University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The preacher drew forth a knife, and went up to the
door.

Sir....sir....you are wanted Sir....right away Sir, said
a low voice at his elbow....

Who are you?....where are you? cried he....but the
blood curdled about his heart, and he recoiled from the
sound as he spoke.

Here I be....here....here.

Elizabeth dropped on her knees and hid her face in
the lap of her sister; and Rachel, who was not of a
temper to be easily frightened, gathered her up and
folded her arms about her,as if struck to the heart with
a mortal fear. But Burroughs, after fetching a breath
or two, went back to the door and stood waiting for the
voice to be heard again.

What are you?—speak—where are you?

Here I be, said the invisible creature.

And who are you---what are you? cried Burroughs
running up to the door, and then to the window, and
then to the fire-place, and then back to the window, and
preparing to push the slide away---

Here I be sir---here---here---

Well---if ever!---cried Rachel. Why don't thee go
to the door George---starting up and leaving poor Elizabeth
on her knees. Why! thee may be sure there's
something the matter---going to the door a-tip-toe.

No no Rachel---no no; it may be a stratagem---

A stratagem for what pray?---what have we to fear?

The door flew open as she spoke, and a boy entered
all out of breath, his neck open, his hat gone, his jacket
off, and his hair flying loose---

Why, Robert Eveleth---

O Sir—sir! said he, as soon as he could speak---O
sir I've come to tell you---didn't you never see a Belzebub?---

A what?---

If you never did, now's your time; just look out o'the
door there, and you'll see a plenty on 'em.

Why, Robert---Robert---what ails the boy?

No matter now, aunt Rachel---you're wanted Sir---
they're all on the look-out for you now---you're a goin' to
be tried to-morrow for your life---I come here half an
hour ago to tell you so---but I saw one o' the Shapes
here right by the winder...

A what?—

—A Shape—an' so d'ye see, I cleared out....and so,
and so—the sooner you're off, the better; they're a goin'
to swear your life away, now—

His life, murmured Elizabeth.

My life—mine—how do you know this, boy?

How do I know it Sir?—well enough....they've been
over and waked Bridgy Pope, and want her to say so
too—and she and Abby—they sent me off here to tell
you to get away as fast as ever you can, all three of
you, if you don't want to swing for it, afore you know
where you be—

Robert Eveleth!—

O, it's all very true Sir, an' you may look as black as
a thunder-cloud, if you please, but if you don't get away,
and you—and you—every chip of you, afore day-light,
you'll never eat another huckleberry-puddin' in this

world, and you may swear to that, all hands of you, as
we say aboard ship....

Robert Eveleth, from what I saw of you the other
day—

Can't help that Sir....you've no time to lose now, either
of you; you do as I say now, an' I'll hear you preach
whenever you like, arter you're all safe—no, no, you
needn't trouble yourself to take a chair—if you stop to
set down, it's fifty to five an' a chaw o' tobacco, 't you
never git up agin....why!....there's Mary Wa'cote and
that air Judith Hubbard you see....(lowering his voice)
an' I don't know how many more o' the Shapes out there
in the wood waitin' for you....

Poh.

Lord, what a power o' faces I did see! when the
moon came out, as I was crackin' away over the path by
the edge o' the wood....I've brought you father's grey
stallion, he that carried off old Ci Carter when the Mohawks
were out....are you all ready?

All ready?

Yes, all—all—you're in for't too, Lizzy Dyer, and so
are you, aunt Rachel—an' so—and so—shall I bring up
the horse?

No—

No—yes, but I will though, by faith!

Robert!

Why Robert, thee makes my blood run cold—

Never you mind for that, Lizzy Dyer.

Robert Eveleth, I am afraid thy going to sea a trip or
two, hath made thee a naughty boy, as I told thy mother
it would.

No no, aunt Rachel, no no, don't say so; we never
swear a mouthful when we're out to sea, we never ketch
no fish if we do—but here am I; all out o' breath now,

and you wont stir a peg,for all I can say or do and be—
gulp to you!

