Colonel Hansford, with Drummond and Lawrence, rode north to find General Bacon. They found him at West Point and told him the startling news that Sir William had come back with an army. The fight was to be waged all over again, the question whether Bacon or Berkeley was to rule Virginia was yet to be settled.

Bacon had only a body-guard with him, but he mounted in haste and rode toward Jamestown, sending couriers in all directions to rouse the countryside and bring his men to his flag. The message came to Curles, and Edmund Porter and his father and their neighbors armed and hurried to join their general. So swiftly did the planters take to horse that by the time Bacon was in sight of Jamestown he was followed by several hundred men.

Sir William had built an earthwork and palisade across the neck of the island where Jamestown stands. Bacon ordered his trumpets to sound, and then a volley to be fired into the town. No guns answered his, and Bacon ordered his troops to throw up breastworks in front of the palisade, while he made his headquarters at "Greenspring," a house that belonged to Sir William.

Now Bacon, although usually a gentleman, resorted to a trick that was a blot on his character. He sent horsemen through the near-by country to bring the wives of some of the men who were fighting on Berkeley's side into his camp. He sent one of these women, under a flag of truce, into the town to tell her husband and the others there that Bacon meant to place these wives in front of his own men while they were building the earthworks, so that any shots fired would hit the women first. This he did. He made these women stand as a shield before his men. The governor's party would not fire a shot. The earthworks were finished, and then Bacon had the women escorted to a place of safety. The trick savored more of the customs of some of the Indian tribes the settlers had been fighting than of the warfare of Virginia gentlemen.

When the women were gone, Sir William burst out of Jamestown with eight hundred men and attacked Bacon's troopers. But the rabble that made up the governor's army, longshoremen, fishermen from Accomac, a rabble attracted by the hope of plunder, was no match for the well-drilled and well-armed planters. At the first touch of steel they turned and fled back to the town, leaving a dozen wounded on the ground. Sir William lashed them with a tongue of scorn, but his anger did no good. He saw that he could not rely on this new following, and so embarked on his ships again that night, and sailed away from Jamestown.

Bacon marched in, took counsel with his officers, and determined that Sir William should make no further use of his capital. Orders were given to set fire to all the houses, and shortly the town, founded by that great adventurer, John Smith, was only a mass of burned and blackened timbers.

Sir William had sailed down the river, but a courier from York County brought word that a force of his friends were advancing from the direction of the Potomac to attack Bacon's men. So, when Jamestown was only ruins, the general left that place and marched at the head of his horsemen to meet this new enemy. He was as full of courage as ever, but he had caught a fever in the trenches before Jamestown, and instead of stopping to cure it he insisted on pushing on and trying to settle matters with his opponents as soon as possible.

His men crossed the York in boats at Ferry Point and marched into Gloucester. There Bacon called on all the men of Gloucester who had taken the oath with him at Middle-Plantation to join him promptly. Another courier arrived, with word that Colonel Brent was coming against him with a thousand soldiers. Bacon did not wait for any more recruits, but marched at once up country in the direction of the Rappahannock River. But there was to be no fighting. The spirit of rebellion had spread so far that even Colonel Brent's men, supposed to be very loyal to the governor, deserted to Bacon's standard, and Brent himself, with a few faithful followers, had to retire from the field, and leave the rebel chief in entire command.

Bacon went back to Gloucester, and again summoned the men of that county to meet him at the court-house. Six or seven hundred came, but they did not want to fulfil their pledge and take up arms, it might be against the king's own soldiers. They said that they wanted to take no sides in the matter. Bacon insisted that they should pledge themselves to follow him. The fever had hold of him, his temper was short, and he spoke in such a domineering way that at last the men of Gloucester gave him the pledge he wanted. Having had his way Bacon closed the meeting, and, seeing that all the mainland of Virginia was now under his control, laid plans to follow Sir William Berkeley to Accomac, where the governor had fled again.

But now Nathaniel Bacon, at the very moment when he had driven all his enemies out of the colony, and had made himself the master of Virginia, fell very ill of the fever he had brought from Jamestown. His old friends, Mr. Porter among them, urged him to give up command of his army and rest. In spite of his wish to go to Accomac and settle accounts with Berkeley, he had to take their advice. He went to the house of a friend, Major Pate, in Gloucester, and there, after a few weeks' illness, he died, in October, 1676.

Sorrowing for their brave leader and friend, Mr. Porter and Edmund went back to their plantation on the James. They had stood by him when he needed their aid, but, in spite of all the exciting events of that summer, they had not had to take part in any actual fighting except the brief battle with the Indians in May and the short skirmish outside Jamestown. Neither father nor son were known as officers in Bacon's army, and as they stayed quietly at home the storm that followed blew safely over their heads.

In four months Nathaniel Bacon had risen from the position of a little-known planter to be the ruler of Virginia, and because the king's governor would not give him a commission to march against the Indians who had attacked his farm he had driven the governor out of the colony. It was a remarkable story, packed full of strange happenings.

When Bacon died, however, the rebellion fell to pieces. A man named Ingram tried to rally his army, but the men of Virginia would not fight under any other leader than Bacon. Sir William Berkeley came back from the county of Accomac with a wolfish thirst for vengeance. His chief enemy had escaped him, but he meant to take his revenge on the other leaders of the rebellion against him. And take his revenge he did, not like an honorable governor who wishes to make peace in his country, but more like that Judge Jeffreys in England, whose name became a byword for cruelty. He captured Colonel Hansford, who was a fine Virginian, and hung him as a rebel. Lawrence escaped, but Drummond was caught in his hiding-place in the Chickahominy swamp, and brought before Sir William.

"Mr. Drummond," said the governor, "you are very welcome! I am more glad to see you than any man in Virginia. Mr. Drummond, you shall be hanged in half an hour!"

"When your Honor pleases," Drummond coolly replied.

Drummond was hung, and his brave wife, who had broken the stick to show how easily the planters could defeat Sir William, was driven into the wilderness with her children.

Bland was found in Accomac and executed. Men were hung in almost every county, and the settlers hated the name of Berkeley more than they hated raiding Indians. In all Sir William executed twenty-three rebels, as he called them, and King Charles II of England, when he heard the report, said indignantly, "That old fool has hanged more men in that naked country than I have done for the murder of my father."

At last the Assembly begged the governor to stop. He reluctantly agreed that all the rest of the rebels should be pardoned except about fifty leaders. The property of these leaders was confiscated, and they were sent away from the colony.

Sir William, however, was no longer popular with any in Virginia. Soon afterward he sailed to England, and never came back again to the colony he had ruled with an iron hand. Salutes were fired and bonfires blazed when he sailed, for the people were all still rebels at heart. Other governors came from England, but they found the Virginians harder to rule since they had tasted independence in that summer of 1676.

