Chapter 1

When William, Duke of Normandy, invaded England in 1066, and achieved
for himself the title of “Conqueror,” one of those who accompanied him
was Robert D’Evreux, younger son of Walter, Earl of Rosmar, feudal
owner and ruler of the town of his name in Normandy.

After the battle of Hastings, in which William won so great a victory,
he, wishing to honor the memory of the noblemen and knights by whose
aid it had been accomplished, placed their names upon a roll which was
suspended in a stately pile, called “Battle Abbey,” erected by him upon
the field of battle.

In the several exemplifications of “Battle Abbey Roll,” as it was
termed, the name of Robert D’Evreux is variously expressed as
“Daveros,” “Deverous,” “Conte Devreux,” and “Counte Devereux.”

It was the close of an early May day in 1639. Charles I. was reigning
monarch of England, and the Scotch Covenanters were disturbing his
kingdom’s peace.

Against these malcontents Charles had sent his army, and Robert
Devereux, only son of the beheaded favorite of Elizabeth, and now third
Earl of Essex, had been made Lieutenant-General, he having already, by
his resolution and activity no less than by his personal courage, done
good service to the King and won much honor for himself.

On this May day, in Warwick, far from all scenes of war or rumors from
court, Bromwich Castle, the home of Sir Walter Devereux,
Baronet–cousin and present heir of the King’s unmarried
Lieutenant-General–lifted its turrets, about whose clinging ivy the
late afternoon sunshine played golden and warm.

It was a huge pile, massively irregular in architecture, and its thick
walls bore traces of those times when a Baron of England was a power in
the land,–monarch of his domain, and chief of his own people.

A rugged old tower was its keep, flanked by four symmetrical turrets,
and crowned by a battlement overlooking the whole country around.
About these clung ivy in a thousand thick wreaths; and here and there,
where it was not, the centuries had woven a fantastic tracery of moss,
green as the ivy itself, and delicate as frost-work.

What had been the moat was now but a pleasant grassy hollow, carpeted
thickly with golden cowslips and fragrant violets, their growing lipped
by a tiny stream of purest water.

The castle was surrounded almost to its walls by the forest of ancient
oaks, spreading in all directions, and becoming denser and more wild as
it stretched miles away. And here were the deer, numerous and fat,
that well supplied the larder for Sir Walter’s board, or cooled their
sides amid the rankly growing brake and ferns, where naught troubled
the intense silence of the dusky aisles save the whir of the pheasant,
or the foot of the hare, light as the leaf dropping from the green arch
overhead.

Sir Walter was in the forest this day, and with him were his three
goodly sons, besides several retainers. The notes of the horn had come
faintly to the castle now and again, as they pursued the chase; and up
in her apartments Anne, the seventeen-year-old wife of Sir Walter’s
youngest son, sat watching for a first glimpse of the returning
huntsmen.

Upon her knees lay an open volume, bound in white vellum, and with
clasps of pearl. It was richly illuminated, every page presenting a
picture gorgeous with color, and it was a carefully narrated story of
travel and adventure in that far-away country across the ocean for
which she and her young husband were soon to set sail.

She paused over one of the illustrations, and gazed at it long and
earnestly, while her agate-gray eyes grew wide, and became filled with
consternation. It was the picture of an Indian chief, in all the
formidable toggery of war dress and paint; and his fierceness of mien
brought to her young heart a hitherto unknown dread and terror.

The golden of the sun was turning to rose, when a clatter of hoofs and
the sound of men’s voices drew her eyes toward the courtyard below.

Resting her dimpled arms upon the rough stone of the window-ledge, she
leaned over and smiled down into the upturned face of her
twenty-two-year-old husband, whose dark eyes sought her casement ere he
dismounted from his tired horse, which the esquire at its head had now
little need to hold. He waved his hand to her, while a bright smile
illumined his grave face, and she responded by blowing him a kiss from
the tips of her taper fingers.

The old Baronet, who had been the first to dismount, looked up as well,
and shook his hunting spear at her.

