Читать книгу The Knight of the Golden Melice - John Turvill Adams - Страница 6

"Oh, give me liberty!

For were even Paradise my prison,

Still I should long to leap the crystal walls."

Dryden.

The motives which animated Spikeman to play the part which he did in the court that condemned the soldier, will now be better understood. He had cast eyes of licentious desire upon the blooming Prudence, who was, at the same time, beloved by Philip, and was solicitous to remove him out of the way. Bold in all his plans, neither honoring God nor fearing man, unscrupulous in regard to the means, to effect a purpose, and esteeming the gratification of his evil wishes the highest happiness, it was yet necessary to the achievement of his objects that a specious outside at least should be preserved, and this he had succeeded in doing up to the present time. In pursuance of his cunning policy, he was unwilling that even Joy should suspect him of unfriendliness, and for that reason had, in the course of the examination, excited the temporary vexation of Deputy Governor Dudley, by an observation which, to the unsuspecting Deputy, seemed indicative of a desire to screen Joy from punishment, and to Joy himself the interference of a friend; while, in fact, it was intended to entrap the prisoner into rash speeches, which would be prejudicial to his cause. How effectually he undeceived Dudley, after Joy had been removed, we have seen.

The Assistant had attained his object. Philip was in the first place to be imprisoned and fined, and afterwards banished, and the field was henceforth to be left free to himself. With his rival out of the way, he did not doubt of succeeding with the girl by means of such arguments and temptations as it would be in his power to employ. How he had begun by endeavoring to use the very affection of Prudence for her lover to make her betray herself, has been told; but thus far her simplicity and good fortune had been quite a match for his craft. In the hope to obtain some advantage for Philip, she had granted the Assistant the interview which we have just witnessed, and wherein he disclosed his character in a manner he had never done to her before. She now understood his designs thoroughly, but the knowledge was a secret which her fears suggested that she had better lock up in her own heart. What chance would a poor unprotected girl have in a contest with the rich and powerful Assistant? Who would take her word in opposition to his? Spikeman well appreciated his advantage, and calculating with absolute certainty upon her silence, was, in consequence, the more audacious.

When the spy of the Assistant found him at his store-house, he was meditating upon the approaching interview with Prudence, the contemplation of which it unpleasantly interrupted. The prospect of the soldier's liberation was exceeding disagreeable. It would interfere with, and perhaps defeat plans, which in blind passion he hugged to his heart. But engrossed by his unworthy madness, he could not then mature any scheme not connected with its immediate gratification. Machinations for the further accomplishment of his designs must be postponed for a calmer moment. It came after the interruption occasioned by the arrival of his wife, and soon his active brain had shaped his ideas into definiteness.

Accordingly in the evening, as soon as it became so dark that features were not readily distinguishable in the streets, the Assistant took his way to the prison in which the soldier was confined. It stood on the edge of the settlement, and was a low, one-story building, strongly made of unhewn logs, within a few feet of which was the dwelling of the jailer, but little differing from it in exterior. In those days a very strong jail was not so important as at present. If one had committed a crime so heinous that he was unfit to live, he was forthwith put beyond the power of doing mischief; but if the offence were of a less atrocious character, modes of punishment were usually resorted to which did not involve the necessity of supporting him at public charge—such, for instance, as whipping, cutting off the ears, slitting the nose, and like improvements of the human form divine. If through defect of the prison, or from any other cause, the offender escaped, it was pretty certain that he would not make his appearance in a hurry, lest some worse thing might befall him, and so there was one malcontent the less, and one disturber of the peace gone, even though the ends of punishment were not perfectly attained.

Spikeman, on reaching the house of the jailer, was about to knock at the door, when his attention was arrested by sounds which made him pause. The weather being warm, the window was open, and he was able to hear distinctly what was said within. Motives of delicacy or honor weighed not much in the mind of a man like him, and he scrupled not to appropriate any advantage to be derived from eaves-dropping.

"What made you, Sam Bars, take all the ornaments off Philip but the bracelets, without saying anything to me?" inquired a voice, which Spikeman recognized as belonging to the jailer's wife.

"Why, Margery, to confess, I forgot to tell you," answered her husband; "but," added he, laughing, "I had no fear on thy account, for thou art a match for a man any day."

"When I took him in his supper," said the woman, "there was poor Philip rubbing his ankles to get the swelling out. Truly I pitied him, for he is a proper young man."

"Oh! goody, the women always pity proper young men. I warrant me now if it had been a grizzled old wolf like me, you would not have thought so much of his ankles."

"Say not so, Sam," replied the woman, affectionately, "nor liken thyself to a wolf. O, how they used to howl every night when we first came to this wilderness; but the Lord protected his people. I dare say now, it was thy kind heart made thee take off the irons."

"That it was not, wife. They were put on by order of one I am bound to obey; nor durst I take them off but by command of a higher authority."

"Why do you talk as though you were giving me riddles to guess? Am I not bone of thy bone?"

"A big heap of bones we make together," muttered Sam, glancing at the large frame of his wife, not much excelled by his own, "but she's a good soul, amiss only in her tongue at whiles; howbeit, saith not Paul, it is an unruly member? Well, Margery, an thou must know, it was by order of the Governor's own mouth to me they were taken off, and what is more, I am to let Philip go free in the morning."