Here Burroughs interrupted the boy, and after informing
the sisters of what had occurred while he was
with Mr. Paris and the poor children, he made the boy
go over the whole story anew, and having done so, he
became satisfied in his own soul, that if the conspirators
were at work to destroy the poor girl before him, there
would be no escape after she was once in their power.

Be of good cheer, Elizabeth, said he, and as he spoke,
he stooped down to set his lips to her forehead.

George—George—we have no time to lose—what
are we to do? said Rachel, putting forth her hand eagerly
so as to stay him before he had reached the brow
of Elizabeth; and then as quickly withdrawing it, and
faltering out a word or two of self-reproach.

If you think as I do, dear Rachel, the sooner she is
away the better.

I do think as thee does—I do, George....(in this matter.)
Go for the black mare, as fast as thee can move,
Robert Eveleth.

Where shall I find her....it's plaguy dark now, where
there's no light.

On thy left hand as the door slips away; thee'll find
a cloth and a side-saddle over the crib, with a—stop,
stop—will the grey horse bear a pillion?

Yes—forty.

If he will not, however, the mare will....so be quick,
Robert, be quick....

Away bounded the boy.

She has carried both of us before to-day, and safely too,
when each had a heavier load upon her back than we
both have now. Get thee ready sister—for my own
part—I—well George, I have been looking for sorrow
and am pretty well prepared for it, thee sees. I knew

four months ago that I had wagered my life against Judith
Hubbard's life—I am sorry for Judith—I should be
sorry to bring her to such great shame, to say nothing
of death, and were it not for others, and especially for
that poor child, (pointing to Elizabeth) I would rather
lay down my own life—much rather, if thee'll believe
me George, than do her the great mischief that I now
fear must be done to her, if our Elizabeth is to escape
the snare.

I do believe you—are you ready?—

Quite ready; but why do thee stand there, as if thee
was not going too?—or as if thee had not made up thy
mind?

Ah—I thought I saw a face—

I dare say thee did; but thee's not afraid of a face, I
hope?

I hear the sound of horses' feet—

How now?—it is not for such as thee to be slow of
resolve.

He drew a long breath—

George—thee is going with us?

No, Rachel—I'd better stay here.

Here! shrieked Elizabeth.

Here!—what do thee mean, George? asked her sister.

I mean what I say—just what I say—it is for me to
abide here.

For thee to abide here? If it is the duty of one, it is
the duty of another, said Elizabeth in a low, but very
decided voice.

No, Elizabeth Dyer, no—I am able to bear that which
ought never to be expected of you.

Do thee mean death, George?—we are not very much
afraid of death, said Rachel—are we Elizabeth?

No—not very much—

You know not what you say. I am a preacher of the
gospel—what may be very proper for me to do, may be
very improper for a young beautiful—

George Burroughs—

Forgive me Rachel—

I do....prepare thyself, my dear Elizabeth, gird up thy
loins; for the day of travail and bitter sorrow is nigh to
thee.

Here am I sister! And ready to obey thee at the risk
of my life. What am I to do?

I advise thee to fly, for if they seek thy death, it is for
my sake—I shall go too.

Dear sister—

Well?—

Stoop thy head, I pray thee, continued Elizabeth—
I—I—(in a whisper)—I hope he'll go with thee.

With me?—

With us, I mean—

Why not say so?

How could I?

Mary Elizabeth Dyer!

Nay nay—we should be safer with him—

Our safety is not in George Burroughs, maiden.

But we should find our way in the dark better.

Rachel made no reply, but she stood looking at her
sister, with her lips apart and her head up, as if she
were were going to speak, till her eyes ran over, and
then she fell upon her neck and wept aloud for a single
moment, and then arose and, with a violent effort, broke
away from Elizabeth, and hurried into their little bedroom,
where she staid so long that Elizabeth followed
her—and the preacher soon heard their voices and their
sobs die away, and saw the linked shadows of both in
prayer, projected along the white roof.

A moment more and they came out together, Rachel

with a steady look and a firm step, and her sister with a
show of courage that awed him.

Thee will go with us now, I hope, said Rachel.

He shook his head.