“Ah, rogue!” he called out. “Wait till I catch thee! With never a
kiss to spare thy old father!”

Her fresh young laugh rang out gayly as she retorted, “But I have many
an one, if you choose, good sir, as surely you wot right well.”

“‘T is a dear child,–a sweet lass, Jack,” the old man said to his
youngest son as the two entered the castle side by side. “My heart
misgives me at thought of her going to the far-off heathen country,
amongst savages and wild beasts; for, alack, who can tell what may
befall there?”

Behind them followed Leicester, Sir Walter’s eldest son, and beside him
was young Will,–in his boyhood a page, and now the heir’s special
esquire. Walter, the next son, came after them, and then the retainers.

These latter bore the deer slain that afternoon,–a famous buck, with
great spreading antlers; and the hounds were close by, sniffing about
the carcass with repressed excitement.

The three sons of Sir Walter Devereux were much alike in coloring and
stature, being tall and stalwart, with broad shoulders, deep chests,
and martial bearing. Their faces were dark, with regular features and
full rounded foreheads, and the narrow, strongly marked eyebrows arched
over unusually large dark eyes.

But the eyes of these three young men were totally different in
expression. Those of Leicester were apt to glow with over-haughtiness;
for albeit proof was not lacking to show that he had done kind deeds
and was a loyal friend and subject as well as a valiant soldier, he was
feared, rather than liked, by his subordinates.

Walter’s eyes bespoke his true nature,–a rollicking one. Indeed an
enemy of “Wat” Devereux were a hard matter to find.

But, favorite though he was, his younger brother, John, went far beyond
him in this respect. His was a quiet nature, much given to
contemplation; one that drew the best from all hearts about him. He
had been his mother’s idol; and his face was the last her dying eyes
sought three years before, as he sat, pale and silent, by her bedside,
calmly and prayerfully awaiting her end. He it was to whom the old
Baronet always opened his heart, when the elder son’s haughty reserve
perplexed or hurt him, or Walter’s recklessness brought trouble.

Up in the dusking turret room, on the cushions by the open casement,
John Devereux now sat, dressed for the evening meal.

Putting his strong arm about Anne, he drew her head to his shoulder,
and laughed when she showed him the picture that had so affrighted her,
while she confided to him her fears lest some such demon should work
evil upon him in that strange land in which they were about to find a
new home.

“Nay, sweetheart,” he said earnestly, “never would I think to take thee
to such perils. There be few, if any, such Indians in the country
where we shall abide. These writings treat of long-ago days, when
goodly English hearts were few on that shore. ‘T is changed now; and
albeit somewhat rougher than here in our father’s castle, ‘t is every
whit as safe. And think, sweetheart,” he added proudly, “we shall be
the head of our name in this new land,–the same as our brother
Leicester here, in old England.”

She clung to him silently, while he stroked her soft hair and bent his
handsome head to see her face, now smiling, and looking more reassured.

“Art thou still fearful, little one?” he asked presently.

She lifted her face to look into his eyes, and clasped her arms about
his neck.

“Fearful?” she repeated. “Nay, not I, so long as thou art with me.”

He drew her head against his breast, and a brooding peace fell upon
them, broken only by the cawing of the rooks circling about the tower,
or the melancholy notes of the ringdoves ensconced amid the ivy on the
ancient turrets.

Across the broad Atlantic, on the rocky shore of Marblehead, the May
sun had been shining as golden and warm as in old England; and the new
home, although lacking the renown which age and legend had brought to
every stone of Bromwich Castle, was enveloped by the glory that comes
from the love of pure, brave hearts and God-fearing lives.

Facing the open sea along a portion of the shore of what is now known
as Devereux and Clifton, lay the acres–forest and meadow land–of
which John Devereux was owner. The house–a low, rambling stone
building, of somewhat pretentious size for those days, and fitted with
stout oaken doors and shutters–stood in a small clearing.

Only a few yards away were the sheds for cattle, placed thus near for
greater protection against thieving Indians, as well as the pilfering
pirates who at rare intervals swept along the coast and descended upon
the unwary settler, in quest of food or booty.

