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

WITH FORCE AND ARMS

A TALE OF LOVE AND

SALEM WITCHCRAFT.

BY

HOWARD R. GARIS.

New York:

J.S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,

57 Rose Street,

11 Paternoster Building, London.

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

All Rights Reserved.

Copyrighted in Great Britain.

PREFACE.

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

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

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

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

H. R. G.

CONTENTS.

WITH FORCE AND ARMS.

CHAPTER I.
THE GOVERNOR’S COMMISSION.

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

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

He scowled as he prepared to pass by me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.
OF THE SCARLET SNOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?” repeated her husband.

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

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

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

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

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

“If it be possible,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What purchase?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, I see.”

“Note the two women next to them?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.
THE TRIAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is a witch, indeed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.
HOW I CAST THE KNIFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.
OF THE STONE BY THE BROOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good day, Captain,” she said.

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

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

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

Lucille raised her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did as she bade me.

“Now talk,” she ordered.

“What shall I say?” I asked.

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

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

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

“I quite forgot it,” I exclaimed.

“What?” asked Lucille.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else?” I asked, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also I heard Cory remark, though not without respect:

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

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

CHAPTER VI.
LUCILLE.

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

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

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