CHAPTER VII

“He that questions whether God made the world, the Indian will teach him. I must acknowledge I have received in my converse with them, many confirmations of those two great points; first, that ‘God is;’ second, ‘that he is a rewarder of all them that diligently seek him .”’ — Roger Williams'

OUR READERS' SAGACITY has probably enabled them to penetrate the slight mystery, in which the circumstances that led to the apprehension of Magawisca have been shrouded. Sir Philip Gardiner, after attending Mrs. Grafton home on the Saturday night, memorable in the history of our heroine, saw her enter the burial-place. Partly moved by his desire to ascertain whether there was any cause for her running away from him that might soothe his vanity, and partly, no doubt, by an irresistible attraction towards her; he followed at a prudent distance, till he saw her meeting with Magawisca; he then secreted himself in the thicket of evergreens, where he was near enough to hear and observe all that passed; and w here, as may be remembered, he narrowly escaped being exposed by his dog.

Sir Philip had heard the rumour of a conspiracy among the natives; and when he saw Magawisca’s extreme anxiety to secure a clandestine interview with Miss Leslie, the probable reason for her secresy at once occurred to him. If he conjectured rightly, he was in possession of a secret that might be of value to the state, and of course, be made the means of advancing him in the favour of the Governor. But might he not risk incurring Miss Leslie’s displeasure by this interposition in her affairs, and thus forfeit the object of all his present thoughts and actions? He believed not. He saw that she yielded reluctantly, and because she had no alter- native, to Magawisca’s imposition of secresy. With her romantic notions, it was most probable that she would hold her promise inviolate; but would

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she not be bound in everlasting gratitude to him, who by an ingenious manoeuvre should, without in the least involving her honour, secure the recovery of her sister? Thus he flattered himself he should, in any event, obtain some advantage. To Miss Leslie he would appear solely actuated bv zeal for her happiness; to the Governor, by devotion to the safety and welfare of the commonwealth.

Accordingly, on the following Monday morning, he solicited a pri- vate interview with the magistrates, and deposed before them, “that on returning to his lodgings on Saturday night, he had seen Miss Leslie enter the burying-ground alone; that believing she had gone to visit some spot consecrated by the interment of a friend, and knowing the ardent temper of the young lady, he feared she might forget, in the indulgence of her feelings, the lateness of the hour. He had, therefore, with the intention of guarding her from all harm, without intruding on her meditations, (which though manifestly unseasonable, might, he thought, tend to edifying by withdrawing her thoughts from worldly objects,) followed her, and se- cluded himself in the copse of evergreens, where, to his astonishment, he had witnessed her interview with the Indian woman.” The particulars of their conversation he gave at length.

Unfortunately for Magawisca, Sir Philip’s testimony coincided with the story of a renegade Indian, formerly one of the counsellors and favourites of Miantunnomoh. This savage, stung by some real or fancied wrongs, deserted his tribe, and vowing revenge, he repaired to Boston, and divulged to the Governor the secret hostility of his chief towards the English; which, he said, had been stimulated to activity by the old Pequod chief, and the renowned maiden Magawisca.

He stated also, that the chiefs of the different tribes, moved by the eloquence and arguments of Mononotto, were forming a powerful com- bination. Thus far the treacherous savage told the truth; but he proceeded to state plots and underplots, and artfully to exaggerate the number and power of the tribes. The magistrates lent a believing ear to the whole story. They were aware that the Narragansetts, ever since they had witnessed the defeat and extinction of their ancient enemies the Pequods, had felt a secret dread and jealousy of the power and encroachments of the English, and that they only waited for an opportunity to manifest their hostility. Letters had been recently received from the magistrates of Connecticut,

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expressing their belief that a general rising of the Indians was meditated. All these circumstances combined to give importance to Sir Philip’s and the Indian’s communications. But the Governor felt the necessity of pro- ceeding warily.

Miantunnomoh had been the faithful friend and ally of the English. He is described by Winthrop, as a “sagacious and subtle man, who showed good understanding in the principles of justice and equity, and ingenuity withal .” 2 Such a man it was obviously the policy of the English not unnecessarily to provoke; and the Governor hoped, by getting possession of the Pequod family, to obtain the key to Miantunnomoh’s real designs, and to crush the conspiracy before it was matured.