By many boys of Virginia, like Edmund Porter, Nathaniel Bacon was always remembered as a gallant hero, one who had fought for them against the tyranny of Sir William Berkeley.

V AN OUTLAW CHIEF OF MARYLAND

(Maryland, 1684)

I

"I'm riding south to St. Mary's to-morrow, Michael," said George Talbot. He gave his horse a slap on the flank that sent it toward the stable. "Want to come with me, and see something of the Bay?"

"Yes indeed," said Michael Rowan. "You know, Mr. George, I always like to ride with you."

Talbot smiled at the red-cheeked boy, whose black hair and blue eyes gave proof of his Irish blood. "You're loyal to the chief of the clan, aren't you, Michael? Well, if I were warden of the Scottish marches I wouldn't ask for better followers than such as you."

Michael flushed. "My father has taught me always to do your bidding, Mr. George. It seems to me the right thing to do."

"I hope it always will. There's some who don't think as well of me as your father does." Talbot slapped his riding-whip against his boot. "But we don't care what they think, do we? A fig for all critics, I say! Each man to his own salvation!" He went up the steps to his house, while Michael watched him with frank admiration.

George Talbot, Irish by birth, was a prominent man in the province that belonged to Lord Baltimore. He was a kinsman of Sir William Talbot, who was Chief Secretary of Maryland. George had obtained a large grant of land on the Susquehanna River, when Lord Baltimore was anxious to have the northern part of his province settled. Three years after he staked out his plantation on the Susquehanna he was made surveyor-general of the province. That was in 1683. The next year Lord Baltimore went to England, leaving his son, a boy, as nominal governor. A commission of leading men was chosen to take charge of the actual work of the governorship, and George Talbot was at the head of the commission. In much of that sparsely-settled country he ruled like the chieftain of a Scottish clan. He built a fort near the head of Chesapeake Bay; garrisoned it with Irish followers, and sometimes set out from it with his troop to check Indian raids; sometimes rode into the land that was in dispute between Lord Baltimore and William Penn, and lectured or bullied or drove away some of Penn's settlers. He ruled with a high hand, both at his fort and on his plantation, with the usual result that he was tremendously admired by his retainers, among whom was Fergus Rowan, the father of Talbot's young squire Michael.

Next day the adventurous Talbot and the faithful Michael set out south. They rode through a country almost as untouched by men as it was before the first white explorers landed on its coast. Then there had been Indians to hunt game in its woods and marshes; to fish its streams and bay, to plant their crops in its open arable fields. But the Indians were like the birds and beasts, essentially migratory; they built few permanent homes, they wasted little labor on bridges or mills, clearings or farm-stockades. When the hunting or the crops grew poor in one place they packed their tents on their ponies or in their canoes and set out for a new, untouched country. The white men were very different; they wanted to own, to fence off, to build, to make travel and commerce easier. But in 1684 there were so few of them that one might ride all day and see no sign of a human habitation. Talbot and Michael had to hunt the streams for fording-places, had to push through underbrush that threatened to hide the trails, and to rely on the provisions they carried in their saddle-bags to furnish them food and drink.

Every now and then the riders caught sight of the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay to the east. Whenever they reached a farmhouse in the wilderness they stopped and chatted with the settlers, giving them any news from the north. They spent one night at a hunter's log cabin; another at a miller's house built on the bank of a river. Many times they had to go far out of the route as the crow flies in order to cross wide estuaries and streams. But they were in no particular haste, and rested their horses often. It took them the better part of a week to reach the Patuxent River and cross into St. Mary's County.

Many small fishing-hamlets were to be found along this southern shore of Chesapeake Bay, and Talbot stopped at each one, announced who he was, and questioned the fishermen for news. The chief complaint of the settlers was against the tyrannical manners and methods of the revenue-collectors, or excisemen, who levied taxes for the king of England on all goods coming into the province or going out of it. Men who collect such taxes have almost always been unpopular; in Maryland they were pretty generally hated. To judge from what Talbot was told by the fishermen some of the collectors had acted as if they were Lord Baltimore himself. They took horses, servants, boats, as they pleased, and dared the owners to complain of them to the king. The most unpopular of the race of collectors appeared to be Christopher Rousby, who lived at the town of St. Mary's, and made trips up and down St. Mary's River and along the shores of the bay to collect taxes from unwilling settlers and threaten them with dire punishments if they dared refuse obedience to his orders.

"The knave ought to be whipped!" Talbot declared to Michael, as they left one of the hamlets. "I know him, an arrogant, conceited fool! It's fortunate I'm not one of these folk here, or I might run him through some dark night."

Down to St. Mary's they rode, where Talbot took lodgings for himself and Michael. The lodgings were at a tavern known as "The Bell and Anchor," where a great anchor lay on the lawn before the tavern door and a bell hung over the porch, used by the wife of the tavern-keeper to inform her guests when their meals were ready for them. The inn faced St. Mary's River, which was wide here, and the beach in front of it was a gathering-place for sailors and fishermen and longshoremen, whose boats were pulled up on the sand or anchored in the small harbor to the south of the town. Talbot and Michael went among the men, the chieftain hobnobbing with the simple folk, as he was fond of doing, though he never allowed them to forget his dignity.

There were ships lying in St. Mary's River, one of them a ketch belonging to His Majesty's navy. Men on the beach told Talbot and Michael that the captain of the ketch was very friendly with Christopher Rousby, the tax-collector, and the other excisemen. They also told Talbot that neither the captain of the ketch nor Rousby nor his mates paid any attention to Lord Baltimore's officers in St. Mary's. The former treated the latter as if they were stable-boys, made to be ordered about, the longshoremen told Talbot.

At first Talbot only listened and swore under his breath. Then he began to swear openly, and to look angry and shake his fist at the royal ship out in the bay. "These dogs of sea-captains and tax-collectors think they own the whole province!" he muttered to Michael. "I'd like nothing better than to teach them a lesson!"

The man and boy happened to be standing near the door of "The Bell and Anchor" when a long-boat landed passengers from the ketch, and the captain and Christopher Rousby and two other men came up to the tavern door. All four men glanced at Talbot, whose bearing and dress made him a conspicuous figure. He gave them a curt nod. The captain and one of the other men acknowledged his greeting, but Rousby strode past him with a shrug of the shoulders and a sneer on his lips.

George Talbot was not used to such treatment; when he gave a man a nod he expected at least a bow in return. Hot blood flushed his cheeks, and his fingers gripped the hilt of the hunting-knife he wore at his belt. Michael could not hear what he murmured, but he could guess at what he meant. Michael grew angry too; he expected people to treat his master with as much deference as they would show the king.