The virgin forest rose all about, save to the southwest, where the
fields were planted to the extent of several acres; and beyond these
the forest came again, stretching away to the site of the present town
of Marblehead, more than a mile off.

In front of the house was a small open space where the trees had been
cut away and the undergrowth removed, that a glimpse might be obtained
of the sea; and the land, sloping to the sands, ended in a noble sweep
of beach.

A mile or more to the south and southwest, by Forest River, dwelt the
Indians, their wigwams not so many as a few years before; for want and
pestilence had sadly weakened the once proud Naumkegs.

Their chief, the renowned Nanepashemet, was now dead; and the present
ruler, his widow, the “Squaw Sachem,” was, like her tribe, too greatly
broken by the vicissitudes of fate to resist the encroachments of the
whites. And her only surviving son, Weenepauweekin, or, as the
settlers called him, “George,” was either indifferent, or else too wise
to risk incurring further trouble for his tribe by assuming other than
an amicable attitude toward his white neighbors.

And thus it was that between the settlers and the Naumkegs all was at
peace.

The wife of Weenepauweekin, Ahawayet by name, was well known to Anne
Devereux and her husband; and both she and her daughter, a girl of
seventeen, were frequent visitors at the house of the “English Chief,”
as John Devereux was called by the Indians.

In her own gentle, coaxing way, Anne had undertaken to instruct
Ahawayet in the Christian faith, and hoped to impress also the wayward,
wild-eyed daughter, Joane, who would sometimes come from her dignified
playing with the children of the “English Chief” to crouch by her
mother, and listen to these teachings.

When the news of Sir Walter’s death had come across the sea, tears
gathered in Anne’s eyes as she raised them to those of her sad-faced
husband.

“I cannot but think,” she said, “on Sir Walter’s face, as we saw it
fade away while we stood on the ship’s deck that morn, with the tears
streaming down his cheeks like I never saw them come from a man’s eyes
before.”

“Aye,” her husband added, “he was a dear, good father, and a friend as
well. God grant that we and them that come after us do naught to bring
reproach or sorrow to the name he hath worn, as have so many before
him, with pride, and right good dignity.”

The sun was sinking fast, and the odor of the forest growths was
beginning to mingle with the tang of the sea.

The voices of men and women busy about the cattle and milking were
making a cheerful sound of life and bustle from the sheds and
outhouses; and on the low-roofed porch in front of the house door,
overhung with drooping vines, John Devereux’s three sons, Humphrey,
John, and Robert, were busy at play.

But they were not too busy to pause now and then to send searching
glances into the forest in quest of their father, whom they all united
in adoring as the wisest and greatest of created beings.

Humphrey, the eldest, was looking forward proudly to his ninth
birthday, now almost at hand, when he was to have the promise fulfilled
of being permitted to go along with his father to hunt in the forest,
or out on the sea, to fish.

Near them sat their mother, stouter and more matronly than the slender
Anne of ten years ago. The aforetime dainty hands were not guiltless
of toil stains, and the dark hair was now gathered beneath a snowy
mobcap, with only here and there a short, wayward curl stealing out to
trail across her brow or touch her pretty ears.

A sudden shout from the boys announced their father’s appearance, as he
came out of the woods and across the clearing, and with him Noah, the
darkey servant, well loaded with game.

“Thou hast had a most successful hunt!” exclaimed Anne, smiling a
bright welcome into her husband’s fond eyes, while the children’s small
hands clung to him, and tiny brown fingers were poked into the mouths
of dead rabbits, or tweaked their whiskers to see if they were really
dead, or tried to pull open the beaks and eyes of slain birds.

“Aye,” was his laughing reply, as he gently freed himself from the
little clinging hands; “and I have found more in the forest than game
alone, in that I have a most ferocious appetite,–one I trust thou wilt
have a plenty to satisfy.”

“Give the game to David,” said Anne, as a younger and smaller edition
of Noah approached, “and come thou within and see, for the supper hath
been ready this half hour.”