We have been compelled to this digression, in order to explain the harsh reception and treatment of Magawisca; to account for the zeal with which the Governor promoted the party to the garden; and for the signal which guided the boat directly to the Pequod family, and which Sir Philip remained on the island to give. The knight had now gotten very deep into the councils and favour of the magistrates, who saw in him the selected medium of a special kindness of Providence to them.

He took good care,

“That all his circling wiles should end In feigned religion, smooth hypocrisy;”

and by addressing his arts to the predominant tastes and principles of the honest men whom he deluded, he well sustained his accidental advantage.

It would be vain to attempt to describe the various emotions of Governor Winthrop’s family at the return of Hope Leslie. Madam Win- throp, over excited by the previous events of the evening, had fortunately escaped any further agitation by retiring to bed, after composing her nerves with a draught of valerian tea. Mrs. Grafton, who had been trans- ported with joy at the unlooked for recovery of Faith Leslie, was carried to the extreme of despair, when she saw the lifeless body of her beloved niece borne to her apartment. Poor old Cradock went like the bird of poetic fame, “up stairs and down stairs,” wringing his hands, and sobbing like a whipt boy. The elder Fletcher stood bending in mute agony over the child of his affections, whom he loved with even more than the tenderness of a parent. His tears, like those of old and true Menenius , 3 seemed “salter than

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a younger man’s, and venemous to his eyes;” and his good friend Governor Winthrop, when he saw his distress, secretly repented that he had ac- quiesced in a procedure that had brought such misery upon this much enduring man. Jennet bustled about, appearing to do every thing, and doing nothing; and hoping ‘to goodness’ sake, the young lady would come to herself, long enough, at least, to tell what had befallen her’ — ‘she always thought, she did, what her harem-scarem ways would bring her to at last.’ Miss Downing, without regarding, or even hearing, these and many other similar mutterings, proceeded with admirable presence of mind to direct and administer all the remedies that were at hand; while Everell, almost distracted, went in quest of medical aid.

A delirious fever succeeded to unconsciousness; and for three days Hope Leslie’s friends hung over her in the fear that even,' hour would be her last. For three days and nights, Esther Downing never quitted her bedside, except to go to the door of the apartment to answer Everell’s inquiries. Her sweet feminine qualities were now called into action: she watched and prayed over her friend; and, though her cheek was pale, and her eye dim, she had never appeared half so lovely to Everell, as when in her simple linen dressing gown, she for an instant left the invalid to announce some favourable symptom. On the fourth morning, Hope’s fever abated; her incoherent ravings ceased, and she sunk, for the first time, into a tranquil sleep. Esther sat perfectly still by her bedside, fearing to move, lest the slightest noise should disturb her — she heard Everell walking in the entry, as he had done incessantly, and stopping, at every turn, to listen at the door. Till now, all her faculties had been in requisition — her mind and body devoted to her friend — she had not thought of herself; and if sometimes the thought of Everell intruded, she blushed at what she deemed the unsubdued selfishness of her heart. “Alas!” she said, “I am far from that temper which leads us to ‘weep with those that w eep,’ if I suffer thoughts of my own happy destiny to steal in when mv friend is in this extremity.” But these were but transient emotions: her devotion to Hope was too sincere and unremitting to afford occasion of reproach even to her watchful and accusing conscience. But now', as she listened to Everell’s perturbed footsteps, a new train of thoughts passed through her mind. “Everell has scarcely quitted that station. With what eagerness he has hung on my words when I spoke of Hope! What a mortal paleness has over-

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spread his face at every new alarm! It would not, perhaps, have been right — but, methinks, it would have been natural — that he should have expressed some concern for me — I cannot remember that he has. How often has he said to me, ‘dear Esther, you will not leave her?’ and, ‘for the love of heaven, trust her not a moment to the discretion of her aunt’ — ‘do not confide in Jennet’ — ‘Madam Winthrop has too many cares for so delicate a charge — all depends on you, dear Esther.’ Yes — he said dear Esther; but how many times he has repeated it, as if his life were suspended by the same thread as hers. If I were in Hope’s condition, would he feel thus? I could suffer death itself for such proofs of tenderness. Sinful worm that I am, thus to doat on any creature.” The serenity of her mind was disturbed — she rose involuntarily — as she rose, her gown caught in her chair, and overthrew it. The chair fell against a little stand by the bedside, covered with phials, cups, and spoons, and all were overthrown, with one of those horrible clatters, that are as startling in a sick-room as the explosion of a magazine at midnight.

