passing the night where they were, not only that they might be ready to seek the remains of their lost friends the next morning, but also because their own weary limbs, and those of their trembling horses, refused to carry them any further. All the provisions and other baggage, which they had carried for their journey, had been abandoned in the flight, end had become a rapid prey to the devouring flames. But several of the scorched and affrighted prairie fowls, and a few hares— exhausted with their long race—were easily secured by the young hunters, end afforded a supper to the weary company.

The horses were then turned loose to find fodder for themselves, and to drink at the little brook that still trickled among the rocks; and large fires having been lighted to scare the wild beasts that, like our travelers, had been driven for refuge to the ravine, all lay down to sleep, thankful to the deities in whom they respectively trusted, for their preservation in such imminent peril.

Fervent were the prayers and praises that were offered up that night by the little band of Christians, among whom Henrich always officiated as minister: and even the distressed spirit of Mailah was comforted and calmed as she joined in his words of thanksgiving, and in his heartfelt petitions that the lost Lincoya might yet be restored to his parents; or that, if his spirit had already passed away from earth, it might have been purified by faith, and received into the presence of its God and Savior.

Mailah was tranquilized; but her grief and anxiety were not removed: and she passed that sad night in sleepless reflection on the dreadful fate of her only child, and in sincere endeavors so to realize and apply all the blessed truths she had learnt from Henrich, as to derive from them that comfort to her own soul, and that perfect resignation to the will of God, that she well knew they were designed to afford to the Christian believer. And that night of watchfulness did not pass unprofitably to Mailah's spirit.

But where was Lincoya? Where was the youth whose mother mourned him as dead? He was safe amid the top most boughs of a lonely tree, that now stood scorched and leafless in the midst of the smoldering plain, several miles from the safe retreat that had been gained by his friends.

The horse on which he rode that day, though fleet and active, was young, and uninured to long continued and violent exertion; and, at length, its foot getting entangled in some creeping plant that had grown across the pathway, it had fallen violently to the ground, and thrown its young rider among the prairie-grass, where he lay, stunned, and unable to rise, until all his companions had passed by. Then he regained the path, and attempted to raise the exhausted creature from the earth: but all in vain. Its trembling limbs were unable to support it; and Lincoya saw that he could no longer look to his favorite steed for the safety of his own life, and must abandon it to perish in the flames.

But the boy was an Indian, and accustomed to Indian difficulties and Indian expedients. He glanced rapidly around for some means of preservation; and, seeing a tree of some magnitude, and at no great distance, he resolved to try to reach it ere the coming fire had seized on the surrounding herbage, and seek for a refuge in its summit. With much difficulty, he forced his way through the tall rank grass that waved above his head, and the wild vines that were entangled with it in every direction; and he reached the foot of the tree just as the flames were beginning to scorch its outmost branches. He sprang upward; and, climbing with the agility of a squirrel, he was soon in the highest fork of the tree, and enabled to look down in security on the devastating fire beneath him. All around was one wide sea of ruddy flames, that shot up in forked and waving tongues high amid the heavy clouds of smoke. Happily for Lincoya, the herbage beneath his tree of refuge grew thin and scanty, and did not afford much food for the devouring elements; otherwise it must have consumed his retreat, and suffocated him even in its topmost boughs. As it was, the lower branches only were destroyed, and the boy was able to endure the heat and smoke until the roaring flames had passed beneath him, and he watched them driving onward in the wake of his flying friends.

To follow his companions that night was hopeless, for how could he traverse that red-hot plain? He, therefore, settled himself firmly among the sheltering branches, to one of which he bound himself with his belt of deer skin, and prepared to pass the night in that position, as he had passed many similar ones when he had been out on hunting expeditions with his father-in-law Jyanough.

Long he gazed on the strange aspect of the wide savanna, as it glowed in the darkness of night, with a lurid and fearful glare, that only made the gloom more visible. But weariness and exhaustion at length overcame him, and he fell asleep, and did not awake until the sun was high in the heavens. The prospect around him was changed, but the plain looked even more dreary and desolate than it appeared while the fire was at work on its clothing of grass. Now all was laid low, and smoking ashes alone covered the nakedness of the savanna. Lincoya gazed earnestly in every direction, that he might make sure of the route he must follow in order to rejoin his friends; and his attention was attracted by the figures of two men approaching towards the tree in which he sat, and apparently engage d in earnest conversation. For a moment his hopes led him to believe that they were Jyanough and Henrich, who had returned, probably, in search of him; and he was about to hail them with a loud and joyful cry. But the caution so early instilled into the mind of an Indian restrained him: and well it was for him that he had not thus given vent to his feelings. The men drew nearer, and he saw, to his amazement, that they were Coubitant—he whose death and burial had been so confidently reported, and Salon—the trusty Salon—to whom the conduct of the tribe had been deputed after the supposed death of the appointed leader.

They came beneath the tree; and, seating themselves at its foot, proceeded to refresh themselves with food and water, that looked tempting to the eyes of the fasting and parched Lincoya, as he gazed noiselessly and attentively at their proceedings, and listened to their discourse.

'At last I have been successful, Salon,' said Coubitant to his companion. 'At last I may rejoice in the destruction of those I hate with so bitter a hatred. Those burnt and broken weapons were Henrich's, end this ornament belonged to Oriana.' As he said this he displayed in his hand a girdle clasp, that Lincoya recognized as having been worn by the Squaw-Sachem on the previous day. It had fallen to the ground when she gave the girdle to Henrich: and many of his personal accoutrements had also been cast there, unheeded, in his anxiety to save Tisquantum.

'I would I could have been more sure of all the bodies that lay just beyond,' continued the savage; 'but I think I could not be mistaken in those I most wished to find, burnt and disfigured as they were. And the horses, too, were surely those they rode; for I knew the fragments of Tisquantum's trappings, and recognized the form of Lincoya's pony. Yes! they are all destroyed; I know it, and I exult in it! Now, who shall prevent my being Sachem of the tribe, and leading my warriors to the destruction of the detested white invaders of our land?