The four men went into the tavern, and soon Michael caught the sound of a drinking song. To get away from the noise Talbot and his page walked up the street. Presently they met the chief magistrate of St. Mary's, who recognized George Talbot, and greeted him, as was proper, by taking off his hat and making a low bow.

"Things go badly here, Mr. Talbot," said the magistrate, with a shake of his head. "The captain of that ship yonder and the collectors laugh at Lord Baltimore. They do what they will with me and my men. They sit in the tavern all night, carousing, and then they take any boats they see or anything they like, and threaten the owners with their pistols and His Majesty's vengeance if they dare object. I've gone to see them about it. They snap their fingers at me and the governor."

"I've seen the brutes," said Talbot. "I think I'd best take it on myself to explain the matter to them."

"Be careful," warned the other. "They think themselves above all the law of the province."

"By Heaven, they're not above me!" ejaculated Talbot. "I'll tell Rousby so to his face, and let him take the consequences!"

Talbot and Michael went back to "The Bell and Anchor." The singing was still going on. The man and boy went into the tap-room, and ordered two cups of ale. They sat at a small table in a corner, some distance from where the four men were drinking, laughing, and singing. This was no time for Talbot to speak to them; their wits were too befuddled to pay any heed to what he might have to say.

Presently the man and boy went up to their rooms. The noise of the revelers reached their ears. Talbot was very angry. He told Michael that he should have a settlement with Christopher Rousby the next day. So loud was the noise down-stairs that Michael had to pull the bedclothes up about his head in order to get to sleep.

The next day was cold and dark—early winter. Talbot spent the morning going from house to house, questioning each owner as to unjust taxes that Rousby had collected, or any other injury the collector had done. He made a note of each complaint, and by noon he had a long list.

The two dined at the tavern, and afterward Talbot engaged a fisherman to row them out to the royal ketch in the river. Rain was falling now, and a wind had sprung up. Whitecaps dotted the water. The fisherman rowed them to the ship, and Talbot and Michael climbed up the rope-ladder that hung down over the side. A sailor stepped up to them. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to see the captain and Christopher Rousby," said Talbot. "I'm told that Rousby came out to the ship this morning."

"Aye, Mr. Rousby's still here," said the sailor.

"I am George Talbot," announced the other man, and, as if that were sufficient warrant for him to do as he chose, he walked across the deck and went down the companionway to the cabin. Michael kept close behind him.

A bottle and glasses stood on the cabin table. The captain, Christopher Rousby, and an officer of the ship sprawled in chairs. Rousby's face was red and bloated. At sight of George Talbot he smiled, but made no motion to get up from his chair.

Talbot didn't take off his hat or cloak, though both were wet with rain and spray. He stepped to the table and leaned on it with one hand, while he pointed his other gloved hand at the insolent-looking tax-collector. "You know who I am," said Talbot, in his deep, positive voice, "and I know who you are. I am chief of the deputy governors Lord Baltimore has appointed to care for his province during his absence; and you are a tax-collector."

"A representative of His Majesty the King of England," said the captain of the ship, as if to make out that his friend Rousby was a more important man.

"Let the fellow talk," said Rousby to the captain. "I've heard he was clever at making speeches."

His tone and manner were the height of insult. Talbot's face flushed, and Michael saw that his hand on the table doubled itself into a fist.

"Yes, I will talk," said Talbot, in a voice that could have been heard on deck. "And you will listen to me, whether you want to or no! I have a list of unjust taxes you've levied here in St. Mary's. The Devil only knows how many you've levied elsewhere." He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the list he had made.

"I'll not listen to such speech on my own ship," said the captain, his hands on the arms of his chair as if he was about to stand up.

"Indeed you will!" roared Talbot. "This list is a list of crimes committed by your friend Christopher Rousby, representative of His Majesty the King of England in the province of Maryland." He opened the list and began to read the items, giving the names of the men in St. Mary's who had been unjustly taxed and the amount they had been forced to pay to the greedy collector.

The three men at the table grew restless; Rousby picked up his glass and drained it, the captain drummed on the arm of his chair with his fingers, the third man stared at the cabin-ceiling.

Talbot went on with his reading until he had finished the first page and turned to the second. Then Rousby broke in. "You can read all night," said he, "but I tell you now that all those taxes stand, and I'll collect more in future as pleases me."

"Even if you know they're illegal and unjust?" asked Talbot.

"Look you here," said Rousby, leaning forward. "The fact that I collect them makes them both legal and just. I am the law hereabouts, and I do as I please. If you don't like it, ride back to your own plantation, and leave matters here to your betters." His small bloodshot eyes sneered at Talbot.

Now Talbot's Irish blood was very quick and fiery. That word "betters" stung him, the look on Rousby's face infuriated him. "I don't admit any betters," said he. "In fact I only see inferiors before me." His voice was cold as steel, and as biting. Michael had never heard him speak like that before.

Rousby and the captain started to their feet.

"Keep out of this, you!" Talbot roared at the captain, and leaning across the table gave him such a push that he set him down in his chair. Then Talbot's gloved hand struck Rousby on the cheek. "Take that!" he cried. "If you want to settle the matter now, I'm ready!"

Rousby bellowed with rage. He gave the table a shove that sent it flying, and his fist shot out at Talbot. Talbot caught it and whirled the man around. Then Rousby grabbed the dagger he wore at his side and rushed at Talbot with it. Talbot stepped to one side, and the same instant drew his own knife. Rousby swung round at him again, dagger uplifted; but Talbot was the quicker. He struck with his knife, in the breast, pressed Rousby back and back until he leaned on the table.

It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. Now the captain and the third man sprang forward. Each caught one of Talbot's arms and held it They were too late to save the collector, however. Talbot had stabbed him in the heart, and Christopher Rousby was dead.

The captain seized a pistol from a rack and leveled it at Talbot. "Drop your knife!" he ordered, "and surrender to His Majesty's officers! This is bad business for you! Murder of a royal agent!"

Talbot dropped the knife. "At your orders," he said. "I yield as your prisoner."

Michael Rowan asked the boatman where the chief magistrate of St. Mary's lived, and, on being directed, went straight to the latter's house. To this man he told what had happened in the cabin of the ketch, how Rousby and Talbot had had a quarrel, how high words had passed between them, how Talbot had stabbed the tax-collector, and was now the captain's prisoner. The magistrate was very much alarmed.

"There's no knowing what they'll do to him!" he exclaimed with excitement. "Rousby treated us ill, there's no doubting that. But he was His Majesty's exciseman, and the killing of such, even in a righteous quarrel, is a mighty bad business! What's the captain going to do with Mr. Talbot?"

"I know no more about it than you," said Michael. "My master bade me give you the true account of what happened, and then told me to ride north to tell Mistress Talbot and help her rouse his friends to do what they could for him. You see he's kinsman to Sir William Talbot, and Sir William is nephew to Lord Baltimore."