Everell, alarmed by the unwonted noise, instinctively opened the door — Hope awoke from her profound sleep, and drew aside the cur- tain — she looked bewildered; but it was no longer the wildness of fever: thronging and indistinct recollections oppressed her; but after an instant, a perfect consciousness of the past and the present returned; she covered her eyes, and sunk back on the pillow, murmuring, “thank God!” and tears of gratitude and joy stole over her cheeks.

Esther lost every other emotion in unmixed joy. She went to the door to Everell, who was still standing there, as if he were transfixed. “It is as you see,” she said, “the danger is past — she has slept sweetly for three hours, and was now only disturbed by my carelessness; go to your father with the good news; your face will tell it even if your lips refuse, as they do now, to move.”

They did now move, and the joy of his heart broke forth in the exclamation, “You are an angel, Esther! my father owes to you the preser- vation of his dearest treasure; and I — I — my life, Esther, shall prove to you my sense of what I owe you.”

There was an enthusiasm in his manner, that for the first time satisifed Esther’s feelings; but her religious sentiments habitually pre- dominating over every other, “I have been a poor but honoured instru-

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ment,” she said; “let us all carry our thanksgivings to that altar where they are due.” Then, after allowing Everell to press her hand to his lips, she closed the door, and returned to Hope’s bedside. Hope again put aside the bed-curtain — “Is not my sister here?” she asked; “she must be here, and yet I can scarcely separate my dreams from the strange accidents of that night.”

“She is here, safe and well, my dear Hope; but for the present, you must be content not to see her; you have been very ill, and need per- fect rest.”

“I feel that I need it, Esther, but I must first know how it has fared with Magawisca; she came on my solemn promise — I trust she has been justly dealt by — she has been received as she deserved, Esther?”

Esther hesitated — but seeing Hope’s lip quivering with apprehen- sion, and fearing the effects, in her weak state, of any new r agitation, she, for the first time in her life, condescended to an equivocation, solacing herself with thinking that she ought to believe that perfectly right w hich her uncle Winthrop appointed: she said, “Magawisca has had a merited reception — now ask no more questions, Hope, but compose yourself again to sleep.” If Hope had had the will, she had not the power to disobey, for nature will not be rifled of her dues. But we must leave her to the restoring influence of the kindest of all nature’s provisions, to visit one from whom care and sorrow banished sleep.

At an advanced hour of the following evening, Sir Philip Gardiner repaired to the town jail, and was admitted by its keeper, Bamaby Tuttle. The knight produced a passport to the cell of Thomas Morton, and pointing to the Governor’s signature and seal, “you know that, friend,” he said.

“As well as my own face; but I am loath to lead a gentleman of your bearing to such an unsavory place.”

“Scruple not, honest master Tuttle, duty takes no note of time and place.”

“You shall be served, sir; and with the better will, since you seem to be, as it were, of a God-serving turn, — but walk in, your worship, and sit down in my bit of a place; w hich, though a homely one, and within the four walls of a jail, is, I thank the Lord, like that into w hich Paul and Silas were thrust, a place where prayers and praises are often heard.”

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Bamaby now lighted a candle, and while Sir Philip was awaiting his dilatory preparations, he could not but wonder that a man of his appear- ance should have been selected for an office that is usually supposed to require a muscular frame, strong nerves, and a hardy spirit. Bamaby Tuttle had none of these; but, on the contrary, was a man of small stature, meagre person, and a pale and meek countenance, that bespoke the disposition that lets “1 dare not, wait upon I would.”

“Have you been long in this service of jailer?” asked Sir Philip.

“Six years, an please your worship, come the ioth day of next October, at 8 o’clock of the morning. 1 had been long a servant in the Governor’s own household; and he gave me the office, as he was pleased to say, because he knew me trust worthy, and a merciful man.”