"Bless his sweet face," cried the woman, "I always said the worshipful Governor was the sweetest; and virtuousest and excellentest man in the whole country."

"There be them among the elders and magistrates who be of a different opinion. Beshrew me! (may the Lord forgive me," he added, looking round in alarm. "I hope no one hears me,) but, according to my thinking, it is only because Master Winthrop asks for no pay, and spends so much out of his own purse for other folk, that they choose him Governor."

"What can anybody have against so sweet-tempered and liberal a gentleman?" inquired Margery.

"Well, then, the elders complain that he is not so zealous, even unto slaying, as becomes a leader of the Lord's host, which he is, like Moses and Joshua; and some of the deputies pretend that he takes too much state on him, and means to make himself a king, or least-wise, a lord."

"And I trow, good man, I know no reason why, when the Commonwealth, as they call it, gets big enough, we should not have a king as well as the folk on the other side of the water. It was always a pleasure to see his Majesty in the streets of London, with the grand lords and ladies all in their silks and satins, and jewels and feathers. It will be long, I am afraid," sighed the good woman, "before we shall see such fine sights in these woods."

"Hush, goody," said Sam, "take care your tongue do not get you into trouble. Speak lower, an you will talk about things you know nothing about. You love kings and lords better than some folk," he concluded, with a laugh.

"Take care of your own tongue, Sam Bars; I warrant you mine will take care of itself. But wherefore should I not love the king? Is it not written—touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm? And I will let you know, Sam Bars? that I will say what I please about him, God bless him! Marry, come up, a fine time of day truly, if a woman may not speak her mind! I should like to see the man or woman either, forsooth, to stop me. My tongue and ten commandments (stretching out her fingers) know how to take care of one another, I can tell you. My tongue get me into trouble! O, Sam, why do you aggravate me so? Me, the quietest and peaceablest and silentest wife in the world! Why dost not speak? Art as dumb as the bench your heavy carcass almost breaks down? Speak, I say, Sam, speak, or I shall go crazy."

But her husband, whom long experience had taught the best mode of weathering such storms, only shook his head in silence, until the good woman, after a variety of ejaculations and expletives, finding that she made no more impression on him than children's pop-guns on a sand-bank, concluded to cool down, when she asked what the Governor said to him.

Sam, glad that the current had taken another direction, answered readily "a mountain of questions about Philip. And he wanted to know why I put so many irons on him—how he found it out, the Lord only knows, unless"—here Bars sunk his voice, so that the words were inaudible to the listener, and he lost a sentence or two—"and when he dismissed me, he ordered that I should never do it again without his consent, and then sent me into the kitchen, where I had a pottle of sack."

"A whole pottle of sack!" exclaimed his wife, in a tone of disappointment; "and here was I at home, as dry in this outlandish hot weather as the children of Israel at Rephidim, when they did chide Moses because there was no water to drink." "You might have brought your own Margery a taste," she added, reproachfully.

"Did I say I had a whole pottle? If I did, I spoke only in a figure, as one may say; for there was Ephraim Pike to help me make away with it, and you know his gullet is like a London sewer. Love your bright eyes, Margery, a quart of sack stands no more chance with Ephraim, when his nose once gets scent of the liquor, or his lips touch the edge of the mug, than a mouse among a dozen cats."

"Or than it has with you, Sam. But men be all alike; they be always guzzling; they never think of their poor wives. Here am I, Margery Bars, thine own help-meet, never away from home; never running about streets and going to Governor's houses to swill sack; never"—but here the voice of the discontented woman, who, in her excitement, had risen from her seat and walked away, was lost in the pantry, or rather subdued into an inarticulate grumble; and Spikeman, after waiting awhile, and finding it improbable that the conversation would be resumed, knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, which was almost immediately opened by Bars himself.

"Hath the order for the soldier's release arrived from the Governor?" inquired the Assistant.

"It hath, worshipful sir; he is to be dismissed in the morning," answer the jailer.

"Hast said anything about it to Joy, as I requested thee not?"

"He knows no more concerning it than the logs of his dungeon," said Bars.

"Then get the keys, and means to strike a light."

Without replying, as one accustomed to obey such orders, the jailer provided himself in a few moments with the articles required. He placed an unlighted candle in the lantern, and the two proceeded to the door of the jail.

"He is your only prisoner, I believe?" said Spikeman.

"None other," answered Bars.

"Remain outside by the door. I would speak a moment with him."

The jailer, in silence, put one key into the lock and opened the door, and gave another to Spikeman, and then stationed himself as directed, outside.

Spikeman entered, and closed the door after him; then striking a light, advanced like one well acquainted with the place. The space wherein he found himself was an entry or passage-way, some four feet wide, running along the four sides of the prison, and enclosing the cells in the middle, The security of the prisoners was greatly promoted by this arrangement, two walls being necessary to be broken in order to effect escape, and communication with persons without being thus made more difficult.