'Truly,' replied Salon, 'your last scheme has succeeded better than any of the others you have tried; and I now gladly hail you as Sachem of our tribe. I have made sure of the fidelity of many of our bravest warriors; and when those who would have taken the white man's part, and followed him in obedience to Tisquantum's wishes, find that he is dead, they will readily take you for their leader, as the bravest of our tribe, and the most determined foe of the pale-faces. But it is possible that Henrich has even yet escaped us. The bodies that lie scorched on the ashes are fewer than the number that were to follow us. We must, therefore, take measures to seize and destroy those who yet live, if they are likely to disturb our scheme. Of course, they will again set out on the same track, as being that which will most quickly bring them where food and water are to be found. We have only to lie in wait at the other side of the savanna, where the narrow mountain pass leads to the river, and our arrows and spears will be sufficient to silence every tongue that could speak against your claims.'

'You are right, nay faithful Salon,' answered Coubitant, with a sign of warns approbation of the forethought of his accomplice. 'Let us lose no time in crossing the plain; for, doubtless, the survivors of this glorious fire will be early on their march, and it would not do for them to overtake us in the midst of the ruin we have wrought. We will set all inquiries to rest, and then we will report to our tribe that the dreadful conflagration has deprived them of both their Chiefs, and that it rests with themselves to choose another. O, Salon! my soul burns to lead them to Paomet, that stronghold of our country's foes!'

The murderers arose, and took their way directly across the prairie: for all the rank herbage being now reduced to ashes, they were no longer obliged to follow the winding course of the buffalo track. They proceeded at a rapid pace; but it was some time ere Lincoya ventured to descend from his hiding-place, as he feared being observed on the level plain, if either of those ruthless villains should east a glance behind them. At length their retreating forms appeared to him like specks in the distance; and he came down from his watch-tower, and fled as fast as his active young limbs could carry him, towards the spot where he hoped to rejoin his friends. He had not very long continued his flight, when he perceived several persons on horseback approaching towards him; and soon he found himself in the arms of his joyful mother, and was affectionately greeted by Jyanough and Henrich, who, with several others, had come out to look if any of their missing companions were still within reach of human aid.

All but Lincoya had perished! The fire and the smoke had not only destroyed their lives, but had so blackened and disfigured them that it was impossible to identify a single individual. A grave was dug in the yet warm earth; and all the victims were buried sufficiently deep to preserve their remains from the ravages of wild beasts; and then the party returned in all haste to those who anxiously awaited them at their place of refuge.

On the way, Lincoya related to his father-in-law and Henrich the whole of the conversation which he had heard between Coubitant and Salon, while he was in his safe retreat; and their surprise at finding that the former had survived his desperate fall from the brow of the precipice, and still lived to plan and work out schemes of cruelty and malice, was only equaled by their indignation at thus discovering the treachery and deceit of Salon. They had hitherto put the most entire confidence in the fidelity of this man: and if they had still entertained any doubts or suspicions as to the honesty of Coubitant's intentions, they had relied on Salon to discover his plans, and prevent any mischief being accomplished.

The whole story was told to Tisquantum; and his counsel was asked as to the best mode of now counteracting the further schemes of the traitors, and escaping the snare which they found was yet to be laid for their destruction. It would be impossible for them to reach the camp on the banks of the Missouri, by the path which Coubitant had pointed out, without passing through the defile where the villain and his confederate now proposed to lie in wait for them, and where, in spite of their superior numbers, many of their party would probably be wounded by the arrows and darts of their hidden foes, without having any opportunity of defending themselves. That route was therefore abandoned. But the old Sachem remembered having traversed this part of the continent many years ago, and he knew of a track to the west, by which the mountains that skirted the course of the Missouri might be avoided, and the rivers reached at a considerable distance above the place at which the encampment was appointed to be formed. This road was, indeed, much longer than that across the prairie, and would occupy several days to traverse; so that it was doubtful whether Coubitant would wait so long in his lurking-place, or whether he would conclude that the Chiefs were dead, and return to take the command of the tribe.

Nevertheless, no other course was open; and, with as little delay as possible, the journey was commenced. A scanty supply of food was obtained by the bows and arrows of the hunters, and water was occasionally met with in the small rivulets that flowed from the hills, and wandered on until they eventually lost themselves in the broad Missouri.

Inured to privations and to toilsome journeys, the Indian party heeded them not, but cheerfully proceeded on their way until, at length, they beheld the wigwams of their tribe standing on a green meadow near the river's side. They hastened on, and were received with joyful acclamations by the inhabitants, who had almost despaired of ever seeing them again. The conflagration of the prairie was known to them; but almost all of them were ignorant of the true cause of the awful calamity, and attributed it entirely to accident. Nor were any suspicions aroused in their minds by the conduct of Coubitant and Salon, who had pretended the greatest alarm and anxiety for the fate of the Chiefs and their party, and had set out as soon as it was possible to traverse the savanna, in the hope, as they declared, of rendering assistance to any of the Sachem's company who might have survived the catastrophe.

Much to the relief of all the party, they found that neither Coubitant nor his accomplice had yet returned to the camp; and their prolonged absence was becoming a source of uneasiness to the rest of the tribe, who were preparing to send out a party of men to search for them, the very day that Henrich led his detachment into the village.

It was agreed by the Sachems and Jyanough, that they would not communicate to the rest of their people all they had discovered of the treachery of Coubitant and Salon; as they knew not yet how many of the warriors might have been induced to join in the conspiracy, and connive at their crimes. They, therefore, accounted for having traveled by so circuitous a route, on the plea of their inability to cross the prairie without any supply of either provisions or water; and they commanded the party who were about to search for Coubitant and. Salon, to set out immediately, and to use every possible exertion to find them, and bring them in safety to the camp. They could have told their messengers exactly where the villains were to be found; but that would have betrayed a greater knowledge of their movements than it would have been prudent to disclose; and they only directed the men to shout aloud every now and then, as they traversed the mountain passes, that the lost travelers might know of their approach; and also to carry with them a supply of food sufficient to last several days.