The magistrate shook his head. "That might be of some avail if this affair concerned the province of Maryland alone," said he. "But Rousby was one of His Majesty's officers,—there's the difficulty."

"I must get my horse and start at once," declared Michael.

The magistrate went to "The Bell and Anchor" with Michael, helped him put bread and cheese in his saddle-bags, saw him mount his horse, and waved his hand as Michael set out up the village street. When the magistrate went to the water-front he learned that the ketch had weighed anchor and sailed to the south.

The night was cold and wet, and the road was dark and hard to follow; but Michael put his horse to the gallop and rode recklessly. His one thought was to reach Talbot's plantation on the Susquehanna as quickly as he could.

He rode until it grew so dark that he could not see to avoid overhanging boughs and holes in the road. Then he stopped at the next farmer's cabin, asked for a night's lodging, and was given a place to sleep before the hearth. At dawn he was off again, following the rude trail through the wilderness, making his meals from the food in his saddle-bags, and only stopping when he felt he must rest his horse.

That night he spent in a hunter's lodge, the next at a log house on the edge of a small village. He told the people who asked his business that he was on an errand for George Talbot, but he gave them no inkling of what the errand was.

He remembered the fords they had found on their journey south, and sought them again without much loss of time. Presently he came into country that he knew well, the upper shores of Chesapeake Bay where he had often ridden and hunted. Then he saw the familiar landmarks of Talbot's plantation, and was riding up the road to the door of the manor-house. He had pushed his horse to the utmost; he himself was tired and aching in every sinew and muscle. Late in the afternoon he threw himself from his mount and ran up the steps. He opened the main door and walked into the living-room, a muddy, bedraggled figure.

Mrs. Talbot was sitting at a spinet, a luxury brought out to Maryland from England. She stopped her playing and looked up as Michael entered. She saw he had important news. "What is it, Michael?" she asked.

He told her what had happened. She listened without interrupting him. Then she stood up. "Send your father and Edward Nigel to me at once," she said.

Michael went to his father's house, only a short distance from the big house, and then to the cabin of Edward Nigel. He gave each of them the message of Mrs. Talbot. Then he stabled the horse that had carried him so well all the way from St. Mary's. By that time the boy was too tired and sleepy even to taste the food that his mother had set out for him. He fell into his bed and was sound asleep.

Mrs. Talbot had great strength of character. She told her husband's two faithful Irish retainers that their master was now a prisoner, charged with the murder of a royal tax-collector. She said that they must set to work at once to see what could be done to aid him. She wrote out messages, one for Rowan to take immediately to influential friends in Baltimore City, the other for Nigel to carry to Annapolis. Then, when the two had set out, she and her maid prepared to journey to Baltimore City next day.

In a very short time the news had spread through the province. Men of influence, the members of the provincial council, met and took action in behalf of George Talbot. They had all disliked Rousby and the other royal excisemen, and almost all of them were close friends of the prisoner. The council sent messengers south to find out what the captain of the ketch had done with Talbot. The messengers returned with word that Talbot had been put in irons, that the captain had landed him in Virginia, and delivered him over to the governor, Lord Howard of Effingham, who had put him in prison at a small town on the Rappahannock River.

Lord Howard of Effingham had the name of being a greedy and tyrannical governor. The council of Maryland sent a request to him that Talbot should be tried by a court in Maryland. Lord Howard treated the request with contempt, saying that he meant to try Talbot himself, since the latter had killed one of His Majesty's officers, and he represented His Majesty in that part of the country. Talbot's friends knew what that meant. If Lord Howard sat in judgment on him Talbot's fate was sealed. There was a chance that a huge bribe might influence the governor of Virginia, but the chance was slim. So the council sent a messenger to Lord Baltimore in England, urging him to rescue his nephew's kinsman from Lord Howard's clutches.

Mrs. Talbot had done all she could through the council and other men of influence to help her husband, and their efforts seemed likely to bear very small results. Meantime Lord Howard of Effingham might decide to try George Talbot at any time. So the devoted wife determined to see what she could do herself. She had several long talks with Edward Nigel and Fergus and Michael Rowan, and they worked out a scheme for themselves.

On a cold day in the middle of winter a little skiff set sail from the landing-place at Talbot's plantation and headed for Chesapeake Bay. In the skiff were Mrs. Talbot, her two friends and retainers, Nigel and Rowan, and the faithful Michael. Fergus Rowan was a skilful sailor; he knew the river and the bay from long experience. He took the tiller, and the others, muffled up for protection from the high wind, watched water and shore as their little boat bobbed up and down on the waves.

The wind was favoring, and they made much better time than they would have done by riding through the wilderness. They spent the night at a small fishing-village, and were off again in the skiff next day. They sailed past Annapolis, on the River Severn, and went scudding down the bay to where the broad waters of the Potomac flowed into it. Rowan kept fairly close to the shore on their right, and presently changed his course to the west. Now they had come to the Rappahannock, and were sailing up it, keeping a close watch for a good place to land.

By night they had run into a little creek and made the skiff fast. A farmer's house was not far away, and the four headed for it. Fergus knocked on the door, and when a woman opened it he explained that they had expected to sail to a plantation farther up the Rappahannock, but that the darkness made navigation dangerous for one who was unfamiliar with the river. "There's a lady and three of us men," he said, "would be thankful for a night's lodging." Mrs. Talbot pushed back her fur hood, and the farmer's wife, looking at her, saw that she appeared to be of the quality, as the saying was, and invited them to step in.

The cabin was small; Fergus and Nigel and Michael shared the attic with the farmer, Jonas Dunham, while Mrs. Talbot was taken into Mrs. Dunham's room. They ate their supper on a table close to the kitchen hearth for warmth. Afterward Fergus inquired about the plantations farther up the river. Presently he chanced to say that he understood that the governor was holding Mr. Talbot of Maryland a prisoner somewhere in the neighborhood. That remark, innocently made, started Farmer Dunham's tongue to wagging. He said that the prison was about two miles distant, on the southern side of the river, and that it was true that Talbot was kept there. He made it pretty clear from what he said that the governor was not very popular along the Rappahannock, and that in his opinion Talbot had done a good job in killing one of the royal tax-collectors.

Mrs. Talbot and Fergus and Nigel each carried a bag of gold pieces, all that they had been able to gather in Maryland; and next morning they paid the farmer well for their food and lodging. They sailed up the river, close to the southern shore, in mist and rain, keeping a sharp lookout for the building that Dunham had described.

There was a small settlement on the shore, then woods, then a log building, square like a frontier fort, which they took for their goal. Fergus brought the skiff up to the bank, dropped the sail, and helped Mrs. Talbot to land. The mist had grown so thick that it hid objects a score of yards away.