The Assistant advanced, until he came to the door of a cell which was closed, and which he knew from that circumstance was occupied, and unlocking it, stepped within. He stopped, and throwing around the light from the lantern, beheld the form of the soldier extended on some straw spread in a corner, and apparently asleep. Philip was indeed in a profound slumber. Relieved from the painful incumbrance of the irons which had prevented his lying down, and kept him consequently in a constrained posture, he was enjoying a luxury hard to be realized except by one in a condition as wretched as his own. Spikeman threw the light full upon his face, but it failed to awaken him. He only smiled, and muttering something indistinctly, turned upon his pallet, the irons on his wrists clanking as he moved. The Assistant stood looking at him awhile, and then pronounced his name, at first in a low tone, and afterwards louder. Even this did not banish sleep, and Spikeman was obliged to shake him by the shoulder before he could be aroused. It was then the soldier, without opening his eyes, demanded, drowsily, what was the matter. "You waked me, Bars," he said, "from such a grand dream. I wish you would let me alone."

"Arouse thyself and look up," said the Assistant. "It is not the jailer, but a friend, who desires thy good."

"It is Master Spikeman," said the soldier, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "but I wish you had not disturbed my dream. I thought I was free again."

"I came to restore to thee that liberty whereof thou wert only dreaming."

The soldier, now thoroughly awake, got upon his feet as quickly as his swollen ankles and the manacles on his wrists would permit.

"Then," said Philip, "all the world hath not deserted me."

"Strange that such a thought could enter thy mind. Who was it, at thy trial, when the fierce Dudley would have silenced thee, demanded that thou shouldst be heard? To whom thinkest thou is owing thy release from thy heaviest chains?"

"I was blind," said the soldier, apologetically, "and this weary prison must have weakened my brain. But you came to free me. Let us leave this dismal place."

"I wish it were possible to take thee with me, but that cannot be. Yet will I so order things that thou mayest be far away and in safety before the dawn."

"Show me the way; undo these handcuffs, and I will be your bondman forever. But wherefore," inquired Joy, as if some sudden suspicion sprung up in his mind, "do you take this trouble and risk on my account?"

"Do I not know that the villains, thine accusers, lied? Should I not feel an interest in a brave man unjustly condemned by the artful Winthrop? Have no suspicion of me, Philip," said Spikeman, in a tone as if he were grieved at the thought.

"I entreat your pardon, and will allow of none," answered the soldier, and his frank face abundantly confirmed the truth of his declaration. "But how am I to escape?"

"I have considered many plans," replied Spikeman, "but only one doth seem capable of execution. Yet I fear me much thy courage will fail, even when thou hast but to extend thy hand to grasp thy freedom. The thing is not unattended with peril."

"Doubt not my courage, nor talk of peril to a man confined in a place like this, when the chance of freeing himself is offered. Try me, and see whether heart or hand fail."

"These are brave words, Philip, yet have I seen them who talked as boldly, and yet flinched at the decisive moment."

"Who ever dared to call Philip Joy a coward?" cried the soldier, impatiently. "Methinks it is so long since I struck a blow worthy of a man, that I long to be doing, if only to keep my hand in practice."

"Then listen," said Spikeman, lowering his voice, and supposing that he had got the soldier sufficiently worked up and committed by his language. "With this key"—taking one from his pocket—"will I unfasten thy manacles, and under pretext of unwittingly leaving open the door of thy cell, direct the jailer to enter and lock it, when thou, being a strong and active man, may, on his entrance, overpower him, and grant thyself free passage, and with five minutes' start, who is there could find thee in the woods?"

But Joy hesitated. "Liberty is sweet," he said, "yet would I be loth to do aught to harm Bars."

"What favor owe you him?" demanded Spikeman. "Has he not evil entreated thee, and loaded thee with unnecessary and cruel bands of iron, till compelled by me to remove them?"

"I do suppose he was acting by order of his superiors. In all other matters, Sam has been kind to me, and he did almost weep when he placed the iron bands around my body. Nay, but to lay hand on him, goes mightily against my stomach."

"Then remain to rot, if you like it better, in spite of all your boastful speeches, for the darkness and damp seem to have sucked all manhood out of thee; or shouldst thou survive a month, to have thine ears cropped and thy back scourged, and after that—"

"By all the devils in hell," interrupted Joy, "that shall never be. Unlock my irons.. I will do the part of a man."

The tempter applied the key, and unlocking the gyves, removed them, and placed them on the ground.

"They are heavy," he said. "A well-directed blow on the head would confuse a man's thoughts. It is time to depart. When thou art free, Philip, as, if possessing courage, thou art sure soon to be, forget not the friend who helped thee to thy liberty."

With these words, the Assistant took up the lantern, and leaving the door ajar as he had proposed, proceeded to the outer entrance, Here he found the jailer waiting, who, after locking up, attended him at his request a short distance on his way homeward.

"This Philip Joy," said the Assistant, as they walked together, "is a malignant and desperate villain. I did but visit him in order to get to the bottom of certain plots which I am well advised are hatching against our Commonwealth, whereunto he is privy, and which, indeed, he doth partly confess. Have thou him in strict charge, Bars. May the Lord forgive me," he cried, suddenly stopping, "if I have not, in my amazement at his venomous audacity, left open the door of his cell. Hasten, good Bars, lest by means of some confederate he escape in thine absence."

The jailer turned instantly, as Spikeman had anticipated, and rapidly retraced his steps. As for the Assistant himself, deeming his presence no longer necessary or convenient, he pursued his way, leaving further events to themselves.