The messengers departed: and then Jyanough set himself to work, with all an Indian's sagacity, to find out the extent to which the conspiracy had been carried among the warriors of the tribe. He succeeded in convicting four men of the design to elevate Coubitant to the chieftainship, and of a knowledge and participation in his last desperate scheme for the destruction of the Sachem and all his family. Summary justice was, therefore, executed on the culprits, who scorned to deny their crimes when once they were charged with them; and submitted to the sentence of their Chief with a fortitude that almost seemed to expiate their offence. The most daring of the four openly exulted in his rebellious projects, and boasted of his long-concealed hatred towards the pale-faced stranger, who presumed to exercise authority over the free red men; and Tisquantum deemed it politic to inflict on him a capital punishment. He was, therefore, directed to kneel down before him, which he did with the greatest composure; and the aged Chief then drew his long sharp knife, and, with a steady hand and unflinching eye, plunged it into the heart of the criminal. He expired without a groan or a struggle; and then the other three wretches were led up together, and placed in the same humble posture before the offended Sachem. At Henrich's request, the capital sentence was remitted; but one of agony and shame was inflicted in its stead— one that is commonly reserved for the punishment of repeated cases of theft. The Sachem's knife again was lifted, and, with a dexterous movement of his hand, he slit the noses of each of the culprits from top to bottom, and dismissed them, to carry for life the marks of their disgrace. No cry was uttered by any one of the victims, nor the slightest resistance offered to their venerable judge and executioner; for such cowardice would, in the estimation of the Indians, have been far more contemptible than the crime of which they had been convicted. Silently they withdrew; nor did they, even by the expression of their countenances, seem to question the justice of their chastisement.

The next step to be pursued, was to prepare for securing Coubitant and Salon the moment they should make their appearance in the camp, and before they could be made aware of the discovery at their treason. For this purpose, very effectual steps were taken; and Jyanough—the faithful and energetic Jyanough—took the command of the band of trusty warriors who were appointed to seize the leaders of the conspiracy, and to bring them into the presence of the Chiefs.

That evening, soon after sunset, the searching party returned; and, no sooner did Jyanough perceive, from the spot where he had posted his men among the rocks and bushes that commanded the pathway, that Coubitant and his fellow-criminal were with them, than he gave the concerted signal, and rushed upon them. In an instant, they were seized by the arms, and dragged forcibly forward to the village. They asked no questions of their captors—for conscience told them that their sin had found them out, and that they were about to expiate their crimes by a death, probably both lingering and agonizing.

Doggedly they walked on, and were led to the spot where Tisquantum and his son-in-law awaited their arrival. This was beneath a spreading tree that grew near the banks of the river, which in that part were rather high and precipitous. The shades of evening were deepening; and the dark visage of Coubitant looked darker than ever, while the lurid light of his deep-set eyes seemed to glow with even unwonted luster from beneath his shaggy and overhanging brows.

The greatest part of the tribe were gathered together in that place, and stood silently around to view the criminals, and to witness their expected fate; for now all were acquainted with their guilt and all who were assembled here were indignant at their treachery against their venerable and beloved Sachem, and their scarcely less respected white Chieftain.

The voice of Tisquantum broke the ominous silence.

'Coubitant,' he solemnly began, 'you have deceived your Chief. You have spoken to him words of peace, when death was in your heart. Is it not so?'

'I would be Chief myself,' replied the savage, in a deep, undaunted voice. 'I was taught to believe that I should succeed you; and a pale- faced stranger has taken my place. I have lived but to obtain vengeance—vengeance that you, Tisquantum, who were bound to wreak it on the slayer of your son, refused to take. A mighty vengeance was in my soul; and to possess it, I would have sacrificed the whole tribe. Now do to me as I would have done to Henrich.' And he glared on his hated rival with the eye of a beast of prey. Tisquantum regarded him calmly, and gravely continued his examination.

'And you have also drawn some of my people into rebel lion, and persuaded them to consent to the murder of their Chief. One of them has already shed his life-blood in punishment of his sin; and the rest will bear the marks of shame to their graves. All this is your work.'

'If more of your people had the courage to join me in resisting the pretensions of the proud stranger, you and Henrich would now have been lying dead at my feet. You would never again have been obeyed as Sachems by the Nausetts. But they loved their slavery—and let them keep it. My soul is free. You may send it forth in agony, if you will: for I am in your power, and I ask no mercy from those to whom I would have shown none. Do your worst. Coubitant's heart is strong; and I shall soon be with the spirits of my fathers, where no white men can enter.

The wrath of Tisquantum was stirred by the taunts and the bold defiance of his prisoner; and he resolved to execute on him a sentence that should strike terror into any others of the tribe who might have harbored thoughts of rebellion.

'The death that you intended should be my portion, and that of all my family, shall be your own!' he exclaimed. The torments of fire shall put a stop to your boasting. My children,' he added—turning to the warriors who stood around him—' I call on you to do justice on this villain. Form a pile of wood here on the river's brink; end when his body is consumed, his ashes shall he cast on the stream, and go to tell, in other lands, how Tisquantum punishes treachery.'

A smile of scorn curled the lip of Coubitant, but he spoke not; and no quivering feature betrayed any inward fear of the approaching agony.

'Hear me yet, Coubitant,' resumed the old Chieftain; and, as he spoke, the strokes of his warriors' hatchets among the neighboring trees fell on the victim's ear, but did not seem to move him. 'Hear me yet, and answer me. Was it by your arts that Salon's soul was turned away from his lawful Chief, and filled with thoughts of murder? Was he true to me and mine until you returned to put evil thoughts into his heart? or had pride and jealousy already crept in there, which you have only fostered?'

'Salon hugged his chains till I showed him that they were unworthy of a true-born Indian. The smooth tongue of the pale-face had beguiled him, till I told him that it would lead him to ruin and subjection. Yes: I taught Salon to long for freedom for himself, and freedom for his race. And now he will die for it, as a red man ought to die. Let the same pile consume us both!'

'No!' interrupted Henrich, eagerly. 'His guilt is far less than yours, and mercy may be extended to him. By every law of God and man your life, Coubitant, is forfeited; and justice requires that you should die. But I would desire your death to be speedy, and I would spare you all needless agony. My father,' he continued, addressing Tisquantum, 'let my request be heard in favor of Salon, that he may live to become our trusty friend again; and since Coubitant must die, let it be by the quick stroke of the knife, and not in the lingering horrors of the stake.'

'Cease to urge me, my son,' replied the Chief, in a tone of firm determination, that forbad all hope of success. 'I have said that Coubitant shall die the death he intended for us; and his funeral pile shall light up this spot ere I retire to my lodge. Salon, also, shall die: but, as he was deceived by the greater villain, he shall die a warriors death.'