An hour later the children were all safely in Nodland, and husband and
wife were sitting either side the fireplace, where the burning wood was
pleasant to feel, for a chill had crept into the air. But the outer
door was open, and through it came the hoarse notes of the frogs down
in the swampy lands, mingled with the roar of the surf along the
near-by shore.

They sat in silence, each content with the other’s nearness, as they
watched the leaping flames, which made the only light in the room. And
this was reflected in a thousand scintillating sparks from the brass
fire-dogs that upheld the logs, and in the handles of the shovels and
tongs, scrubbed and polished with all the power of arm possessed by
Shubar, the Indian wife of old Noah.

Suddenly a lithe, girlish form slipped through the half-open door,
coming with a tread as noiseless as the leaping shadows about the far
corners of the room, and Joane, the Squaw Sachem’s granddaughter,
glided to the hearth and stood between John Devereux and his wife.

So accustomed were they to such things that neither of them was
startled, but kindly bade her welcome.

Crouching on the hearth, she turned her dusky face and glittering eyes
toward John Devereux, and said quietly and in a low voice, “Strange
boat–big boat in harbor, English Chief.”

He looked troubled, and Anne glanced at him apprehensively, while Joane
continued, now speaking more rapidly, “Gran’mudder sent me tell better
keep door shut–better get gun.”

“Thou dost mean that the Squaw Sachem sent thee to tell there be
danger?” John Devereux asked, half rising from his chair, and looking
toward the door. “She thinks they mean evil?”

“Don’t know how answer. English Chief talk too fast–ask too many
questions all same time. Go slow–then Joane hear right–tell him
right.” And she smiled up into his face while she touched the slender
forefinger of her left hand with the fingers of the right, as if
waiting to enumerate his questions.

“Thy grandmother sent thee?”

The girl nodded, and touched a second finger.

“She thinks the men on the ship may do us harm?”

“Say don’t like looks–got bad black faces,” replied Joane, scowling as
though to illustrate her meaning.

“Have any of them come ashore yet?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes–so many,” holding up seven brown fingers, “come ‘shore. Get
water to drink–then go back to ship when sun shines. But no go ‘way
yet–no mean to go. Tell gran’mudder want somethin’ eat. Take our
corn, and pay no money.”

“Pirates!” John Devereux exclaimed, now starting to his feet, while he
looked at his wife, whose face paled.

He hurried across the room, bolted and barred the stout door, and
examined the window fastenings, the Indian girl still crouching by the
hearth and watching him placidly, as if a pirate raid were a matter of
small moment.

But her sparkling eyes, and the heaving bosom agitating the many bead
necklaces hanging from throat to waist, betrayed her.

“See thou to the children, sweetheart, and warn the maids,” John
Devereux said to his wife, as he took down his gun and examined it
carefully, “while I go to the men and see that the cattle be safe, and
the back of the house made secure.”

“Good!” exclaimed Joane, with quick approval. “English Chief no
sleep–heap good. Give Joane gun, too.”

“Had thou not best return to the wigwam, Joane, and to the Squaw
Sachem?” inquired Anne, pausing as she was about to leave the room.

“What go for?” the girl demanded, while her eyes flashed with fierce
intensity. “No good go–can fight here–fight good, too. Joane stay
and fight by English Chief and his ‘Singing Bird,'”–this being the
name given by the Naumkegs to Anne, on account of her musical voice.

Knowing that nothing would turn Joane when once her ideas were fixed,
and knowing too that her skill with the bow and gun was equal to that
of any warrior, Anne was silent,–grateful indeed for any addition to
the slender force at hand for defence.

There were in all but nine men, servants and laborers,–two of them
white, and the others either Africans or Indians; but they were all,
saving old Noah, young, stalwart, and fearless.

John Devereux posted these men in the outbuildings and sheds, as cattle
were generally the spoil sought by the marauders when they visited the
coast. And when assigning them their positions, he warned them, should
they find themselves in danger of being overpowered, to give a signal
and retreat to the house, where a side-door would be opened for their
entrance. Then, having left with them a plentiful supply of
ammunition, he went within to mount guard over his wife and babies.