When Bars returned, he found the door of the cell open. He looked in, and by the help of his lantern, seeing Joy extended on his straw, was about to close it without speaking, when the soldier called, and he stepped into the dungeon.

"Sam Bars," inquired Joy, "wherefore did you at first load me with irons, and afterwards take them off?"

"It was by order."

"And it was not of thine own head?"

"Truly," said Sam, "I would not of my own will lay a feather on thee, Philip,".

"These be feathers, Sam, heavier than a bird's," said the soldier, rising and approaching his keeper. "And being a friend, doubtless it would please thee to see me at liberty?"

"Assuredly, and that you will soon be."

"Thou art a prophet," cried Joy, springing upon the jailer; and seizing him with a powerful grasp, he hurled him to the ground, letting fall at the same time the manacles which he had loosely put on to deceive. "Make no noise," he added, "and I will not hurt thee, but to-night the words of thy prophecy must be fulfilled; so give me thy key."

The man thus treated made no resistance, nor attempted to cry out, nor did he seem desirous to speak.

"What art in amaze about?" said the soldier. "Hast lost thy wits with fright? I tell thee I would not hurt thee, for all thy iron feathers."

"I am pondering," answered Bars, composedly, "whether it were better to allow thee to reap the fruit of thy folly, or to give thee good counsel."

"Speak quick, man," said Joy, "I have no time to spend in long talks like sermons."

"Be not profane, Philip; but there is that in the pocket of my doublet, and which, if my arms were loose, I would give thee, might make thee willing to abide till morning."

"A dagger, perhaps. Nay, I will search before I trust thee." So saying, the soldier proceeded to investigate the other's pockets, but he found nothing in them or about his person except his keys and a strip of paper.

"I see nothing," he said, "but thine arms and a worthless bit of paper."

"And that is an order for thy release on the morrow. Read and satisfy thyself."

Philip retreated a few steps, and still keeping his attention on the jailer, read the writing with some difficulty by the aid of the dim light.

"Why told you me not this before?" he demanded.

"Because it would have broke your sleep, and for another reason. And now, Philip, will you ruin yourself and me, or will you remain?"

"Good Sam," said Philip, extending his hand and raising the other up, "let thou and I be sworn friends. There is some mystery behind this matter which it behooves us both to have cleared up. Answer me a question. Did Master Spikeman know of that paper?"

"Surely he did. He inquired of me concerning it."

"Umph!" grunted Philip. "Now tell again, what is that other reason why thou didst say nothing of the paper to me before?"

"Answer for answer; tickle me and I will scratch thee. I will answer that question if you will me another."

"There is reason in thee. I promise."

"Because Master Spikeman commanded me not."

"And canst tell why he wanted to speak to me alone?"

"To get to the bottom of sundry plots wherewith you were acquainted, and which you had partly confessed. And now it is my turn to ask questions, so tell me how gattest thou rid of the irons?"

"Master Spikeman unfastened them."

"I might have guessed as much before," said Bars, scratching his head.

"Hark ye, Sam, that same canon-ball of thine which thou seemest to take so great delight in digging with thy fingers, would have been a bloody coxcomb had I followed the advice of our friend, Master Spikeman."

"How!" exclaimed the jailer, did he counsel injury to me?"

"Thou hast said. At any rate, to my thinking, there was not much difference from that."

"The accursed Judas!" burst out the excited jailer; "the blood-thirsty Joab, who would have had me smitten under the fifth rib. Profane Korah, Dathan and Abiram, whom the earth swallowed up for their bitterness against Moses, were children of light compared with this horrid Philistine."

"I suppose she was sick at the stomach, and so gulped them down for bitters, just as my good mother used to give me wormwood when I was weakly in the spring," said Philip, laughing. At any other time this speech would have drawn down a serious remonstrance for its impiety, but at the present moment Sam was too much engaged with the treachery of Spikeman to bestow upon it any attention.

"Philip," he said, "I accept thy offer to be sworn friends. This Satan, this Pharaoh, this platter with the inside unwashed, shall not have another chance to set on honest men to murder one another. Hearken, and thou shalt have another secret. It was this hell incarnate who commanded me to load thee with irons, and to starve thee besides, but that I could not do."

One revelation led to another, until the whole wickedness of the Assistant was laid bare. Philip also learned in addition that it was Bars himself who had communicated a knowledge of his condition to the knight, by whom directions had been left to have him come to the Mount of Promise as soon as he should be liberated. Prudence, too, he was told, had been at the prison to inquire after him, but the instructions to the jailer forbade the carrying or delivering of messages, for which reason Philip had hitherto remained ignorant of the interest betrayed by her.

With the discovery of the villainy of Spikeman there was mixed up some comfort for the soldier in reflecting on the affection of Prudence and the friendship of the knight; but for the jailer there was no such solace. He dwelt resentfully on the exposure of his person and the loss of office which would probably have been the consequence had Philip escaped, and meditated schemes of revenge.

When the jailer took leave, the soldier stretched himself again on the straw, and in spite of the prospect of liberty and the scenes he had just passed through, was soon asleep.

CHAPTER V.

"Wherefore adew, my owne Herte true,

None other red I can;

For I must to the greene Wode goe,

Alone, a banishyd man."