The Sachem rose from his seat, and took a spear that leaned against the trunk of the tree beside him.

'Now meet the stroke like a man!' he cried; and gathering his somewhat failing strength, he bore with all his force against the naked breast of Salon. The life-blood gushed forth, and he fell a corpse upon the earth.

'Now drive in the stake, and heap the pile!' exclaimed the aged Chieftain in a clear, loud voice of command, as he withdrew the bloody lance, and waved it high above his head. He was excited by the scene he was enacting, and the feelings of his race were aroused within him with a violence that had been long unknown to him. He felt the joy that savage natures feel in revenging themselves on their foes; and he forgot the influence that Henrich's example and precepts of forbearance had so lung exerted over his conduct, though they had not yet succeeded in changing his heart.

'Heap the pile high!' he cried; 'and let the flames bring back the light of day, and show me the death struggles of him who would have slain me, and all I love on earth. Drag the wretch forward, and bind him strongly. The searching flames may yet have power to conquer his calm indifference.'

The lighted brand was ready, and the victim was led to the foot of the pile. A rope was passed around his arms, and the noose was about to be drawn tight, when, quick as lightning, the devoted victim saw that there was yet one chance for life. The river was rolling beneath his feet. Could he but reach it! His arms were snatched from those who held them with a sudden violence, for which they were unprepared; and, with one desperate bound, the prisoner gained the steep bank of the broad dark stream. Another moment, and a heavy plash was heard in the waters.

Darkness was gathering around the scene; and those who looked into the river could distinguish no human form on its surface.

'Fire the pile!' cried Tisquantum; and the flames burst up from the dry crackling wood, and threw a broad sheet of light on the dark stream below.

'He is there!' again shouted the infuriated Chieftain. 'I see the white foam that his rapid strokes leave behind him. Send your arrows after him, my brave warriors, and suffer him not to escape. Ha! will Mahneto let him thus avoid my vengeance?'

The bow-strings twanged, and the arrows flew over the water. Where did they fall? Not on Coubitant's struggling form; for he had heard the Sachem's command, and had dived deeply beneath the surface of the water, and changed his course down the stream. When he rose again, it was in a part of the river that the flames did not illuminate; and those who sought his life saw him no more.

'Surely he was wounded, and has sunk, never to rise again!' exclaimed Henrich. 'His doom has followed him!'

'Mahneto be praised!' cried Tisquantum; 'but I would I had seen him writhing in those flames!' And he turned and left the spot.

Coubitant gained the western shore of the river; and he smiled a strange and ominous smile, as he looked across the waters, and saw the forms of his enemies by the light of that fire which had been intended to consume his quivering flesh, and dismiss from earth his undaunted and cruel spirit.

'I will have vengeance yet!' ha muttered: and then he turned his steps towards the south, and paused not until he had traveled many miles down the river, when he lay down on its margin, and slept as soundly as if no guilt lay on his soul.



CHAPTER XVIII

'Out of small beginnings great things have arisen,...and as one small candle may light a thousand. So the light here kindled hath shone on many.' GOVERNOR BRADFORD'S JOURNAL.

Once more we must leave our Indian friends, and return to New Plymouth, and to comparatively civilized life, with all its cares and anxieties, from so many of which the wild tenants of the woods are free.

Cares and anxieties had, indeed, continued to be the portion of the Pilgrim Fathers and their families, though mingled with many blessings. Their numbers had considerably increased during the years that elapsed since last we took a view of their condition; and their town bad assumed a much more comfortable and imposing appearance. Many trading vessels had also visited the rising colony from the mother-country, and had brought out to the settlers useful supplies of clothing, and other articles of great value. Among these, none were more acceptable to the emigrants than the first specimens of horned cattle, consisting of three cows and a bull, that reached the settlement about the third year after its establishment. They were hailed with universal joy by all the inhabitants of New Plymouth, who seemed to feel as if the presence of such old accustomed objects, brought back to them a something of home that they had never felt before in the land of their exile. These precious cattle were a common possession of the whole colony, and were not divided until the year 1627, when their numbers had greatly increased, and when a regular division of the houses and lands also took place.

The trade of the colony had, likewise, been considerably augmented, both with the Indians and with the English, whose fishing vessels frequented the coast, and were the means of their carrying on a constant intercourse and traffic with their friends at home. One of these vessels brought out to the emigrants the sad intelligence of the death of their beloved pastor, John Robinson—he who had been honored and respected by every Puritan community, whether in Europe or America, and for whose arrival the Pilgrims had looked, with anxious hope, ever since the day of their sorrowful parting in Holland. 'Surely'—as a friend of Bradford's wrote to him from Leyden—our pastor would never have gone from hence, if prayers, tears or means of aid could have saved him.' The consternation of the settlers was great indeed. Year after year they had gone on, expecting and waiting for his coming to resume his official duties among them; and, therefore, they had never taken any measures to provide themselves with regular pastors, who might preach the gospel to them three times every Lord's day, according to their custom in Europe and also administer to them the sacrament, which, previous to their exile, all the grown-up members of the community had habitually received every Sunday.

The death of their spiritual leader and counselor had destroyed all their hopes of being again united to him on earth; and the blow fell heavily on all, and cast a gloom over the settlement that was not soon dispersed; but still the Pilgrims did not immediately proceed to choose another minister. The belief that the divine service could receive no part of its sanctity from either time, place, or person, but only from the Holy Spirit of God, which hallows it—was then, as it is now, a leading feature of the Independent and Presbyterian churches of America, and, therefore, the Puritans of New Plymouth did not feel it a necessity—although they deemed it a privilege—to enjoy the spiritual ministrations of ordained clergymen.

Hitherto the venerable Brewster, with the occasional aid of Bradford, Winslow, and a few others distinguished for piety and eloquence, had delivered the customary addresses and prayers, and had performed the rite of baptism. At length, in the year 1628, Allerton, the assistant of Bradford, after he had been on a mission to England, brought back with him a young preacher of the name of Rogers, who very shortly gave such evident signs of insanity, that the settlers were obliged to send him back to his native land, at a considerable expense and trouble.