He had five guns wherewith to arm his household, without counting his
own piece, and every woman in his service was acquainted with their
use. Even Anne herself had, under his own tuition, become no mean
markswoman.

Within doors he found the women greatly excited, and fluttering about
aimlessly; but a few quiet words soon brought order amongst them, and
with it a return of their courage. Then, having accomplished this, he
went once more through the house, from the rooms downstairs to the
low-ceilinged sleeping apartments above, and satisfied himself that all
was secure.

In the nursery he found his wife looking at the little boys, who were
lying on two great bags of ticking, stuffed with the feathers of wild
geese, and placed on the floor, in lieu of bedsteads.

They were sleeping soundly, oblivious of the alarm about the house; and
standing beside his wife, his arm around her waist, John Devereux
looked down at them.

On one of the pallets lay Humphrey, his strong young arms outstretched,
and his chest–broad for his years, and finely developed—showing
white as alabaster where the simple linen garment was rarely buttoned
by his impatient fingers.

On the other were the two younger boys; and Robert, the gentlest of the
three, with his father’s own winsome nature, lay with his head half
pillowed against his brother John’s shoulder.

“What a blessed thing is childhood, and ignorance of danger!” murmured
Anne, looking at her husband.

“Aye,” he said softly, as they turned away. “So may we know no fear of
dangers that threaten, sweet wife, while we trust to Him who watcheth
us,–who ‘slumbers not, nor sleeps.'”

And as she had answered him ten years before, so she said to him now,
“So long as we be together, I have no fear.”

A long and shrill sound now broke the silence. It was the blowing of
the conch shell suspended in front of the outer door; and it announced
a visitor seeking admission.

Surprised at this, and alarmed as well, husband and wife hurried to the
front room below stairs, where they found Joane still crouched upon the
hearth. Her bow, now unslung, lay close at hand, and she was examining
with pleased curiosity the clumsy blunderbuss resting across her
knees,–one that John, at her earnest request, had intrusted to her.

“No enemy–make heap too much noise,” was her sententious remark, as
she looked up from her inspection of the weapon.

“Mayhap they but do that to disarm us,” John replied, as he went
cautiously toward the door.

He knew there was no way, except from the beach, for any one to
approach the house unseen by his faithful outposts. And he had
reckoned upon no attack coming from that quarter, as there was no
sailing breeze. Then, again, the pirates would be more likely to come
from the direction of the forest, hoping to effect a greater surprise
than if they came from the water.

The wailing cry of the conch shell pierced the air for the second time,
to echo again in falling cadences that died away in the woods and over
the sea.

Placing his lips to the loophole near the door, John Devereux now
demanded to know who was outside.

A nasal, whining voice replied; and although the words were
indistinguishable, their sound caused the Indian girl to laugh
scornfully.

She said nothing, however, but springing quickly to her feet, sped to
the small opening. Then, before her purpose could be understood, she
thrust the muzzle of the blunderbuss through the aperture.

“Hold, Joane!” commanded John, as he caught her arm. “What is’t thou
wouldst do,–kill, perchance, an innocent man? Put the gun down,
child, until I challenge again, and know for a surety who it be.
Methinks the voice hath a familiar sound.”

Joane obeyed him, still smiling maliciously as she said: “Only want
give him heap big scare. Him big ‘fraid–him coward.”

“‘T is Parson Legg!” exclaimed Anne, now recalling the piping voice,
and enlightened by Joane’s contemptuous words.

Her husband opened the door, and a slim, weazen-faced, bandy-legged
little man stepped hastily within, his eyes, small and keen as those of
a ferret, blinking from the sudden passing out of darkness into light.

“Good e’en to thee, Parson Legg; thou art late abroad,” said Anne,
coming forward. She did not smile, nor was there aught of welcome in
her voice or manner.

But this lack of cordiality was not felt by the unexpected visitor, for
he doffed his steeple-crowned hat, which, like the rest of his apparel,
was much the worse for wear, and responded briskly, “Good e’en,
Mistress Anne, an’ the same to you, neighbor John; I hope the Lord’s
blessin’ is upon all within this abode. Ah, who have ye here?” and he
peered down at Joane, who had resumed her place before the fire, her
back turned squarely toward Parson Legg as he stood in the centre of
the room.