Mrs. Talbot and Nigel stayed in the shelter of the woods while Fergus and Michael went up to the log house. They rapped on the door. A man with a grizzled beard opened it. Fergus asked him a few questions about the neighborhood, explaining that they were very wet and cold, and would like to find a tavern or some place where they could get a bottle of ale or brandy. The jailer said that one of his neighbors had spirits for sale, and suggested that he should show them the place. Fergus accepted the offer, and they went about half a mile down the road to the neighbor's, where Fergus showed a gold piece and was provided with a bottle of brandy.

Fergus saw that the jailer's glass was kept well filled. They became great friends across the table, and presently the jailer was telling his new acquaintances everything he knew. He had only one prisoner at present, a very fine gentleman from Maryland, Mr. George Talbot, and he felt very sorry for his prisoner because the latter's only crime was of falling foul of a tax-collector. Fergus suggested that the jailer hardly needed many assistants to keep guard over one man. The jailer answered that he only had two assistants, a young fellow only just lately arrived from England, and a lout of a boy.

When Fergus had learned all he wanted he paid for the bottle of brandy, tucked the bottle under his arm, and with Michael, walked back to the log house with the bearded man. There he thanked the latter for his kindness, and presented him with the bottle, which was still half filled. It seemed very probable that the jailer would use up the rest of the brandy on such a damp day.

The two went back to the woods and made their report. In the skiff there were provisions, and Mrs. Talbot and her friends had dinner there, and tried to keep as much out of the wet as they could. Then they waited for dusk, and the two men and the boy looked to the priming of their pistols.

The men, muffled in greatcoats, the woman, in fur cloak and hood, went up to the log house in the winter twilight. Nigel beat on the door with his fist, and after a considerable wait the door was opened by a young fellow, who looked as if he had only just been waked from a sound nap.

Mrs. Talbot, slipping her hood back from her head, smiled at the rather dull-looking fellow. "Can you shelter me from the storm?" she asked, in most appealing tones. "I'm wet and cold, and I'm afraid we've lost our way."

The boy didn't often see such a fine-looking woman, evidently no farmer's wife, but one of the gentry. "I'll go ask Master Hugh," he said. "Step in from the wet. This is no tavern, but a prison, my lady. Howsomever, I'll go ask Master Hugh."

The fellow hurried away, and Mrs. Talbot and her three companions stepped in. In a minute the serving-lad was back. "Master Hugh'll see you in his room," he announced, jerking his head in the direction of that apartment.

He stood aside, while the lady, Nigel and Michael went to the jailer's room. Fergus, hanging back a minute, slipped a gold piece into the fellow's hand, whispering, "A lady of quality. Be sure you speak her fairly." The youth squinted at the piece of money, a coin of greater value than any he had seen.

Master Hugh was drinking the last of the brandy as the party entered his room. The candle-light showed that he was far more disposed to be merry than suspicious. "A lady!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet and bowing. "'Tis a shame things are so rude here! Be seated, my lady." Then, recognizing Fergus and Michael, he smiled broadly. "Well met, my friends. Sit ye down. 'Tis a raw night. We must make ourselves comfortable." He glanced at the brandy bottle. "If I'd known company was coming, I'd have been more ready to give welcome," he added.

Mrs. Talbot loosened her cloak and smiled at the jailer as if she was delighted at his hospitality. "It's very agreeable here, I do assure you, Master Hugh," she said. "Good company is better than wine or food."

"So I think," said the jailer, flattered at the lady's graciousness.

"If my son and I might go out to the kitchen to dry our feet——" suggested Fergus.

"George, show them to the kitchen fire," the jailer ordered the boy, who stood staring in the doorway.

Mrs. Talbot drew her chair a little closer to Master Hugh. "My skiff met with a mishap as I was on my way to visit friends up the river," she said. And then she used all her arts to fascinate the jailer.

Fergus and Michael followed George to the kitchen. A man was scouring an iron pot on the hearth and looked up in some surprise. "They wants to dry their feet," George explained.

Fergus and his son pulled off their boots, showing their wet stockings. "Could Master Hugh spare you long enough to run down to the village and fetch us a bottle of brandy?" Fergus asked, and he held another shining gold piece so that George could catch its glitter.

George thought he had never seen such attractive strangers. "I think he might," he said, and left the room in haste, intent on winning the second coin.

The man at the hearth, seeing the gold piece, made room for the two strangers to stand near the fire. He also grew talkative, as Fergus, in a very friendly fashion, asked him various questions. He said there were only four men in the house at present, Master Hugh, the boy George, himself, and a prisoner, who lodged in a small room off the kitchen. He indicated the door to the prisoner's room.

"We have a lady with us," Fergus said after a time. "She's cold with being so long out in the rain. If you could build up the fire I might ask her in here to warm herself. She'll pay you well for your trouble." He held out a gold piece to the man, who took it readily enough, slipped it into his pocket, and straightway commenced to put new logs on the fire.

As the man placed the last log and turned to stand up again he found himself confronting a pistol-barrel. "Not a word!" murmured Fergus. "Keep your hands at your side!" He nodded to Michael, who had pulled a cord from under his jacket. "Bind him fast," he ordered. "Now we've no wish to do you harm," he added to his prisoner. "Only a rope round your hands and a cloth over your mouth. We'll put a couple more gold pieces in your pocket too, so that if you lose this place you'll have enough to find you another."

The pistol kept the man quiet until he was bound and gagged. Then Fergus slipped two coins into his pocket. That done, he ran to the door and drew back the bolt. But he found the door was not only bolted, but locked as well. He had no time to hunt for the key, so he threw himself against the door, and at the third try found the lock gave way. On a stool inside sat George Talbot. To his amazed master Fergus explained quickly what they must do.

Fergus and Michael and Talbot, all in their stocking-feet, their boots in their hands, stole down the hall. The lady who was entertaining Master Hugh had asked Nigel to close the door behind her so as to shut out the draught. The three men crept down the hall, past the jailer's door, and slipped out of the house. There they drew their boots on. Then Michael hurried his master down to the edge of the woods and the waiting skiff.

Fergus went back to the jailer's room. "I've sent my boy to the village to engage you a room for the night, my lady," said he. "If you are warm and rested, we might make our start."

"Certainly," agreed the lady. She smiled at Master Hugh. "You've been most kind to me," she said. "I shall tell all my friends how courteous a gentleman you are."

The jailer beamed his pleasure. "'Tis a thousand shames such a gentle lady should have to walk to the village," said he. "I own I could give you only poor quarters here. But I could saddle you a horse." He rose. "Where's that rascal George?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Talbot. "I'm afraid we've put you out more than we should already." She opened a bag at her belt and laid a piece of money on the table. "For your hospitality, Master Hugh," she said, with a gracious smile.