In the meantime, the number of settlers on other parts of the coast of New England had augmented to a great extent; and in Salem alone there were four ministers who had come out with the English emigrants, of whom only two could find adequate employment. One of the others, therefore, named Ralph Smith, who was a man of much piety, and judged orthodox by the Puritans, went to Plymouth, and offered himself as pastor to the inhabitants. He was chosen by the people to be their spiritual leader, and became the first regularly-appointed preacher who officiated among these, the earliest settlers in New England.

Two or three small vessels were, about this time, built by the men of Plymouth for their own use, and proved of great service to them, as their connection with other colonies of Europeans on the American coast became more extensive and profitable. A friendly intercourse with the Dutch settlers at the mouth of the great river Hudson had also lately been established, to the great satisfaction of the Plymouthers, and to the mutual advantage and comfort of both parties. It was commenced by the men of Holland soon after their formal settlement near the Hudson, where they erected a village, and a fortress called Fort Amsterdam. From thence they addressed a courteous letter to their old connections, the English exiles from Leyden; and invited them to an occasional barter of their respective goods and productions, and also offered them their services in any other way that could be useful.

Governor Bradford—who still by annual election retained his important office—returned an equally friendly reply to these overtures: and at the same time tendered his own and his people's grateful acknowledgements of all the kindness and hospitality that they had received during their residence in Holland, in years gone by. The following year they were surprised and gratified by a visit from De Brazier, the Secretary of the Dutch colony, who anchored at Manomet, a place twenty miles to the south of New Plymouth, and from thence sent to request the Pilgrims to send a boat for him. His ship was well stocked with such wares as were likely to be acceptable to the English; and, according to the custom of the times, he was attended by several gaily dressed trumpeters, and a numerous retinue of servants. The new pinnace, which had recently been built at Manomet, was immediately dispatched for the welcome visitors, and he was hospitably entertained by his new friends for three days; after which the Governor, attended by Rodolph and some others, returned with him to his vessel, to make their purchases, and to give in exchange for their European goods, such furs, and skins, and tobacco, as they had been able to collect in their general storehouse on 'the Burying Hill.'

From this period, an active trade was carried on between the two settlements, which proved highly advantageous to both—the Dutch supplying the men of Plymouth with sugar, linen, and other stuffs, in return for their skins, timber, and tobacco.

During all this time, an almost perfect peace was maintained with the neighboring Indian tribes; and the friendship that had so early been established between the English settlers and the Wampanoges became more confirmed and strengthened. All external matters now wore a far more prosperous aspect than they had hitherto done; and the Pilgrims felt that they had both the means and the leisure to add to the comforts of their social and domestic life. Some years previously, a small portion of land had been assigned to each family for its own particular use: but the possession of this land had not been made hereditary; and although the fact of its being appropriated to one household had considerably increased the zeal and industry of the cultivators, yet they still desired that feeling of inalienable property which so greatly adds to the value of every possession.

To gratify this natural desire, the Governor and his council had deemed it advisable to depart so far from the terms of the original treaty as to allot to each colonist an acre of land, as near the town as possible, in order that, if any danger threatened, they might be able to unite speedily for the general defense. This arrangement gave much satisfaction to the settlers; but in the year 1627 they were placed in a still more comfortable and independent position. They were, by their charter, lords of all the neighboring land for a circle of more than one hundred miles. That portion of their territory, therefore, which was most contiguous to the town, was divided into portions of twenty acres, five long on the side next the coast, and four broad; and to each citizen one of these portions was assigned, with the liberty of purchasing another for his wife, and also one for every child who resided with him. To every six of these pieces were allotted a cow, two goats, and a few pigs; so that each settler became possessed of a little farm of his own, and a small herd of cattle to stock it with: and peace and plenty at length seemed to smile on the hardy and long- enduring settlers.

Meanwhile, the colony of Massachusetts, which had been founded in the year 1624, increased rapidly. It was first planted at Nantasket, a deserted village of the Indians, at the entrance of the Bay of Massachusetts, where the Plymouth settlers had previously erected a few houses, for the convenience of carrying on their trade with the neighboring tribes. Another settlement had been formed, two years later, at Naumkeak, a tongue of land of remarkable fertility, where also a deserted Indian village was found, which formed the commencement of the town afterwards called Salem; and which had become—at the period we have now arrived at in our story—a place of some importance. It was founded by a man of much zeal end enthusiasm, of the name of Endicott; who was one of the original possessors of the patent granted to several gentlemen of Dorsetshire, for the land in Massachusetts Bay, extending from the Merrimak to the Charles River, from north to south; but stretching to an indefinite distance westward, even over the unexplored regions between the boisterous Atlantic, and the 'Silent Sea,' as the Pacific has been very aptly and beautifully designated.

Endicott had been invested, by the society to which he belonged in England, with the government of the whole district of Massachusetts; and he soon found himself called on to exercise his authority for the suppression of the disturbances excited by the settlers of Quincy. This place was inhabited by a set of low and immoral men, one of whom, named Thomas Morton, had come over in the wild and dissolute train sent out by Weston several years previously. He was a man of some talent, but of very contemptible character: and had attached himself to the retinue of Captain Wollaston and his companions, who first settled at Quincy, and gave it the name of Mount Wollaston. He afterwards, with his friends, removed to Virginia, leaving some of his servants and an overseer to manage the plantation during his absence. But, no sooner was Morton relieved of the presence of those who had hitherto kept him in some restraint, than he roused the servants to a complete mutiny, which ended in their driving the overseer from the plantation, and indulging in every kind of excess. They even had the boldness and the dishonesty to sell the land which had been left in their charge by the lawful possessors, to the Indians; and to obtain fresh estates, which they claimed as their own. And, having thus established a sort of lawless independence, they passed their time in drinking and wild revelry. On the first of May, they erected a may-pole, in old-English fashion; but, not contented with celebrating that day of spring-time and flowers with innocent pastimes, they hung the pole with verses of an immoral and impious character, and, inviting the ignorant heathen to share in their festivities, they abandoned themselves to drunkenness and profligacy.