I pray thee George—do not thou abide here—by going
with us thee may have it in thy power to help a—in
short, we have need of thee George, and thee had better
go, even if thee should resolve to come back and outface
whatever may be said of thee—

What if I see an angel in my path?

Do that which to thee seemeth good—I have no more
to say—the greater will be thy courage, the stronger the
presumption of thy innocence, however, should thee
come back, after they see thee in safety—what do thee
say Elizabeth?—

I didn't speak, Rachel—but—but—O I do wish he
would go.

I shall come back if I live, said Burroughs.

Nay nay George—thee may not see thy way clear to
do so—

Hourra there, hourra! cried Robert Eveleth, popping
his head in at the door. Here we be all three of
us—what are you at now?—why aint you ready?—
what are you waitin' for?

George—it has just occurred to me that if I stay here,
I may do Elizabeth more good than if I go with you—
having it in my power to escape, it may be of weight in
her favor—

Fiddle-de-dee for your proof cried Robert Eveleth—
that, for all your proof! snapping his fingers—that for
all the good you can do Elizabeth—I say, Mr. Burroughs—a
word with you—

Burroughs followed him to a far part of the room.

If you know when you are well off, said the boy—
make her go—you may both stay, you and Elizabeth too,

without half the risk; but as for aunt Rachel, why as
sure as you're a breathin' the breath o' life now, if you
don't get her away, they'll have her up with a short turn;
and if you know'd all, you'd say so—I said 'twas you
when I fuss come, for I didn't like to frighten her—but
the fact is you are only one out o' the three, and I'd
rather have your chance now, than either o' their'n—

Why? Robert—

Hush—hush— you stoop down your head here, an'
I'll satisfy you o' the truth o' what I say....Barbara
Snow, and Judy Hubbard have been to make oath,
and they wanted Bridgy Pope to make oath too—they'd
do as much for her they said—how 't you come to
their bed-side about a week ago, along with a witch that
maybe you've heerd of—a freckled witch with red hair
and a big hump on her back—

No no—cried the preacher, clapping his hand over
the boy's mouth and hastily interchanging a look with
Elizabeth, whose eyes filled with a gush of sorrow,
when she thought of her bave good sister, and of what
she would feel at the remark of the boy....a remark, the
bitter truth of which was made fifty times more bitter
by his age, and by the very anxiety he showed to keep
it away from her quick sensitive ear.

But Rachel was not like Elizabeth; for though she
heard the remark, she did not even change color, but
went up to the boy, and put both arms about his neck
with a smile, and gave him a hearty kiss....and bid him
be a good boy, and a prop for his widowed mother.

A moment more and they were all on their way. It
was very dark for a time, and the great wilderness
through which their path lay, appeared to overshadow
the whole earth, and here and there to shoot up a multitude
of branches—up—up—into the very sky—where

the stars and the moon appeared to be adrift, and wallowing
on their way through a sea of shadow.

Me go too? said a voice, apparently a few feet off, as
they were feeling for a path in the thickest part of the
wood.

The preacher drew up as if an arrow had missed him.
Who are you? said he—

No no, George....let me speak—

Do you know the voice?

No—but I'm sure 'tis one that I have heard before.

Me go too—high!

No.

Where you go?—high!

Rachel pointed with her hand.

Are you afraid to tell? asked the preacher, looking
about in vain for somebody to appear.

I have told him—I pointed with my hand—

But how could he see thy hand such a dark night?
said Elizabeth.

As you would see it in the light of day, said the
preacher.

High—high—me better go too—poo-ka-kee.

No, no—I'd rather not, whoever thee is—we are quite
safe—

No—no, said the voice, and here the conversation
dropped, and they pursued their way for above an hour,
at a brisk trot, and were already in sight of a path which
led to the Providence Plantations, their city of refuge—

High—high—me hear um people, cried the same
voice. You no safe much.

And so do I, cried Burroughs. I hear the tread of
people afar off—no, no, 'tis a troop of horse—who are
you—come out and speak to us—what are we to do?—
the moon is out now.

High, poo-kakee, high!

Yes—come here if thee will, and say what we are to do.