The jailer made his best bow. "A pleasure, madam, a pleasure," he assured her. "I ask no pay for that." But he let the coin lie on the table instead of returning it.

Mrs. Talbot and Nigel and Fergus went to the door, Master Hugh after them. There the jailer made more bows and spoke more pleasant words as the lady fastened her cloak and pulled her hood over her hair. "You can find the road?" he asked Fergus.

"Yes, I know the road," said Fergus.

As they left the log house they saw some one coming toward them. It was George with the precious bottle. "Take it to Master Hugh with my compliments," said Fergus. Then as they moved away he murmured, "That ought to keep our friend from finding out what's happened for some time."

They sped to the woods and the skiff. Talbot and Michael were waiting in the boat with the sail raised. "Oh, my dear wife!" exclaimed Talbot, as he clasped the devoted woman in his arms. "'Twas almost worth being in such peril to find you here again!"

The skiff stole down the Rappahannock in the rain and darkness, carrying the outlaw Talbot back to his plantation.

III

The skiff retraced its course up Chesapeake Bay. The only landings it made were for food and water, and at such times George Talbot kept closely hidden, while Fergus or Michael or Edward Nigel did the parleying. For Talbot was known by sight to almost every one who lived on the shore of the great bay, and they all knew as well that he had been a prisoner of the governor of Virginia. News could travel surprisingly fast through the wilderness, and the hunters and farmers, though having the best of intentions toward him, might hinder his escape from Lord Howard of Effingham.

The skiff brought them safely to the Susquehanna, and Talbot, his wife, and his three friends landed and went up to his manor-house. There was great rejoicing among all his retainers, and the story of his rescue from the Virginia prison was told again and again, and each time it was told it gained in thrills. But Fergus Rowan told every man, woman, and child on the plantation that no whisper of the chief's whereabouts must get beyond the limits of his farms. The chief was safely out of Virginia, but Lord Howard had great influence in Maryland, and might try to capture George Talbot again.

A fortnight later Michael, who had been sent to Baltimore City on business, brought back word that the governor of Virginia had raised a great hue and cry when he found his prisoner escaped, had sent his agents into Maryland to find out where Talbot had gone, and had compelled Lord Baltimore's own agents to help him in the search.

"The first place where they would look is here," Mrs. Talbot said to her husband. "We must find some hiding-place for you."

"Can you think of one, Michael?" asked Talbot. "Boys are apt to know the most concerning places to hide."

Michael thought of all the places near the plantation. "There's a cave in the river bank up in the woods," he said presently. "I don't think any one could find you there."

So Talbot and his wife and Michael looked for the hiding-place. The cave was large, and was surrounded by thickets, and screened by bushes from any one on the river. It seemed just the place that was wanted. Fergus and Nigel were told about it, but no one else; and plans were made to send provisions by a roundabout path.

There were wild fowl in the marshes of the river, and Talbot could hunt them almost from the door of his cave. He caught two hawks and trained them to catch wild fowl and so help to stock his larder. While Nigel and Fergus kept watch at the plantation, always on the lookout for any suspicious-appearing stranger, Michael, fowling-piece in his hand, would make his way along the Susquehanna, and, joining his master, spend hours with him training the pair of hawks.

The outlaw,—for that was what Talbot was now, with a price set on his head,—had only been in hiding for a few days when officers, both of Lord Baltimore and of the governor of Virginia, came to the plantation. Mrs. Talbot was at the manor-house with Fergus. To the officers' questions as to where her husband had fled, she answered with a question: "Would he come back here, where he would expect his enemies to be certain to search for him?"

It was clear that neither she nor Fergus would tell the men anything they might know about Talbot. She told them to search the house and the plantation. The officers made their search, while Michael, hunting fowls along the river, kept watch, ready to warn his master to draw back into his cave, in case the searchers should hunt along the bank.

The men didn't go anywhere near the cave, and left the plantation without any inkling of where Talbot had gone. But for several days his wife and friends were careful not to go near his hiding-place, lest spies might be watching them.

Lord Howard of Effingham had had all ships sailing from Virginia and Maryland searched for the fugitive. He had spread a net pretty well over both provinces, for he was determined to catch George Talbot if he possibly could. Another man might have given up the chase when he found no clue, but not so the determined governor of Virginia. As a result his agents came to the plantation time and again, and Talbot had to stay in his hiding-place while winter changed to spring, and spring to summer, and the next autumn came. Michael was his companion much of the time, but idleness was hard for a man of Talbot's nature.

The people on the plantation were faithful to their master, and gave no sign that they suspected he might be in hiding not very far away. But such a secret was hard to keep through many months, and at last some of Lord Baltimore's officers got wind in some way of the farmers' suspicions. They waited until they heard from London that Lord Baltimore had been successful in getting an order from the Privy Council of England directing that the governor of Virginia should send Talbot to London for trial instead of trying him in the province, and then they swooped down on the plantation, found Talbot, and forced him to surrender.

The outlaw chief rode to Baltimore City a prisoner. His wife went with him, and Michael to wait on her. In the town he learned from his friends that he was to be tried in England, not in Virginia. That was some comfort, and his wife told him that as soon as she learned that he had sailed for Europe she would take ship too, and meet him there. She had friends in London, and they might have much influence with the Privy Council.

The Maryland officers handed their prisoner over to the agents of the Virginia governor. These took him to Lord Howard, who had him put in a prison that was more securely guarded than the one on the Rappahannock had been. In prison George Talbot cooled his heels for some time, while his wife and Michael waited in Baltimore City to learn of his sailing for England.

Lord Howard of Effingham had grown so arbitrary as governor of Virginia,—where he had almost as much power as the king had in England,—that, instead of obeying the order of the Privy Council and sending his prisoner to London, he kept him in prison during the winter of 1685, and then in April of that year actually dared to announce that he meant to place Talbot on trial in Virginia for the killing of Christopher Rousby.

Word of this came to Mrs. Talbot and her friends in Maryland. Lord Howard was disobeying the law of England in not sending Talbot there for trial, but, notwithstanding that, he might, in his tyrannical fashion, try Talbot, convict him, and even execute him. His wife could do nothing to prevent this if she stayed in Maryland; so, faithful and brave as ever, she took passage in a merchantman for England, and crossed the Atlantic Ocean, with Michael as her squire.

Michael, used to the wilderness of the colonies, with only a few scattered settlements to break the stretches of woods and meadows, opened his eyes very wide at the multitude of houses, the throngs of people, that he saw in the city by the Thames. He went with Mrs. Talbot to call on Lord Baltimore, the owner of the province of Maryland. Lord Baltimore listened intently to Mrs. Talbot's story, and grew red in the face with anger when he heard how the governor of Virginia was making light of the order of the Privy Council.