The Nut-Brown Maid.

The uppermost desire in the heart of Philip Joy upon being liberated in the morning by the order which, while it opened his prison door, exonerated him from no other part of his sentence, was to see Prudence; but his late experience of the wiles of Spikeman, although he could think of no motive, for his hostility, had taught him caution, and he determined to advance warily to gratify his wishes.

The occupation of Philip was that of a blacksmith and armorer, in which capacities he had been of some utility to the colony. Between whiles, also, whenever any desperate service was required in order to strike terror into the savages, he had been employed in his military character, and always with credit to himself. In consequence of his skill in his handicraft and bravery, he had at first been a man of no little consideration, but as the population of the settlement increased, and fears of the Indians diminished, and blacksmiths and armorers became more numerous, the importance of the stout soldier gradually waned. To this result contributed, in no small degree, the fact that he had never joined the congregation, and sometimes indulged in a freedom of speech on interdicted topics, which was unpalatable to those around him. Hence it happened that slight offences, which were at first overlooked in consideration of his usefulness, were no longer passed by when that usefulness was no longer prized, and there were even some who were disposed to visit him with punishment for transgressions of the kind, of years previous. Spikeman, who by his wealth and cunning, had lately succeeded in getting himself for the first time elevated to the dignity of an Assistant, had always appeared to be a friend, and indeed had truly been so, until he sought to pluck the apple of discord, the too fascinating Prudence, out of the soldier's hand. So deep was the impression of the Assistant's good-will to him, and so long had he been in the habit of regarding the magistrate as a patron, that without exactly disbelieving, he found it difficult to give full credence to the jailer's representations. His mind was so confused that he hardly knew what to do. He wanted to see Prudence before he departed for the knight's residence, and yet, with a vague dread of Spikeman's power for mischief, wished to avoid him.

Meditating upon these embarrassments, Philip mechanically took his way in the direction of the Assistant's house, unconsciously obeying the hope that some kind chance would enable him to see his mistress without being discovered. With this view, and as if believing that she would be able to see through a disguise impenetrable to others, and with some sense of shame at having been confined in a dungeon, Philip drew his slouched hat over his eyes, and muffling his face in the folds of his short cloak, walked in front of the dwelling, casting frequent glances at the windows. It was in vain, however; and fearful of attracting an attention which he desired to shun, he started at last for the forest, through which he was obliged to pass on his way to the knight's place. Wearily he dragged his steps along, for the confinement he had suffered, and the irons he had worn, had diminished his strength and chafed his limbs. Pondering sadly his unfortunate fate, he was slowly advancing, and had only just entered the wood, when he was saluted by a well-known voice, that made him start with a joyful surprise. It was that of Prudence, who was following him. She had seen him whom it would have been difficult to disguise from her, pass the house, and had allowed him to suppose himself undiscovered, and then pursued, in order to enjoy, undisturbed, a meeting which she desired as much as he. She was so overjoyed and confused at seeing him again, that somehow she stumbled as she came near, and would have fallen had not Philip caught her in his arms—for which benevolent deed he rewarded himself with a couple of smacks like the report of a pistol.

"Fie, for shame, Philip," cried Prudence, all in a glow, and looking wonderfully, as if she wanted the offence repeated; at any rate the soldier so understood it, and clasping her again in his arms, refused to release her till her lips had paid the penalty of their sweetness. "Oh, fie," said she, once more; "what would folk say if they saw thee?"

"There's only birds or a chance deer to see us," said Philip, "and it can do them no harm to take a lesson," and he attempted to renew his demonstrations of affection.

"Be quiet now," said Prudence, pushing him away. "I must soon hurry back, or I shall be missed, and I want, first, to hear all about thee, and then I have something to say on my part."

Thus rebuked, Philip seated himself, with the maiden by his side, on the trunk of a fallen tree, and narrated the circumstances of his trial and condemnation, and the occurrences at the prison. Some tears pretty Prudence let fall over parts of his story, while at others her hazel eyes flashed with indignation, and upon its conclusion she disclosed in turn the conduct of Spikeman to herself.

"I tell thee all Philip," said Prudence, "because thou dost seem to doubt about the wickedness of this bad man, who is trying to ruin us both." She stopped, and hid her face in her hands.

Great was the rage of the soldier at what he had heard.

"By the head of king Charles," he swore, "I will drive my dagger into his black heart."

He rose in anger, as if about immediately to put his threat into execution, but the girl threw her arms around him and drew him down.

"That would be certain death to thee, Philip," she said. "We must find other means to punish him. Besides, I must keep thee safe to serve my young mistress."

"Thou art right, Prudence, and I am hot and hasty; but does not the villain deserve the warmest place in Beelzebub's dominions who would harm thee? Prudence, thou shalt not remain in his house."

"That will I," replied the girl. "Why, who is to wait on my mistress, and take care of her but me? If mistress Eveline were to hear thy speech, she would not be over obliged to thee, Master Philip, for wishing me to desert her."

"You misunderstand me, and that is not my desire. But art not afraid of the old villain?"

"Me afraid!" exclaimed Prudence, contemptuously, curling her lips; "I am not half as much afraid of him as I am of thee." And as she uttered the words, she drew herself a little back from him on the log where they sat.