“But mercy, master Bamaby, is not held to be a special qualification for those of your calling.”

“It is not sir? Well, 1 can tell your honour, there’s no place it’s more wanted; and here, in our new English colony, we have come, as it were, under a new dispensation. Our prisoners are seldom put in for those crimes that fill the jails in Old England. Since I have been keeper— six years next October, as I told you it is — I have had but few in for stealing, and one for murder; and that was a disputed case, there being no clear testimony; but as he was proved to have lived an atheist life, he was condemned to die, and at the last confessed many sore offences, which, as Mr. Cotton observed in his sermon, preached the next Lord’s day, were each and all held worthy of death by the laws of Moses. No sir, our prisoners are chiefly those who are led astray of the devil into divers errors of opinions, or those who commit such sins as are named at length in the Levitical law.”

“Ah,” said Sir Philip, with a well pitched groan, “the depravity of man will find a channel: stop it at one place and it will out at another. But come, friend Bamaby — time is going on — I’ll follow you.” The jailer now led the way through a long narrow passage, with doors on each side, which opened into small apartments. “Hark!” said Barnaby, laying his hand on Sir Philip’s arm — “hear you that? It’s Gorton praying; he and his company are all along in these wards; and betimes I hear them calling on the Lord, like Daniel in the lion’s den, for hours together. I hope it’s not a sin to feel for such woful heretics, for I have dropped salt tears for them. Does not your

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honour think our magistrates may have some way opened up for their pardon?”

“I see not how they can, master Bamaby, unless these sore revilers should renounce their heresies, or — ” he added, with an involuntary sneer, fortunately for him, unobserved by his simple companion, “or, their title to the Indian lands.”

They had now arrived at one extremity of the passage, and Barnabv selected a key from his bunch; but before putting it in the lock, he said, “Morton is in a little room within the Indian woman’s, taken the other day.”

“So I understand; and by your leave, master Tuttle, I would address a private admonition to this Indian woman, who, as report saith, is an obstinate heathen.”

“I suppose she is, your honour; they that should know, say so. But she hath truly a discreet and quiet way with her, that I would was more common among Christian women. But as you say you wish to speak in private, I must beg your honour’s pardon for turning my bolt on you. I will give you the light, and the key to the inner room; and w hen you desire mv attendance, you have but to pull a cord that hangs by the frame of the door inside, and rings a bell in the passage — one word more, your honour — be on your guard when you go into Morton’s cell. He raves, betimes, as if all the fiends possessed him; and then again, he sings and dances, as if he were at his revels on the merry mount; and betimes he cries — the poor old man — like a baby, for the twenty-four hours round; so that I cannot but think a place in the London hospital w r ould be fitter for him than this.”

“Your feelings seem not to suit with the humour of your profession, Master Tuttle.”

“May be not, sir; but there is a pleasure in a pitiful feeling, let your outward work be ever so hard, as, doubtless, your worship well knows.”

Sir Philip felt that conscience sent a burning blush to his hardened cheek; and he said, with an impatient tone, “I have mv instructions — let me pass in, master Tuttle.” Bamaby unlocked the door, gave him the candle, and then turned the bolt upon him.

Magawisca was slowly pacing the room, to and fro; she stopped, and uttered a faint exclamation at the sight of her visitor, then turned away, as if disappointed, and resumed her melancholy step. Sir Philip held up his

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candle to survey the apartment. It was a room of ordinary size, with one small grated window; and containing a flock-bed, and a three-legged stool, on which stood a plate of untasted provisions.

“Truly,” said he, advancing into the room, “generous entertainment this, for a hapless maiden.” Magawisca made no reply, and gave no heed to him, and he proceeded, “a godly and gallant youth, that Everell Fletcher, to suffer one who risked her life, and cast away a precious limb for him, to lie forgotten here. Methinks if he had a spark of thy noble nature, maiden, he would burn the town, or batter down this prison wall, for you.” An irrepressible groan escaped from Magawisca, but she spoke not.

“He leaves you here alone and helpless to await death,” continued the knight; thus venting his malignity against Everell, though he saw that every word was a torturing knife to the innocent maiden. “Death, the only boon you can expect from these most Christian magistrates, while he, with a light heart and smirking face, is dancing attendance on his lady love.” —

“On whom?” interrupted Magawisca, in a tone of fearful impa- tience.