Before the words were well out of her mouth, a young
savage appeared in the path, a few feet from the head
of her horse, and after explaining to her that she was
pursued by a troop, and that he and six more of the tribe
were waiting to know whether she wanted their help, he
threw aside his blanket and showed her, that although
he was in the garb of a swift-runner, he did not lack for
weapons of war.

No, no, not for the world poor youth! cried the woman
of peace, when her eye caught the glitter of the
knife, the tomahawk and the short gun—I pray thee to
leave us....do leave us—do, do!—speak to him George
....he does not appear to understand what I say—entreat
him to leave us.

High—high! said the young warrior, and off he
bounded for the sea-shore, leaving them to pursue their
opposite path in quietness. Rachel and Elizabeth were
upon a creature that knew, or appeared to know every
step of the way; but the young high-spirited horse
the preacher rode, had become quite unmanageable, now
that the moon was up, the sky clear, and the shadows
darting hither and thither about her path. At last they
had come to the high road—their peril was over—and
they were just beginning to speak above their breath,
when Burroughs heard a shot fired afar off—

Hush—hush—don't move; don't speak for your lives,
cried he, as the animal reared and started away from
the path.....soh, soh—I shall subdue him in a moment
—hark—that is the tread of a horse—another—and
another, by my life—woa!—woa!—

My heart misgives me, George—that youth—

Ah—another shot—we are pursued by a troop, and
that boy is picking them off—

O Father of mercies! I hope not.

Stay you here—I'll be back in a moment—woa—
woa!—

George—George—

Don't be alarmed—stay where you are—keep in the
shadow, and if I do not come back immediately, or it
you see me pursued, or if—woa, woa—or if you see
the mare prick up her ears, don't wait for me, but make
the best of your way over that hill yonder—woa!—
keep out o' the high road and you are safe.

Saying this, he rode off without waiting for a reply,
intending to follow in the rear of the troop, and to lead
them astray at the risk of his life, should they appear to
be in pursuit of the fugitives. He had not gone far,
when his horse, hearing the tread of other horses—a
heavy tramp, like that of a troop of cavalry on the
charge, sounding through the still midnight air, gave a
loud long neigh. It was immediately answered by four
or five horses afar off, and by that on which the poor
girls were mounted.

The preacher saw that there was but one hope now,
and he set off at full speed therefore, intending to cross
the head of the troop and provoke them to a chase; the
manœuvre succeeded until they saw that he was alone,
after which they divided their number, and while one
party pursued him, another took its way to the very spot
where the poor girls were abiding the issue. He and
they both were captured—they were all three taken
alive—though man after man of the troop fell from his
horse, by shot after shot from a foe that no one of the
troop could see, as they galloped after the fugitives.
They were all three carried back to Salem, Burroughs
prepared for the worst, Rachel afraid only for Elizabeth,
and Elizabeth more dead than alive.

But why seek to delay the catastrophe? Why pause
upon that, the result of which every body can foresee?

They put him upon trial on the memorable fifth day of
August (1692) in the midst of the great thunder-storm.
Having no proper court of justice in the Plymouth-colony
at this period, they made use of a Meeting-House
for the procedure, which lasted all one day and
a part of the following night—a night never to be forgotten
by the posterity of them that were alive at the
time. He was pale and sick and weary, but his bearing
was that of a good man—that of a brave man too, and
yet he shook as with an ague, when he saw arrayed
against him, no less than eight confessing witches, five
or six distempered creatures who believed him to be the
cause of their malady, Judith Hubbard, a woman whose
character had been at his mercy for a long while (He
knew that of her, which if he had revealed it before she
accused him, would have been fatal to her) John Ruck
his own brother-in-law, two or three of his early and
very dear friends of the church, in whom he thought he
could put all trust, and a score of neighbors on whom
he would have called at any other time to speak in his
favor. What was he to believe now?—what could he
believe? These witnesses were not like Judith Hubbard;
they had not wronged him, as she had—they
were neither hostile to him, nor afraid of him in the way
she was afraid of him. They were about to take away
his life under a deep sense of duty to their Father above.
His heart swelled with agony, and shook—and stopped,
when he saw this—and a shadow fell, or appeared
to fall on the very earth about him. It was the shadow
of another world.