Chapter IV: Part 4

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.

The boys said good-night, and left the smithy. The air was colder now that darkness had settled on the lane, and they buttoned their coats tight and stuck their hands in their pockets. "He knows a good deal about them, doesn't he?" said Mat.

Joe nodded his head. "It does sound mighty strange," said he.

"I wonder what father would have said if he'd heard Mr. Leek," observed Mat. "He couldn't have called all that just old wives' tales."

At a corner the boys parted, and Mat trudged home alone. He glanced with new interest at the house where Mistress Swan and the schoolmaster lived. He would have liked to know what Mr. Appleton would say about this business of witches. Would he laugh and say, "What nonsense!" or would he look as much impressed as Jacob Titus had looked? Jacob was no fool, and it was very clear that this Mr. Jonathan Leek was an unusually wise man.

But when Mat came into his own warm house, and found the sitting-room brightly lighted and the family there, he couldn't help doubting whether all he had just heard was true. He didn't mention the matter at all at supper, or until he had finished his studying for the next day. When he was through, however, he pulled his stool up to his father's chair, and told him all that he and Joe had heard that afternoon. All, that is, except what Mr. Leek had said about the business dealings he had once had with Richard Swan.

"And did this make you believe in witches and the Evil Eye?" asked Mr. Hamlin.

"I don't know," answered Mat, doubtfully. "Joe and I didn't know what to think. The stories folks are telling about the witches and about what they do to children and to animals are so strange; and then so many grown-up people believe them. How's a boy to know whether they're true or not?"

"Only by using his seven wits, Mat," said Mr. Hamlin. "Before you believe any of these unnatural things, see them happen with your own eyes. And when a boy or girl cries out that a witch is sticking pins into them, make sure that they're not pretending; you know children love to pretend things, and they like it all the better if they can get grown people to believe what they pretend. I don't think any witch will try sticking pins or knives in you or Joe, or make you fly over the ground like geese. The witch won't, that is, unless you help her."

Mat chuckled. "Trust Joe and me for keeping away from creatures like that," he declared.

Mat started whittling a whistle from a willow stick, and Mr. Hamlin began adding a column of figures in a cash-book, but after a few minutes he looked up at his wife, who had come into the room and was knitting. "I can't blame the children for talking of witches and magic things," he said, "when all the province of Massachusetts Bay seems to be thinking about the same matters. Everybody's whispering about them, and every man, woman, and child seems suddenly to know exactly what witches do. Three men told me to-day about those poor women they've jailed over at Salem Village. And the men seemed almost to believe that the women really had dealt in witchcraft, although they were all three sober men, and one was a minister of the Gospel."

"And I've been hearing the same things," said his wife. "Men don't do all the gossiping, my dear."

Mr. Hamlin turned again to his cash-book, but his counting was interrupted in a few minutes by a loud rapping at the street-door. Mat opened the door, and Mr. Samuel Glover and his son Joe came hurrying in. "There's strange news afoot," said Mr. Glover, "and I thought it only neighborly to share it with you." He threw his hat and cloak on a chair. "Some one has charged Mistress Ann Swan with dealing in witchcraft, with being a familiar of the Evil One."

"Mistress Swan!" exclaimed husband and wife, while Mat stood listening with his mouth wide open.

"It's said she's bewitched the children, makes them act like cats and dogs, sends them into trances, and misuses them in many different ways."

"She's a most kind-hearted woman, and loves children dearly," said Mistress Hamlin. "She always gives them sweets when they come to see her."

"Aye," agreed Mr. Glover, "so the children say, but they add that she gives them the sweets so she may have a chance to work her evil on them."

"What children say this?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.

"Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons and John Rowley," answered Mr. Glover. "They're the main ones."

Mat looked at Joe. "Serves 'em right," said he. "They're mean enough to be bewitched!"

"They stone dogs and cats," put in Joe. "And the schoolmaster caught 'em at it, and gave 'em a good scolding."

"But who started the story?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "Did the children tell these things themselves?"

"A man who's lately come from Boston took the matter to the town clerk," answered Mr. Glover. "It seems the children had told their strange stories to him. His name is Jonathan Leek."

Mat gave a long whistle. "Jonathan Leek!" he echoed. "Why, he's the man Joe and I met at the smithy!"

"Yes," said Joe, nodding vigorously. "And he knows all about witchcraft."

"I should think he did," agreed Mat.

"Poor Ann Swan," said Mistress Hamlin. "As fine a woman as ever lived. And to be charged with being a witch!"

"That's what I say," assented Mr. Glover. "And I'm doubtful if the matter stops there. There's talk already that another had some part in mistreating the children."

"Who?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.

"Who but the man who lives in the house with her, Mr. Appleton the schoolmaster."

"And what can they say against him?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "He's as straightforward a man as ever I met."

"He has a little shed back of the house where he keeps some dogs," explained the other. "The children say that he cures these dogs of broken bones by magic. They say they've seen him do it; take a stray cur who limps and say a few words they can't understand, and soon the dog doesn't limp any more. And the three afflicted children say that he makes them suffer instead of his wounded pets."

"They've been put up to this!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlin. "They'd never have thought of all this for themselves."

"Maybe," agreed Mr. Glover. "But you know how such matters go. Speak a word or two against a man or woman, never mind how honest they may be, and folks seize on it, and before you know it they have a dozen ill stories to tell against them."

"The schoolmaster a witch! I'll not believe it!" declared Mat.

"Nor will I," said Joe.

Mr. Hamlin smiled. "That's right, boys. Stand to your guns. Mr. Appleton has some skill at setting broken bones, probably, and that's how he mends these wounded animals. It's those who believe these charges of witchcraft who are crazy, in my opinion; not the folks they charge with having dealings with the Evil One. As for calling Mistress Swan a witch because of what those children said, any woman might accuse a neighbor of being a witch because her milk wouldn't churn into butter while that neighbor happened to be chatting with her."

"That's about what they have said of some of their witches in Boston," put in Mr. Glover. "Yet, absurd as this may seem to us, it's likely to prove fairly serious to Mistress Swan and Mr. Appleton. People don't stop to use their wits in such affairs nowadays. Call man or woman a witch, and you're two-thirds of the way to proving him or her one."

"But the schoolmaster!" protested Mat. He looked at Joe. "In trouble because those three little rats don't like him! Well, you and I'll stand by him, won't we, Joe? We'll show people that he's no more a witch than the minister is, or than Jonathan Leek himself."

"We will," assented Joe. "I didn't like that Mr. Leek much anyway."

"And I'll help you," said Mr. Hamlin. Mr. Glover nodded his head. "Here's four of us at least who'll stand by the schoolmaster," said he, "and by Mistress Swan too," he added, "for she's likely to be as guiltless as Thomas Appleton."

II

There were a great number of people in Massachusetts in 1692 who believed in witches, and quite as many in Salem as in any other town. Usually there was some old enmity under each charge of witchcraft, though not always, for in some cases people made their charges recklessly, apparently enjoying the prominence it brought them, and thinking little of their victims. In those cases where there was some old score being paid off, however, the populace usually gave little attention to that side of it, but were only interested in the facts brought out to prove that the accused person was a dealer in the Evil Arts. As Mr. Glover said, "Call a person a witch, and you were two-thirds of the way to actually proving that he or she was a witch."