"I will at once see the most influential members of the Council, Madame," said Lord Baltimore. "I will see my friend Tyrconnel, I will go to His Majesty himself, if need be, to secure Mr. Talbot his rights. I knew Lord Howard to be a headstrong knave; I'd not suspicioned him to be a traitor also! I'll bring him to time right soon!"

"It must be soon, my lord," said Mrs. Talbot. "The governor may bring Mr. Talbot to trial any day."

"I'll go at once," Lord Baltimore assured her. "We'll have a message sent to Virginia by the next ship out."

Mrs. Talbot and Michael went back to their lodgings, and Lord Baltimore hastened to his influential friend Tyrconnel, who took him to the king, James II. Hot with indignation, Baltimore denounced the illegal act of the governor of Virginia. He made it plain that Lord Howard was actually daring to defy His Majesty's orders in his province.

The king frowned. "Indeed, my Lord Baltimore, it does look as if our governor of Virginia were growing somewhat overfed with pride. Our Privy Council orders your man Talbot sent here for trial on the charge of killing a tax-collector, and instead Lord Howard holds him and threatens to try him there. I will teach my obstinate governor a lesson." He turned to a page and bade him fetch writing materials.

The king wrote a few lines in his own hand, and handed the paper to Baltimore. It was a pardon in full for George Talbot. "Send that to Virginia as fast as you can," said the king. "If Howard fails to heed that, I shall have to appoint another governor in his stead."

Lord Baltimore went directly to Mrs. Talbot's lodgings and showed her the king's pardon. "We must send it to Virginia at once," said he.

"Let my boy Michael Rowan take it," said Mrs. Talbot. "There is none would do more for my husband."

So Michael sailed for America with the precious document. His ship made a quick passage to Virginia; and it was fortunate it did, for no sooner had he landed at Jamestown than he heard that Talbot had been put on trial, had been convicted of murder, and was waiting execution.

Michael carried the king's pardon to Lord Howard. The governor read it and considered it. Apparently he realized that this was an order he did not dare disobey. So he gave directions to his officers to set the prisoner free.

Michael was the first friend George Talbot saw when he came out of prison, no longer an outlaw with a price upon his head, but a free man. "You were with me when I caused this trouble, Michael," said Talbot, gripping the boy by the hand, "and you're with me now when the trouble's at an end. God bless you for a faithful friend to me!"

He asked news of his wife, and when he learned that she had gone to London and had besought Lord Baltimore to rescue him from the governor of Virginia he said, "We must go to her, Michael. First a trip to the plantation to get the funds and set matters straight there, and then over the sea to England!"

So Talbot and Michael rode north to the manor-house on the Susquehanna in the summer. It was not like the voyage in the skiff, when the outlaw had to keep constantly in hiding. Now he rode openly, and everywhere people who knew who he was flocked to shake his hand and welcome him back to Maryland.

They reached the plantation and there Fergus Rowan and Edward Nigel and all the other retainers gave their chief a great welcome. But his thoughts were over the ocean, and he quickly gave directions what should be done in his absence, and went to Baltimore City to take ship. He wanted Michael to go with him, and Michael's parents consented, for the boy was now grown to be a man, and they thought it well that he should see something of the world.

Husband and wife met in London, and Michael made his home with them there, serving as Talbot's secretary, and learning the ways of a world vastly different from that of the plantation on the Susquehanna.

Talbot never returned to Maryland. He had not been in England long when the revolution broke out that placed William of Orange on the throne. Talbot, ever an adventurous spirit, took the side of James II and the Stuarts, fought as a Jacobite, and when the Stuart cause was lost, went to France and entered the service of the French king.

Michael, however, went back, was granted land by Lord Baltimore, and made his own farm in the fertile country of northern Maryland. George Talbot had always been more of an adventurer than a planter or farmer, but Michael Rowan preferred to till his own fields, though he never forgot the thrill of excitement of the days when he had served his outlawed chief.

VI IN THE DAYS OF WITCHES

(Massachusetts, 1692)

I

The schoolmaster closed his book with a snap. "That's all for to-day," he said. "Be sure you know your lessons well to-morrow, for I expect visitors any day now, and I want my classes to make a good appearance." He was a pale young man with pleasant blue eyes, and his shoulders stooped as though he were used to sitting much of the time bent over a table. Most boys and girls liked him, because of his kindness and patience with them, but a few, such as there are to be found in almost every school, made fun of him behind his back because he wasn't harsher with them. Sometimes they made fun of him too because of his strange pets, a lame sheep-dog, birds that had hurt their wings and couldn't fly far, any sort of animal that other people didn't care for.

Matthew Hamlin and Joseph Glover left school together, and walked down one of the miry streets of Salem. "My father talked about them last night," said Matthew. "He thought I didn't hear him. He said 'Witches!' and laughed."

"And didn't he say anything more?" demanded Joseph.

"Oh, yes. He said, 'Nonsense! A pack of old wives' tales! Folks ought to be ashamed to hearken to such things.'"

"Well," said Joseph, "I was sitting in the corner of the smithy shop, and two men came in, and they said to the smith, 'You've got a good-sized chimney here, and you'd best keep an eye out, or the witches'll be flying down it.' The smith didn't laugh; he frowned and shook his head, and said, 'There's no telling. But if they do come, I'll be ready for them.'"

Matthew dug his fists hard into the pockets of his jacket, and his round, rosy face looked unusually serious. "Let's go by the smithy, Joe," he suggested. "I'd like to have a look at the chimney."

So when they came to the next lane they turned down it, and presently reached the wide doors of the blacksmith's shop, which stood hospitably open. The smith was working at his anvil, striking great sparks with his hammer as he beat a crooked horseshoe. He nodded to the two boys, who threw their school-books on a bench, and walked over to the hearth, as if to warm their hands.

"Well, lads," said the smith, after a minute, "and what did ye learn to-day?" He rested his brawny arms on his hammer. "Folks tell me that Master Thomas Appleton is mighty learned and a great teacher; and, faith, he looks it, though I caught him chuckling on the road the other night."

"And he laughs sometimes in school too, and tells us stories," said Joe. "I like him. Most of us do; only that John Rowley and Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons don't, because he caught them beating a dog and scolded them for it. But when they talk about him, the rest of us shut them up, don't we, Mat?"

Mat, however, appeared to be much more interested in examining the smithy chimney than he was in Master Appleton. He had bent forward and was trying to look up the great sooty throat. "Do you think it's big enough for any one to come down?" he asked. "And is it clear to the top?"

Jacob Titus, the smith, rested his hammer on the anvil, and slowly wiped his hands on his leather apron. "Some might come down it—or fly up it," he answered. "Witches."