“On her who played so faithfully the part of decoy-pigeon to thee.”

“Hope Leslie! — my father then is taken,” she screamed.

“Nay, nay, not so; thy father and brother, both, by some wondrous chance escaped.”

“Dost thou speak truth?” demanded Magawisca in a thrilling voice, and looking in Sir Philip’s face as if she would penetrate his soul — “1 doubt thee.”

The knight opportunely bethought himself of having heard Magawisca during her interview with Hope Leslie, allude to the Romish religion; he took a crucifix from his bosom and pressed it to his lips. “Then by this holy sign,” he said, “of which if you know aught, you know that to use it falsely would bring death to my soul, 1 swear I speak truly.”

Magawisca again turned away, and drawing her mantle, which, in her emotion, had fallen back, close over her shoulders, she continued to pace the apartment, without bestowing even a look on Sir Philip, who felt himself in an awkward predicament, and found it difficult to rally his spirits to prosecute the object of his visit. But habitually confident, and like all bad men, distrusting the existence of incorruptible virtue, he soon shook off his embarrassment, and said, “I doubt, maiden, you would

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breathe more freely in the wild wood than in this stifling prison; and sleep more quietly on the piled leaves of your forests, than on that bed that Christian love has spread for you.” Magawisca neither manifested bv word or sign that she heard him, and he proceeded more explicitly, — “Do you sigh for the freedom of nature? — would you be restored to it?”

“Would 1! would the imprisoned bird return to its nestlings?” she now stopped, and looked with eager inquiry on Sir Philip.

“Then listen to me, and you shall learn by what means, and on what terms you may escape from this prison, and beyond the reach of your enemies. Here,” he continued, producing from beneath his cloak, a rope- ladder, and a file and wrench, “here are instruments by which you can remove those bars, and by which you may safely descend to the ground.”

“Tell me,” cried Magawisca, a ray of joy lighting her eyes, “tell me how I shall use them.”

Sir Philip explained the mode, enjoined great caution, and then proceeded to say, — “By to-morrow night at twelve you can remove the bars; the town will then be still; proceed directly to the point where you last landed, and a boat shall there be in readiness, well manned, to convey you beyond danger.”

“Well — well,” she replied, with breathless eagerness, “now tell me what I am to do; what a poor Indian prisoner can do to requite such a favour as this?”

Sir Philip began a reply — stammered, and paused. He seemed to turn and turn his purpose, and endeavoured to shelter it in some drapery that should hide its ugliness; but this was beyond his art, and summoning impudence to his aid, he said, “I have a young damsel with me, w ho for sillv love followed me out of England. Now you foresters, maiden, w ho live according to the honesty of nature, you could not understand me, if 1 were to tell you of the cruel laws of the world, w hich oblige this poor girl to disguise herself in man’s apparel, and counterfeit the duties of a page, that she may conceal her love. She hath become somewhat troublesome to me: all that 1 ask as the price of your liberty is, that she may be the companion of your flight.”

“Doth she go willingly?”

“Nay, not willingly; but she is young, and like a tender twig, you can bend her at will; all I ask is, your promise that she return not.”

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“But if she resist?”

“Act your pleasure with her; yet I would not that she were harmed. You may give her to your brother in the place of this fair-haired damsel they have stolen from him; or,” he added, for he saw that Magawisca’s brow contracted, “or, if that suits not you, nor him, you may take her to your western forests, and give her to a Romish priest, who will guide her to the Hotel Dieu, which our good lady of Bouillon has established in Canada.” Magawisca dropped at his feet the instruments which she had grasped with such delight. “Nay, nay, bethink you, maiden, it is a small boon to return for liberty and life; for, trust me, if you remain here, they will not spare your life.”

“And dost thou think,” she replied, “that 1 would make my heart as black as thine, to save my life? — life! Dost thou not know, that life can only be abated by those evil deeds forbidden by the Great Master of life? — The wnting of the Great Spirit has surely vanished from thy degraded soul, or thou wouldst know, that man cannot touch life! Life is nought but the image of the Great Spirit — and he hath most of it, who sends it back most true and unbroken, like the perfect image of the clear heavens, in the still lake.”