"But tell me, my brave robin red-breast," said Philip, casting a look at the gay cloak which she had thrown around her person, and not seeming to pay much regard to the latter part of her answer, "how am I to serve mistress Eveline?"

"O, I know not, yet I dare say we shall be able to turn thee to some good purpose; men are sometimes so useful!"

"I will recollect thy speech," said the soldier, laughing, "and promise to teach thee, on a future occasion, how maidens also may be useful. But hast never a message from mistress Eveline to Master Arundel, should I chance to see him, for he is often at the place of the Knight of the Golden Melice, and it is my purpose to go thither to-day?"

"Young ladies affect not to send messages to thy over bold sex," said Prudence, tossing her head, "but an' thou dost see the gentleman, thou mayest tell him, as from me, that she is well, and desires his prosperity."

"A cold message, truly, and it is well the weather is warm, else would poor Master Arundel be in danger of being frozen into an icicle."

"A hundred such messages would not, I fear, cool thy hot blood; but Master Miles is gentle born, and less presumptuous than thou; thou mayest therefore say, rather than hurt his feelings, that my mistress would have no objection to seeing him."

"What a buttermilk kind of a message is that!" said the soldier. Dost think that a man of any spirit is going to be satisfied with an errand that runs like a stream of cold water down one's back? Come, Prudence, perk thy red lips into more reasonable and comforting words."

"Thou art thyself unreasonable, Philip. Dost suppose it becomes a young woman to let her gallant know all she thinks about him? He ought to be ravished to believe that she does not hate him like the rest of them who wear beards; at any rate, thou wilt get nothing else from me."

"I must perforce, then, be content," said Philip, "since it may not be otherwise; and the less unwillingly because having had some experience in the nature of women, I know they mean more than they say. So I will even translate thy words into thy mistress' intention, and say she is dying of melancholy till she sees him."

"Thou wilt be a false varlet an' thou dost, and I will never trust thee with message more. Such leasing will only harm thee, for Master Miles knows there is not in America nor in dear old Devonshire a modester or properer young lady. O dear, how glad I should be just to step into the grand cathedral in sweet Exeter, and see the brave knights who died so long ago all lying cross-legged, so decent on their marble tombs by the sides of their ladies."

"Take care, my little Puritan," said Philip, "this is no fitting country for such talk. The reverend elders have long ears, and for aught I know, there may be one in the tree overhead listening."

Prudence jumped hastily from her seat, and cast a frightened glance at these words into the tree, while Philip burst into a laugh.

"Why, how you scared me," said the girl, recovering from her trepidation. "This is the way you treat me, you vile man, for putting myself to all this trouble on your account. But I would have you to know that I am no more a Puritan, Philip Joy, than thyself, if I do wear a close-fitting cap, which is none of the most becoming either. If I do give into their ways, it is for the sake of my mistress, whom no Geneva cloak, nor bishop's sleeves, for that matter, shall make me desert."

"Bravo, bravissimo, as the outlandish fellows say," exclaimed the soldier; "thou art of the genuine game breed, Prudence, and were it not that thy pretty person might come to harm, I would desire no better front rank man than thee. But this is a dangerous litany, and I beseech thee, dear Prudence, to remember how thou art named."

He said this in a tone of emotion, which, if anything were wanting, would have been sufficient to convince the girl of the interest he felt for her; but she needed no such supplementary proof. It had the effect, however, of making the conversation assume a more serious aspect, and the girl more gravely replied:

"I will be careful, Philip, for my mistress' sake and mine own, and—"

"And for mine, too," interrupted the soldier.

"And for the sake of all them," continued Prudence, "who find anything in me to take an interest in. O, Philip, I tremble lest you should do or say something again that these dreadful solemn folk, who look sour enough to curdle milk, and hate you because you laugh, may get hold of to do you an injury. O, Philip, pray be prudent about laughing."

"Nay, Prudence," said he, drawing his illustration from what he happened to see at the moment, "you might as well bid yon squirrel not to jump from bough to bough. It is our nature, and you cannot change a squirrel into an owl, or a man into a block. But," he continued, taking her hand, "I have not told thee all. I know not when I shall see thee again, for I am a banished man."

"Banished!" repeated Prudence, turning pale; "I thought they had already wronged thee enough for a few innocent words—and now banished! What will become of thee, Philip, and of me?"

"Never fear, sweetheart; we will turn their flank yet. I have been thinking, as I came wandering along, that this Master Spikeman, who keeps mistress Eveline as a sort of prisoner on parole, has an object in getting me out of his way, so as better to carry on his wicked plans. My jealous pate at first could think only of thee; but now I begin to fancy he may have designs upon pretty mistress Eveline as well as upon thyself. Nay, never bite your sweet lips till they bleed, nor dart the sparks out of thine eyes, or you may singe my doublet, I do suspect this from the equal desire he hath shown to remove Master Miles Arundel from the colony. He did threaten him, as I have heard, with some law they have here forbidding a man to pay his court to a maid without license from the worshipful magistrates."

"Did ever mortal hear the like!" exclaimed Prudence. "O, the weary magistrates and elders! what is the world coming to?"