The word carried a thrill. Mat stood up straight again, facing the smith. Joe stopped warming his hands at the blaze. Titus nodded his head slowly. "Witches might," he said. "And they wouldn't need it clear to the top, they wouldn't."

Joe laughed. "But there aren't such things as witches, Mr. Titus. They're like fairies. People tell stories about them to frighten children."

"People tell stories about them right enough," agreed the smith, "but it ain't so sure they only do it to frighten children. They've found witches, and proved them witches, and not so very far from Salem. A man from Boston was in here yester eve, a likely-looking man, too, and he stood there by the fire, where you be standing, and he gave me facts and figures. Seems he was well acquainted with the matter. He says they hung a woman in Charlestown for trying to cure sick people by mixing magic with simples and herbs, contrary to what the doctors allowed, and they found another witch at Dorchester, and yet a third at Cambridge. Seems as if the witches sometimes took hold of children, and used their magic on 'em so's they did strange things, things no children would do usual."

The smith's voice had grown low and mysterious, and in his interest in the subject he had left his anvil and walked over to the boys by the hearth. He was gazing at them when there came a sound at the door and the boys saw a man's figure appear against the winter dusk that had settled on the lane. Jacob Titus wheeled about. "The very man I was speaking of!" he muttered. And in a louder voice he added, "Good-evening, sir, good-evening."

The stranger came into the shop. He was very tall, and his black clothes seemed to increase his height and the darkness of his face. He took off his high-crowned hat and ran his fingers through his long, uncombed hair. Then he flung his cloak back over his shoulders as if he found the smithy warm. "Good-evening to you, friend smith," he said, "and to you, young men." His voice was deep and oily, with a fawning sound to it. "Don't let me disturb your talk. I'll rest a few minutes with your kind permission."

Titus drew a stool near the hearth. "Sit here, sir. It happens I was telling these boys about you, and about your talk of yester eve, about the witches," he added.

The stranger sat down, stood his tall hat on the floor, and spread out his fingers, fan-like, on his knees. "About the witches?" he repeated in his deep voice. "Hardly a pleasing subject. And yet one that concerns folks everywhere. Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it concerns the people of Salem very particularly."

Mat and Joe could not help being impressed; there was something very mysterious in the man's voice and manner; he seemed to carry a strange, uncanny atmosphere about with him, and to give the impression that, if there were such creatures as witches, he would be precisely the person who would know most about them. As for the smith, it was very evident that he held his visitor in great awe.

"I told you of Goody Jones, of Charlestown," said the stranger. "I hadn't told you of the strange case of the woman Glover, who was laundress for John Goodwin of Boston. One day Martha, John Goodwin's oldest daughter, who was thirteen, told her parents that the laundress was stealing pieces of linen from the family washing. They spoke to her about it, and the woman dared to answer them with many strange threats and curses. Thereupon the little Martha fell down in a fit, and soon the same thing happened to the three other children, who were eleven, seven, and five years old. Afterward they all plainly showed that the laundress had bewitched them; they became deaf and dumb for stretches of time, they said they were being pricked with pins and cut with knives, they barked like dogs and purred like cats, they could even skim over the ground without touching it, or, in the words of the worthy Cotton Mather, seemed to 'fly like geese.' This lasted for several weeks."

"Saints above!" murmured the smith. "To think of that!"

"Yes," went on the stranger. "Doctors and ministers studied the case, and agreed that undoubtedly the Glover woman had bewitched the children, and she was hanged for trading in black magic."

"Aye," agreed Jacob Titus, "no doubt she was a witch. What those children did tallies with all stories of bewitchments."

Joe and Mat kept silent, but they could not help acknowledging to themselves that the children had acted very much as if the woman had bewitched them. Moreover, the stranger's manner made a great impression on his hearers; he never smiled as he spoke, was evidently very much in earnest, and looked tremendously wise.

His very next words served to increase this impression. "I have given much time and thought to this matter of witches," said he, "and it's that which has fetched me to your town of Salem. You know Salem Village, or Salem Farms, as some appear to call it?"

Of course they all knew Salem Village, a little group of farms that lay four or five miles out from their own town.

"There," said the stranger, "lives one Samuel Parris, minister of the Gospel, and his family." As he spoke he made marks and lines on his leg, as if to indicate the people he was naming. The boys looked back and forth from his lean finger tracing these lines to his deep, glowing eyes. "Samuel Parris," continued the speaker, "lived in the West Indies for a time, and when he came here he brought two colored servants with him, a man called John Indian, and his wife, who was known as Tituba, who was part Indian and part negro. These two brought with them from the Indies a knowledge of palm-reading, fortune-telling, second-sight, and various strange incantations, such as the natives use there. They soon attracted to them by these tricks a number of children, chiefly girls, some as old as twenty, one child, Mr. Parris's daughter Elizabeth, only nine. At first the girls simply did the tricks these Indian servants taught them, but before long they gave signs of being bewitched in earnest; they crawled about on their hands and knees, they spoke a language no one could understand, they fell into trances. When these 'Afflicted Children,' as they call them, were asked who made them do these things, they pointed to the Indian Tituba, and to two elderly women, one named Sarah Good, the other Sarah Osburn. People have watched these three, and they find that whenever Sarah Good quarrels with her neighbors their cattle have been apt to sicken and die. Naturally the three women are now under arrest. Such things savor strongly of the Evil Eye, methinks."

"I think so too," said the smith stoutly. "That bewitching of the neighbors' cattle is bad business!"

It was now dark outside, and the only light in the smithy was the fire on the hearth. "Folks here in Salem should be on watch that this witchcraft comes no nearer home," muttered the stranger in his deep voice. "I have come here partly to warn them."

"That's good of you," said Titus.

The stranger picked up his hat, as if about to leave.

"Might we know your name?" asked the smith, very respectfully.

"Jonathan Leek," said the other. "One time I was in business with a man of Salem, Richard Swan. He took more than his fair share of the profits of our ventures, and left me poor. But I forgave him."

"Oh, I knew Richard Swan well," said the smith. "He died some years ago. We all thought well of him here in Salem. His widow lives here now, Mistress Ann Swan."

"Her house is near ours," spoke up Mat.

"The schoolmaster boards with her," volunteered Joe. "He has a little shed at the back where he keeps his dogs."

"I forgave him," repeated Jonathan Leek in his oily tones. He put on his high-crowned hat and stood up. "Let us all beware of the evil eye, my friends," he added, and, drawing his cloak close about him, strode out through the doorway.

The smith and the two boys stared after him, and then looked at each other. He had certainly brought mysterious stories with him, and the effect of them seemed to remain. "What was I telling you?" said Titus. "Don't be making sport of such business." He went back to his work at the anvil.