Sir Philip’s eye fell, and his heart quailed before the lofty glance, and unsullied spirit of the Indian maiden. Once he looked askance at her, but it was with such a look as Satan eyed the sun in his “high meridian tower.” With a feeling of almost insupportable meanness he collected, and again concealed beneath his cloak the ladder and other instruments, which he had been at no small pains to procure, and was turning to summon Bamaby by ringing the bell, when he suddenly recollected, that Thomas Morton had been the ostensible motive of his visit, and that it was but a prudent precaution to look in upon him for an instant; and feeling too, perhaps, a slight curiosity to see the companion of his former excesses, he changed his purpose, turned to Morton’s door, unlocked and opened it.

The old man seemed to have shrunk away as if frightened, and w3sq gathered up almost into a ball in one corner of his miserable little squalid den. A few remnants of his garments hung like shreds about him. Every? particle of his hair had dropped out; his grisly beard was matted together; his eyes gleamed like sparks of fire in utter darkness. Sir Philip was transfixed. ‘Is this,’ he thought, ‘Morton! the gentleman — the gallant

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cavalier — the man of pleasure — Good God! the girl hath truly spoken of life!’ While he stood thus, the old man sprang on him like a cat, pulled him within the door, and then, with the action of madness, swift as thought, he seized the key, locked the door on the inside, and threw the key through jthe bars of the window without the prison. The candle had fallen and was extinguished, and Sir Philip found himself immured with his scarcely human companion in total darkness, without any means of rescue, except- ing through Magawisca. His first impulse was to entreat her to ring the bell, but he delayed for a moment, lest he should heighten the old man’s paroxysm of madness.

In this interval of silence, Magawisca fancied she heard a sound against her window, and on going to it, perceived, though the night was extremely dark, a ladder resting against the bars; she listened and heard a foostep ascending; then there was a wrestling in Morton’s room; and screams — “He’ll kill me — ring the bell.” Again all was still, and she heard from the ground below, “Come down, Mr. Everell, for the love of heaven come down.” The words were uttered in a tone hardly above a whisper.

“Hush, Digby, I will not come down.”

“Then you are lost; those cries will certainly alarm the guard.”

“Hush! the cries have ceased.” Everell mounted quite to the window, quick as if he had risen on wings.

‘He is true!’ thought Magawisca, and it seemed to her that her heart would burst with joy, but she could not speak. He applied an instrument to one of the iron bars, and wrenched it off. Repeated and louder cries of “murder! — help — ring the bell!” now proceeded from Gardiner, and the old maniac seemed determined to outroar him. Again the noise ceased, and again Digby spoke in a more agitated voice than before. “Oh, they are stirring in the yard — come away, Mr. Everell.”

“1 will not — I had rather die — stand fast, Digby — one bar more, and she is free;” and again he applied the instrument.

“Are you mad?” exclaimed Digby, in a more raised and eager voice; “I tell you the lights are coming; if you do not escape now, nothing can ever be done for her.”

This last argument had the intended effect: Everell felt that all hope of extricating Magawisca depended on his now eluding discovery; and with an exclamation of bitter disappointment, he relinquished the enterprise

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for the present, and, descending a few rounds of the ladder, leaped to the ground, and, with Digby, disappeared before the guard reached the spot of operations. Magawisca saw two of the men go off in pursuit, while the other remained picking up the implements that Everell had dropped, and muttering something of old Barnaby sleeping as if he slept his last sleep.

Relieved from the sad conviction of Everell’s desertion and in- gratitude, Magawisca seemed for a moment to float on happiness, and in her exultation to forget the rocks and quicksands that encompassed her. Another outcry from Sir Philip recalled her thoughts, and obeying the first impulse of humanity, she rang the bell violently. Barnaby soon appeared with a lamp and keys, and learning the durance of Sir Philip, he hastened to his relief. A key was found to unlock the door, and on opening it, the knight’s terror and distress were fully explained. Morton had thrown him on his back, and pinned him to the floor, by planting his knee on Sir Philip’s breast, and had interrupted his cries, and almost suffocated him, by stuffing his cloak into his mouth. At the sight of his keeper, the maniac sprang off, and with a sort of inarticulate chattering and laughing, resumed his old station in the corner, apparently quite unconscious that he had moved from it.