The horror and indignation of the severe Puritans of New Plymouth at this outbreak of licentiousness, was great indeed. In their eyes almost every amusement was looked upon as a sin; and the most innocent village dance round a maypole was regarded as nearly allied to the heathenish games in honor of the Goddess Flora. The conduct, therefore, of the disorderly settlers of Quincy filled them with shame and grief; and they felt humbled, as well as indignant, when they reflected on the discredit which such proceedings must necessarily bring on the Christian profession, and the British name. Nor was this all: it was not merely discredit that they had to fear. The insane and profligate conduct of Morton threatened to bring on them eventually, as well as on all the emigrants, evils of a more personal kind. For, when Morton and his wild associates found their means of self-gratification again running short, they had the folly to part with arms and ammunition to the Indians, and to teach them how to use them; thus giving them the power of not only resisting the authority of the English, but also of effectually attacking them whenever any subjects of dispute should arise between them and the pale-faced invaders.

Most joyfully the natives took advantage of this impolitic weakness; and so eagerly did they purchase the coveted firearms of their rivals, that Morton sent to England for a fresh supply of the dangerous merchandise. Such conduct was quite sufficient to arouse the fears and the vigilance of every other colony of New England; and the chief inhabitants of the various plantations agreed to request the interference of their brethren of New Plymouth, as being the oldest and most powerful settlement, in order to bring the offenders to their senses. Bradford willingly listened to their petition; for he desired nothing more earnestly than to have an opportunity of openly manifesting to his countrymen, and to the Indians, how greatly opposed he and his people were to the proceedings of Morton's gang. He had also a very sufficient pretext for such interference, as he could bring forward the positive command of his sovereign, that no arms of any kind should be given or sold to the natives.

He resolved, however, before he had recourse to harsher measures, to try and bring Morton and his wild crew to a better mode of life, by friendly and persuasive messages. But these only excited the contempt and derision of the ruffian; and the doughty warrior, Miles Standish, was therefore dispatched, with a band of his veteran followers, to seize on the desperadoes. They came upon them when they were in the midst of their drunken revelry, and, after a fierce struggle, succeeded in making them all prisoners, and conveying them safely to Plymouth. From thence Morton was sent, by the first opportunity, to England, to be tried by the High Council, who, however, did not take any active measures against him or his followers. Many of the latter escaped, and continued their disorderly life, until they were checked by the vigorous proceedings of Endicott, who severely reprimanded them, and cut down the may-pole which had given rise to so much offence, and he named the hill on which the notorious plantation was situated, 'Mount Dagon,' in memory of the profane doings of its inhabitants.

The coast of Massachusetts Bay was now studded with plantations, and with rising towns and villages. The stream of emigration continued to increase; and the wealth and prosperity of the colonies in general kept pace with the addition to their numbers, and with their extended trade with foreign colonies and with the mother-country. Boston had become a place of some note, and seemed to be regarded as the seat of commerce for the Massachusetts district, as well as the center of the civil government. Most of the families of the neighboring plantations, especially of Charlestown, removed to Boston; and ere long it was deemed expedient to found a regular church there, and the building of a house of God was commenced. Winthrop, the governor, also exerted himself in the erection of a fortress, to repel the dreaded attacks of the Indians; but he soon perceived that this was a needless precaution, for all the neighboring tribes readily offered their friendship, and even their submission; and, as the strength of the colony daily increased, he found that he had less and less to fear from the Indians. The Sagamore of Sawgus, in the vicinity of Boston, remained the steady friend of the English until his death; and Chickatabot, Sachem of Neponset, one of the neighboring Chiefs of the Massachusetts, frequently visited the rising town of Boston. On one of these occasions he excited the mirth of the Governor and his suite, by requesting to be allowed to purchase his fall-dress coat, to which he had taken a great fancy.

To this strange and original request, the Governor courteously replied that it was not the custom of the English Sagamores to dispose of their raiment in that manner; but he consoled the disappointed Chieftain by sending for his tailor, and ordering him to measure Chickatabot for a full suit. This treasure the Sachem carried away with him three days afterwards, to astonish the eyes of his subjects in his native wilds; and his loyalty towards the English was greatly strengthened by so handsome and judicious a present.

Cundincus, also, the Chief of the powerful and much dreaded Narragansetts, sent his son with a friendly greeting to the new settlers of Boston; and, in the following year, his nephew and co-ruler, Miantonomo, came on a visit to the Governor. He was for some days an inmate of Winthrop's house; and it is recorded that he not only conducted himself with the greatest decorum, but that be also sat patiently to listen to a sermon of an hour and a half's duration, of which, of course, he scarcely comprehended one word.

Governor Winthrop followed the good example that had already been set by both Carver and Bradford at New Plymouth, in regard to all dealings with the natives. He always maintained their rights with the most strict and impartial justice; and if any Englishman committed an injury against the property of an Indian, he compelled him to replace it—in some cases even to twice the value of the article in question.

The new settlers had always been on very friendly terms with the elder colony of Plymouth; and visits were frequently exchanged between the Governors and others of the inhabitants, which, though performed with much difficulty and even danger, were a source of mutual pleasure to the two bands of British emigrants. If the men of Plymouth regarded with some feeling of jealous anxiety the growing power and greatness of their rival, it was but natural. Nevertheless, no differences of any importance arose between the colonies on the subject of civil superiority. It was on spiritual matters that they sometimes disagreed; and on these points the Plymouthers watched the newcomers with suspicious sensitiveness, and resolved to maintain their dearly- purchased based rights to religious freedom, against any pretensions that might be made by the church of Boston.

This latter community was frequently subject to divisions and disputes, on those points of faith and discipline that each party regarded as all-important, but on the carrying out of which they could not agree; and a certain spirit of intolerance had already begun to show itself among them, which, in later times, ripened into actual cruelty and persecution.

The first instance of any display of this unchristian spirit with which our narrative is concerned, was the treatment of a young clergyman, named Roger Williams, who came over to New England several years after the emigration of the Pilgrim Fathers, when the renewed oppression of the Puritan ministers, by the English bishops, drove many of their number to seek a refuge in America. In the same year also arrived John Elliott, a man whose name is deservedly remembered and respected in New England, as standing conspicuous for zeal and virtue. So great and so successful were his labors among the native heathen, and so eminent were his piety and his self-denying charity, that he has been well named the 'Prince of Missionaries' and 'the Great Apostle of the Indians.'