"To nothing but Indians in these parts, if they go on in this way, and not let young folk court, unless they keep sending people from England to replenish the stock, and they will get tired of coming when they hear how things are going on. But, Prudence, banish or no banish, law or no law, they shall not, if thou art agreed, prevent my seeing thee."

The girl looked affectionately at her lover, and gently returned the pressure of his hand.

"I will hie me to the knight," continued Philip. "I happened once to be of use to him, and he is not a man to forget a favor, though he is somewhat changed since the time I first saw him. He was then a fiery youth, for all he can look so grave at times now. He hath some credit, for it was by his intercession with the Governor that my imprisonment was shortened. I will hie me to him, and hear what he advises, more especially as he hath sent for me. And I bethink me, Prudence, it were no bad thing, if he can do so much, to get him to speak a word for mistress Eveline."

"An' thou couldest, it were a good deed, and heaven will reward thee therefor."

"I will look to thee, instead of heaven, for my reward," said the soldier. "Meanwhile do thou have thine eyes like those in a peacock's tail, all around thee, for this Master Spikeman is cunninger than all the foxes whose tails Samson tied together."

"Trust me, Philip, and be thou discreet. And now must I be going back, for I would not abuse the liberty the kind heart of dame Spikeman gives me by loitering too long; so good-bye."

"And is this the way you take leave, when perhaps you may not see me again for a month? Not one salute?"

"Methinks thou hast been firing salutes enough already to welcome a ship from England. Be content, Sir Malapert, with their discharges;" and Prudence began tripping it away.

"I'll not be content with such a discharge," muttered the soldier; then raising his voice, he called after her, "Prudence, Prudence, hasten not away so fast; there is one thing I forgot."

The girl at the sound of his voice retraced her steps a little, and met Philip.

"Harkee in thine ear," said he, "for I must speak low. I did omit to put my seal to our covenant;" and before Prudence was aware, he had imprinted a smack upon her cheek.

"And there is mine," cried Prudence, hitting him a box upon the ear, "and I warrant it will be as red as thine," and with that she bounded like a deer away.

"The foul fiend fly away with me, an' I love not the girl dearly," exclaimed the soldier, looking after her with admiring eyes, as like a red-winged butterfly she flew through the green bushes. "If I ever have the luck to get her, I shall have a dame strong enough to carry her part of our bundle. Well, go thy ways, Prudence Rix, for as comely, and as sweet-breathed, and as kind a lass, notwithstanding the weight of thy hand, as ever milked a cow in the old country."

The frame of mind in which the soldier now pursued his walk was very different from that in which it had commenced. The dampness of the prison which had begun to affect his health was forgotten, as the genial sun gradually dried the clamminess out of his clothing, and he inspired the reviving morning air. It seemed to him he could not drink deep enough draughts of the woodland scents, which flowed so deliciously through his lungs, as almost to compensate for the suffering which he had endured. His unexpected interview with Prudence, after he had given up all expectation of it, conduced also to impart vivacity to his spirits, and he advanced, not with a rapid pace, for of that his treatment in the jail had made him incapable, but cheerfully and resolutely.

It was perhaps an hour afterwards, when Philip, as he was walking slowly on, heard the sounds of a person coming after him, and looking round, he beheld the man whom of all the world he least desired to see. The whole temper of his spirit was at once changed. The peace which, like a stream of perfumes, had been flowing into his soul, was checked, and the atmosphere became hot and suffocating around him. It was Spikeman approaching, who was on his way to a plantation he had in the neighborhood, for there were few things promising profit to which the adventurous speculator had not directed his attention.

Philip strove to keep the horns of the rising devil out of his heart, and averting his head, stepped on one side to allow the other to pass. Spikeman noticed the desire—for it was too marked not to be observed; and in a new country, even strangers are not in the habit of passing one another without greeting—but he paid no attention to it; and as he came up, laid his hand on Philip's shoulder, and bade him a good morning.

The soldier started as though pierced by a thorn, and shaking off the hand roughly, requested the Assistant to go on his way and leave him to himself.

"How now," exclaimed Spikeman. "Methinks this is cold welcome for a friend."

"Pass on thy way," said the soldier. "I desire not thy company."

"Verily, am I amazed," said Spikeman. "Surely, to confer a favor on the unthankful, is like pouring water on sand."

"I do advise thee, Master Spikeman," said Philip, "to cease thine abuse. I am no longer a fool stumbling along with his eyes blinded."

The curiosity of the Assistant had been aroused at the beginning, and he determined to ascertain how far Philip's knowledge of his conduct extended, for his guilty conscience whispered that some discovery of the soldier occasioned the changed behavior. It might be caused only by suspicion, and if so, he trusted by his ingenuity to dispel it; but if he had been betrayed, it was important that he should know it. The Assistant, moreover, was curious to learn from the soldier himself, why he had not broken jail as advised. He concluded that the soldier had not; for had he done so, the escape would probably have been known by morning; yet was Spikeman confident that Philip at the time of their interview in the jail had no knowledge of the order for his release. Perhaps Bars had overcome in the struggle, and disregarded it. With doubts like these floating through his mind, he began to probe Philip.

"What ails thee?" he inquired. "It would seem as if you took me for an enemy, and yet have I not always approved myself thy friend, even jeopardizing my position as a magistrate no longer ago than yesternight to release thee from jail?"