Sir Philip darted out and shut the door, as if he were closing a tiger’s cage; and then, in wrath that overswelled all limits, he turned upon poor Barnaby, and, shaking him till his old bones seemed to rattle in their thin casement, he poured out on him curses deep and loud, for leading him into that ‘devil’s den.’ Magawisca interposed, but instead of calming his wrath, she only drew it on herself. He swore ‘he would be revenged on her, d — d Indian that she was, to stand by and not lift her hand, when she knew he was dying by torture.’ Magawisca did not vouchsafe any other reply to this attack, than a look of calm disdain; and Barnaby, now recovering from the fright and amazement into which Sir Philip’s violence had thrown him, held up his lamp, and reconnoitring the knight’s face and person, “It is the same,” he said, resolving his honest doubts, “the same I let in — circum- stances alter cases — and men too, 1 think; why, I took him for as godly a seeming man as ever 1 laid my eyes on; a yea and nay pilgrim; but such profane swearing exceedeth Chaddock’s men, or Chaddock either, or the master they serve.”

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“Prate not, you canting villain; why did not you come when you heard my cries? or where was you that you heard them not?”

“Just taking a little nap in my rocking chair; and I said to myself, as 1 set myself down, ‘now Bamaby, if you should happen to fall out of your meditation into sleep, remember to wake at the ringing of the bell;’ and, accordingly, at the very first touch of it I was on my feet, and coming hitherward.”

Sir Philip’s panic and wrath had now so far subsided, that he per- ceived there was an alarming discordance between his extempore conduct, and his elaborate pretensions; and re-assuming his mask, with an awkw ard suddenness, he said, “Well, well, friend Bamaby, we will both forgive and forget. I will say nothing of your sleeping soundly at your post, when vou have such dangerous prisoners in ward, that the Governor has thought it necessary to give you a guard; and you, good Bamaby, you will say nothing of my having for a moment lost the command of my reason; though being so sorely bestead, and having but a poor human nature, I think I should not be hardly judged by merciful men.”

“As to forgiving and forgetting, your worship,” replied the good- natured fellow, “that 1 can do as easily as another man, but not from anv dread of your tale-bearing; for I think the Governor hath sent the guard here partly in consideration of my age and feebleness; and I fear not undue blame. Therefore, not for my own by-ends will I keep close, but that I hold it not neighbourly to speak to another’s hurt; and I well know it is but the topmost saints that are always in the exercise of grace. But I marvel, your worship, that ye spoke those evil words so glibly: it seemed like one casting away stilts, and going on his own natural feet again.”

“All the fault of an ungodly youth, worthy master Tuttle,” replied Sir Philip, rolling up his eyes sanctimoniously, “and he who ensnared my soul, thy miserable prisoner there, is now' reaping the Lord’s judgments therefore.”

“I think it is not profitable,” said the simple man, as he led the way out of the prison, “to cast up judgments at any one; we are all — as your worship has just suddenly and wofully experienced — we are all liable to falls in this slippery world; and I have always thought it a more prudent and Christian part, to lend a helping hand to a fallen brother, than to stand by, and laugh at him, or flout him.”

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Sir Philip hurried away; every virtuous sentiment fell on his ear like a rebuke. Even in an involuntary comparison of himself with the simple jailer, he felt that genuine goodness, dimmed and sullied though it may be by ignorance and fanaticism, like a good dull guinea, rings true at every trial; while hypocrisy, though it show a face fair and bright, yet, like a new false coin, betrays at every scratch the base metal.