The arrival of these holy and zealous—though somewhat eccentric—men, and of several others equally resolved to maintain the freedom of their religious views and practices, tended greatly to strengthen and establish the emigrants; and also added considerably to their comfort, as every settlement became provided with regular and authorized ministers of the gospel, and could enjoy all those religious privileges from which they had been so long debarred. But it must also be confessed that it became the source of much dissension and party feeling, and led to that display of bigotry and intolerance that eventually disgraced the Christian profession of the men of Massachusetts.[*]

[Footnote: The cruel fate of Mary Dyer, the Quaker, who was condemned to death by Governor Endicott, at Boston, is a lamentable instance of the narrow-minded and cruel policy of the rulers of that community. She was banished from the state, but 'felt a call' to return and rebuke the austerity of the men of Boston, and reprove them for their spiritual pride. She was accompanied by two friends, William Robinson and Marmaduke Stevenson, and all three were seized, imprisoned, and, after a summary trial, were sent to the gallows. The two men were executed; but at the moment when Mary Dyer was standing, calm and resigned, with the rope around her neck, expecting to be launched into eternity, a reprieve arrived, and the victim was released. But it was only for a little time. She was again banished; and again returned, as if to seek her fate. A second trial took place, and she was again condemned. Her husband, who knew not of her return to Boston until it was too late, appeared before the magistrates, and pleaded with all the eloquence of affection and anguish. But he wept and prayed in vain. His young and lovely wife was led to the scaffold, where she met her fate with a pious and even cheerful resignation; but her blood has left a dark stain on the history of the Church of Boston, that no time will ever efface. This dreadful event occurred about forty years after that period of which we are now treating.]

Roger Williams was a man comparatively unknown in his own country, but he was destined to exercise considerable influence in the land of his adoption, by his peculiar views of religious freedom which went far beyond those of the generality of his fellow Puritans. He desired to extend to others that liberty of conscience which he claimed as his own privilege, and for the attainment of which he had become a wanderer and an exile. But he soon found that many of his countrymen had forgotten in America the principles of spiritual freedom, for which they had so nobly contended in England, and were ready to employ against those who differed from them, the same 'carnal weapons' that had already driven them from their mother-country. His sufferings were indeed light, in comparison of those which were afterwards inflicted on the miserable Quakers by the government of Massachusetts; but still they were hard for flesh and blood to bear, and galling to a free spirit to receive from those who boasted of their own love of freedom.

Roger Williams was not more than thirty-two years of age when he arrived in New England. He had boldly separated himself from all communion with the high church of his native country; and, before he would attach himself to the Church of Boston, he demanded from its members a similar declaration of independence. The fathers of the colony were, however, by no means prepared to take so decided a step, which would lay them open to the attacks of the English hierarchy; and although a few years afterwards, when they could do it with less risk of punishment, they abjured all connection with the Church of England, yet they dared not at present give any countenance to such individual boldness as that which Williams had manifested. His uncompromising principles were, however, in unison with those of the Church of Salem; and he was invited by that community to be their teacher, as an assistant to their pastor, Skelton, whose health was then declining. The rulers of Boston were extremely indignant at this act of independence on the part of the Salemers; and they addressed to them a remonstrance, desiring them to take no such steps without the concurrence of the government of the state of Massachusetts. But the men of Salem did not withdraw their invitation, which was accepted by Roger Williams; and in a short time his piety, his eloquence, and the kind courtesy of his manners, gained for him the esteem and affection of the whole community.

He was not, however, permitted to remain in peace in his new home. The suspicion and ill-will of the Boston government followed him to Salem, and so greatly embittered his life, and interrupted his labors, that he found it expedient to withdraw to Plymouth, where he found employment as assistant to the regular pastor, Ralph Smith. His preaching caused great excitement in New Plymouth, from the fervor of his eloquence, and the freedom of his opinions, which aroused the sympathy of many of the Pilgrim Fathers. Governor Bradford was much interested by the young and enthusiastic minister; and he described him in his journal as 'a man full of the fear of God, and of zeal, but very unsettled in judgement.' Certainly, his opinions were peculiar, and his spirit bold and defying, to a degree that rather shocked and astonished the sober, severe, and exclusive men of Plymouth; but his sincere piety caused him to be respected, even by those who shrank from going such lengths as he did; and his engaging manners won the affection of all who were admitted to his intimacy.

One cause of the anger of the rulers of Boston against this energetic young man was an essay which he wrote and addressed to the Governor of Plymouth, in which he stated his conviction that 'the King of England had no right whatever to give away these lands on which they had settled; but that they belonged exclusively to the natives, and must be bought in by auction from them.' No one who entertains a sense of justice will now be disposed to object to this opinion; but it gave great offence to the government of Boston, and he was summoned before the general court, to answer to Governor Winthrop for having promulgated such notions. He did not, however, attempt to defend them, but good-humoredly declared that they were privately addressed to Bradford, who, with tin chief men of Plymouth, agreed with him in all the material points of his essay, and he offend to burn it if it had given offence at Boston. The subject was then dropped, and Williams returned to Plymouth, where he continued to reside for a considerable time.

During that period, he not only gained many friends among the inhabitants, but he also, by a constant intercourse with the Wampanoges and other neighboring tribes, obtained a considerable knowledge of their language and manners, and secured their veneration and love. This, as we shall have occasion to observe, proved afterwards of the greatest advantage to him.

But his own restless spirit was not satisfied with quietly discharging the duties of his office, and enjoying the society of his own countrymen and their Indian allies. Again he drew upon himself the wrath of the Boston Church, by openly stating his conviction that no civil government had a right to punish any individual for a breach of the Sabbath, or for any offence against either of the four commandments, or the first table. He maintained that these points should be left to the conscience alone; or, in the case of those who had agreed to a church covenant, to the authorities of the church. The civil magistrates he considered as only empowered to punish such violations of the law as interfered with the public peace. This unheard-of heresy against the principles by which the Bostoners were governed, was received with amazement and indignation: and, although they could not take any immediate measures to testify their displeasure, and to punish the offender, yet he thenceforth became the object of hatred and suspicion to the rulers, and they only waited for a fitting opportunity of openly manifesting it.