"Master Spikeman," answered Philip, "thou dost well know, I doubt not, that I am at liberty, not because I did by thy advice knock out the brains of harmless Sam Bars, but by the grace of the Governor's order."

"I counselled no more violence than was necessary to effect thy purpose; but who moved the Governor in thy case?

"Not thou, as I am well advised, but the noble Knight of the Golden Melice, a man as much superior to thee, as I am to an Indian."

"Thou art mad and vituperative, Philip, and were it not so early, I should think thou hadst been indulging too liberally in drafts of aqua vitæ. It is a vile habit. But as the Archangel Michael returned not a railing accusation, but said, the Lord rebuke, thee, Satan, so say I unto thee. Truly, I comprehend thy game. Thou art weary of thy old friends, and being desirous to propitiate new, dost seek a quarrel to mask thine ingratitude. But see whether this famous knight prove not a broken reed."

The soldier, in spite of his conviction of the villainy of the other, was touched at the taunt, and hastened to defend himself.

"It is false, Master Spikeman," he cried. "If thou wert truly a friend, wherefore advise me to break jail, and thus expose myself to be hunted as a malefactor, when I had but to wait till morning for deliverance?"

"It is much, Philip Joy, for one in my condition to condescend to explain, especially after thy rudeness of speech; yet will I do it, that no fancied cause may be left for thy base suspicions. Shortly, then, I knew not of Gov. Winthrop's intention, for when I did entreat him in thy behalf, he spake in such ambiguous phrase as effectually to cloak his thoughts. I doubt not, now, that it was to make the surprise the more agreeable."

This was said with such an appearance of innocence, that the simplicity of the soldier was confounded, and he began to doubt more and more the truth of his suspicions. But the communication of Prudence rankled in his mind, and though disposed to acquit the Assistant of treachery against himself, he could not forgive the treatment of the girl. He did not doubt her word, and yet desired to hear the Assistant's excuse, if he had any. He shrunk from the subject, and yet was drawn to it, like a moth fascinated by a light.

"There is another thing I like not," he said, hesitatingly.

"And pray, what may thy wisdom have discovered now?"

"That it is not becoming in a grave magistrate to try to cozen servant girls," burst from the soldier.

"Has Prudence—?" but here the Assistant, sensible that he had already said too much, suddenly checked himself, while his sallow cheek looked still more yellow. But the escape of the girl's name, even without the embarrassment, was a confession of guilt to the soldier, who, with rising passion, exclaimed—

"Away, or I shall be tempted to do that whereof I may repent."

Spikeman marked his agitation, and hesitated whether to come to an open breach, or continue his system of deception. The craft of his nature preponderated, and he determined to adopt the latter course.

"Gently, Philip," he said. "Thy prison hath strangely affected thee; but because I pity, I will not be angry. At least let me finish the sentence which I begun. I did desire to know whether Prudence, whom, that thou dost affect, I have for some time known, (nay, never blush; I have been young myself,) whether Prudence, I say, gained access to thy prison to tell thee of my exertions in thy behalf?"

"Thou exert thyself for me! Go to, thou wert more busy for thyself."

"I understand thee not; yet hearken, for the whole truth must be revealed. I say that I have done all that man could do, and as the event proves, not in vain. As for Prudence, I will confess to one impropriety, if it be thy pleasure to call it so, though I meant it not, and whereof thou art in some sense the cause. Knowing thy regard for her, I did speak one day of my hopes for thee, whereat the tears did stand in her eyes, and I was so moved thereat, that I did salute her cheek, but only as a father might caress a child."

The soldier was more bewildered than ever. He was incapable of conceiving of such falsehood as the other's. It seemed to him now that Prudence might be mistaken, and have converted a mere compliment into an insult, so contrary appeared, the intimations which she had made to what was to be expected from the years and gravity of the Assistant. The freedom with which Spikeman spoke of kissing the girl confirmed the idea, and Philip fancied that he had been harsh.

"Master Spikeman," he said at length, "if I have unjustly suspected thee, I crave pardon. There may be something in what you said, but the prison hath clouded my mind."

"Think no more of it, Philip, though doubtless it is so. I have known many a one who, by confinement, hath irretrievably lost his wits. Therefore will it be wise in thee not to be arrested again."

"Wherefore arrested, since I have an order of release?"

"Alas, thou dost forget thy banishment. If thou art taken within the forbidden boundaries, severe will be thy punishment. Attempt not for Prudence's sake, or any cause, to return without apprising me thereof, when I will endeavor to provide for thy safety."

The soldier extended his hand.

"This is kind," he said, "and be assured, Master Spikeman, that I will not soon conceive suspicion of thee again." These women be notional things, he murmured to himself.

Spikeman took the hand.

"Now this is like thyself, Philip," he said—"a brave soldier—true as a Toledo blade—one who loves his friend, and hates his enemy, although this latter part should not be so. Thou art journeying, I see, to the knight's place. Mayst thou find in him a patron, but it will do no harm to say—be on thy guard; one old friend is better than a dozen new."

He turned away, and the soldier, as he looked after him, said—

"There is truth in thy words, but thou art ignorant that the knight and I were friends long before I knew thee."

CHAPTER VI.