Perhaps no culprit ever turned his back on a jail with a more thorough conviction that he deserved there to be incarcerated, than did Sir Philip. Detection in guilt is said marvellously to enlighten men’s con- sciences: there may be a kindred virtue in disappointment in guilty proj- ects. The knight had become impatient of his tedious masquerade. He was at first diverted with a new, and, as it seemed to him, a fantastical state of society; and amused at the success with which he played his assumed character. He soon became passionately enamoured of Hope Leslie, and pursued her with a determined, unwavering resolution, that, vacillating as he had always been, astonished himself. In the eagerness of the chase, he underrated the obstacles that opposed him, and above all, the insuperable obstacle, the manifest indifference of the young lady; which his vanity (must we add, his experience) led him to believe was affectation, whim, or accident — any or all of these might be successfully opposed and over- come. He had tried to probe her feelings in relation to Everell, and though he was puzzled by the result, and knew not what it meant, he trusted it did not mean love. But if it did, what girl of Hope Leslie’s spirit, he asked himself, would remain attached to a drivelling fellow, who, from complai- sance to the wishes of prosing old men, had preferred to her such a statue of formality and puritanism as Esther Downing? and Everell removed, Sir Philip feared no other competitor; for he counted for nothing those gentlemen who might aspire to Miss Leslie’s hand, but whose strict obe- dience to the canons of puritanism left them, as he thought, few of the qualities that were likely to interest a romantic imagination. For himself, determined not to jeopard his success by wearing his sanctimonious mask to Hope, he played the magician with two faces, and to her he was the gay and gallant chevalier; his formality, his preciseness, and every badge and insignia of the puritan school, were dropped, and he talked of love and poetry like any carpet knight of those days, or drawing-room lover of our own. But this was a dangerous game to play, and must not be protracted.

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Some untoward accident might awaken the guardians of the colony from their credulous confidence; and to this danger his wayward page con- tinually exposed him.

As our readers are already acquainted with the real character of this unhappy victim of Sir Philip’s profligacy, it only remains to give the few unto ld circumstances of her brief history. She was the natural child of an Y English nobleman. Her mother was a distinguished French actress, who, dying soon after her birth, committed the child to some charitable sisters of the order of St. Joseph. Her father on his death bed, seized with pangs of remorse, exacted a promise from his sister, the Lady Lunford, that she would receive the orphan under her protection. The lady performed the promise a la lettre, and no more. She withdrew the unfortunate Rosa from her safe asylum, but she kept from her, and from all the world, the secret of their relationship, and made the dependence and desolateness of the poor orphan, a broad foundation for her own tyranny. Lady Lunford was a woman of the world — a waning; Rosa, a ripening beauty. Her house was the resort of men of fashion. Sir Philip paid his devotions there ostensibly to the noble mistress, but really to the young creature, whose melting eyes, naivete, and strong and irrepressible feelings, enchanted him. Probably Lady Lunford found the presence of the young beauty inconvenient. She certainly never threw any obstacle in Sir Philip’s way; indeed, he after- wards cruelly boasted to Rosa, that her patroness had persuaded him to receive her; but this was long after; for many months he treated her with the fondest devotion; and she, poor credulous child, w'as first awakened from dreams of love and happiness by pangs of jealousy.

From her own confessions, Sir Philip learned how' far she had di- vulged her sorrows to Hope Leslie; and from that moment, he meditated some mode of secretly and suddenly ridding himself of her; and finally, determined on the project which, as we have seen, was wofully defeated; and he was compelled to retreat from Magawisca’s prison, with the tor- menting apprehension that he might himself fall into the pit he had digged.

Let those who have yet to learn in what happiness consists, and its actual independence of external circumstances, turn from the gifted and accomplished man of the world, to the Indian prisoner; from the baffled tempter, to the victorious tempted. Magawisca could scarcely have been

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made happier if Everell had achieved her freedom, than she was by the certain knowledge of his interposition for her. The sting of his supposed ingratitude had been her sharpest sorrow. Her affection for Everell Fletcher had the tenderness, the confidence, the sensitiveness of woman’s love; but it had nothing of the selfishness, the expectation, or the earth- liness of that passion. She had done and suffered much for him, and she felt that his worth must be the sole requital for her sufferings. She felt too, that she had received much from him. He had opened the book of knowledge to her — had given subjects to her contemplative mind, beyond the mere perceptions of her senses; had in some measure dissipated the clouds of ignorance that hung over the forest-child, and given her glimpses of the past and the distant; but above all, he had gratified her strong national pride, by admitting the natural equality of all the children of the Great Spirit; and by allowing that it was the knowledge of the Englishman — an accidental superiority that forced from the uninstructed Indian the ex- clamation, “Manittoo! — Manittoo!” — he is a God . 4

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