Williams was aware of the feeling entertained towards him by the government of Massachusetts, but he was not thereby deterred from expressing his opinions in New Plymouth; and so great was his attachment to the people of Salem, who had first afforded him a home, that he would again have ventured thither, had he not been detained by his new friends. They were both numerous and sincere: and, among them, none were more attached to him than the Maitland family, who agreed with him in most of his religious and political opinions, and valued his society on account of his unaffected piety, and the various powers and accomplishments of his mind. Possibly, it was the attraction that Roger Williams found in this family that caused him so long to turn a deaf ear to the repeated solicitations of his old friends at Salem, that he would again take up his abode among them. Certainly, it was not fear of the rulers of Boston that kept his undaunted spirit in a district over which they had no authority; neither was it altogether the harmony that subsisted between his views and those of the hospitable Plymouthers. On many points they agreed, but not on all; and those who differed from him feared that his continued residence among them might excite a party spirit, and mar that peace which had hitherto reigned in their community.

Still Roger Williams did continue to dwell at New Plymouth; and still his visits to the house of Maitland became more and more frequent.[*]

[Footnote: A few liberties are taken with the private life of this interesting character, in order to connect him more closely with the events of the narrative. But all the incidents which can be regarded as important are strictly historical, although the date and order of them may be slightly altered.]



CHAPTER XIX.

My child, my child, thou leav'st me!—I shall hear The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear With its first utterance I shall miss the sound Of thy light step, amidst the flowers around; And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close; And thy "good night," at parting for repose! ——Yet blessings with thee go! Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe From thy young heart be far!' HEMANS.

At the period when Roger Williams was induced to seek a home among the Pilgrim Fathers of New Plymouth, Edith Maitland had attained to womanhood. She was not beautiful, strictly speaking, but she was possessed of that 'something than beauty dearer,'—that nameless and indescribable charm that is sometimes seen to surround a person whose form and features would not satisfy the critical eye of an artist. It was Edith's character which looked out from her clear hazel eye, and won the interest and the affection of all who knew her. Gentle and affectionate in disposition, but at the same time, firm, enduring, and fall of energy, she combined the characteristic qualities of both her parents, and added to them an originality all her own. Her education, in the common acceptation of the term, had necessarily been both desultory and imperfect; and yet, under its influence, the mind and character of Edith had strengthened and matured in no common degree. The very circumstances by which she was surrounded had educated her; and sorrow—deep, abiding sorrow, for the loss of both her much-loved brothers—had taught her to look on life in a different point of view, and with different expectations from those with which it is usually regarded by the young. Her mother had watched her opening mind and disposition with much care and anxiety: but she had not sought to check its interesting peculiarity, or to control the wild exuberance of thought and feeling that were occasionally manifested by her intelligent and engaging child. As she grew older, she became more and more the companion of Helen, who studied her character attentively: and, if we be allowed such a figure of speech, wisely endeavored to train it in a right direction, rather than to prune it to any conventional form. Thus a perfect confidence was established, and ever subsisted between the mother and daughter; and the natural thoughtfulness of spirit, and energy of purpose, that belonged to Edith, were unchecked, and she was allowed to possess an individuality of character that is, unhappily, too often repressed and destroyed in these present days of high civilization and uniformity of education.

The courteous manners which both Helen and her husband had acquired in early life—when they dwelt in comparative affluence in England—were inherited by their daughter in full measure; and her whole manner and conduct were marked by a refinement and elegance that seemed little in keeping with the life of extreme simplicity, and even of hardship, that she had experienced from her early childhood. While her brothers were spared to her, she was their constant companion and playfellow; and except when her mother required her attendance, either as her pupil or her assistant in domestic occupations, she spent the greatest part of the day in rambling with them on the sea-shore, or through the adjacent woods, or else in the active and tasteful cultivation of their garden. And when successive calamities deprived her of these cherished objects of her early affection, she still continued to wander to the spots where they had played and conversed together, under the guardianship of the faithful Fingal; and, with no companion but the powerful and sagacious animal, she was even permitted to ramble through the woods as far as the Wampanoge village, and divert her sorrowful thoughts in the society of Apannow, and her lively little son Nepea.

But after the sad day when Edith wept on the lifeless body of her favorite Fingal, and saw him laid in the grave that was dug for him beneath the great tulip-tree, she seemed to concentrate her affections on the bower that Henrich had erected, and the plants that he and Ludovico had transplanted from the forest to cover its trellised walls, and to decorate the garden that surrounded it. Many of these were again removed, and planted on Fingal's grave; and there—on a seat that her brother had constructed—would Edith sit, hour after hour, either buried in contemplations of the past and the future, or else devouring with avidity the few books that her parents possessed, or that she could procure from their friends and neighbors. She formed no intimacy with any of her own young countrywomen. They were too unlike herself—they had generally known no sorrow: or, if it had fallen on them, its strokes had not made a like impression on their characters; and Edith could find no consolation or pleasure in their society. So she lived alone with her own spirit, and indulged her own high aspirations; and none but Helen was the confidant of any of her thoughts and imaginings. Many of them she kept within her own breast, for she felt that it would distress her mother to know how little charm remained to her in life, and how often she looked up into the blue depths of heaven, and wished that she had 'the wings of a dove, and could flee away' from this cold world, 'and be at rest' where Henrich and Ludovico dwelt.

And yet Edith was not unhappy. As she grew up, and became a more equal and rational companion to her parents, the cares and business of life necessarily occupied more of her time and thoughts, and gave her less leisure for solitary meditation; and her daily increasing sense of the duties and responsibilities of a Christian, led her to regard as selfishness that indulgence of her own thoughts and feelings in which she had so much delighted. She was therefore cheerful, and even gay, at home; but she desired no pleasures beyond those that her home afforded, and that were perfectly consistent with the self denying views and principles of her Puritan fellow-countrymen.

In all the doctrines of her sect; Edith was thoroughly well-informed; and to all those that were really scriptural, she gave a sincere and heart-felt assent. But the stern severity of Puritan principles and Puritan bigotry found no response in her gentle nature, and the narrow- minded intolerance of the Boston Church aroused both her contempt and indignation. She was, therefore, quite prepared to regard with interest and favor the free-minded young minister who had made himself obnoxious to their laws end customs, and had sought a refuge among the more liberal and kindly Pilgrims of New Plymouth.