He came closer to her, but for all the notice she vouchsafed of his
words or presence she might have been one of the brass fire-dogs
upholding the blazing logs.

“‘T is the Squaw Sachem’s granddaughter, Joane,” replied John Devereux,
turning from the door, which he had refastened.

“Aye, so it be,” said the little man; “one o’ the unregenerate heathen,
upon whom, if they turn not from their idolatrous ways, shall descend
smitings sore from the Lord. Hip an’ thigh shall they be smitten, and
their places shall know them no more.”

“Joane hath no idols, good sir, that I know on,” said his host, as he
came forward and offered the visitor a seat, and then took one himself
by the door. “She seemeth ever ready to heed the words of my good
wife, and our babes could not have a more gentle playfellow.”

Anne had seated herself near Joane, by the fire; and she looked with no
very friendly eyes at the Parson, as she said, “Think you not, good
sir, it were better to chide the ‘unregenerate heathen,’ as you call
them, with more gentleness?”

His little eyes narrowed into yet meaner lines as he fixed them upon
her face. Then leaning forward to lay a finger upon the gun that again
lay across Joane’s knees, he answered, “It would seem but poor excuse
to prate o’ gentleness to one who at unseemly hours and seasons goeth
about with death-dealin’ weapons, seekin’ whom she may devour.”

The Indian girl still sat immovable; a statue could not have appeared
more bereft of hearing or speech. But to Anne’s face there came a look
of fine scorn, which softened however into almost a smile as she
glanced at her husband.

“Joane came to warn us of danger,” John said quietly. “She tells us
there is a strange ship in harbor, and we be now armed to guard against
pirates,–for such they promise to be.”

Parson Legg sprang to his feet as though stung by a passing insect.

“Pirates!” he repeated, in a shrill cry of alarm. “Pirates,–say ye
so? I heard naught o’ such matter. I was in the woods hereabout all
the afternoon, readin’ the psalmody, an’ makin’ joyful melody unto the
Lord, till darkness o’ertook me, an’ I bethought myself to make my way
to this abode, neighbor John, as peradventure thou an’ Mistress Anne,
thy wife, would give me food an’ shelter in the Lord’s name till
mornin’.”

Parson Legg was only an itinerant preacher, having long striven, but
without avail, to be accepted by the colonists as successor to their
late beloved pastor, the Reverend Hugh Peters, who had gone to England
some years before to act as their agent, and was likely to remain there
for some time to come, being now a chaplain in the army of Cromwell.

But Legg was entirely unfitted, both by birth and education, for the
position to which he aspired. He was selfish and irritable, with a
grasping, worldly nature, despite his outward show of humility and
sanctity, and was regarded by the colonists with suspicion and illy
concealed dislike, while the Indians held him in positive hatred.

Since the summer day, two years before, when he had come upon Joane in
the forest, attired in the manly habiliments of her tribe,–this being
only for greater convenience while hunting–and had hurled at her young
head anathemas such as fairly smelled of brimstone, it had been open
war between the two; and the very sight of one to the other was like
that of a plump kitten to a lively terrier.

Anne had by this time set forth a meal upon the table, and
notwithstanding his recent fright, Parson Legg’s little eyes glistened
voraciously as he drew up his chair, while he smacked his thin lips
more as would a sturdy yeoman, than like a meek and lowly follower of
the creed which crucifies the flesh and its appetites.

John still kept his seat by the door, his keen ears listening intently
for any unusual sound without, while Parson Legg crunched away at the
venison and corn bread,–doing this with more gusto than was pleasant
for either eye or ear.

Anne had left the room, motioning to Joane to follow her, and an
intense silence seemed to lie about the house, save as it was broken by
the sputtering of the fire upon the hearth and the sound of Parson
Legg’s gastronomic vocalism, and now and then the subdued murmur of
women’s voices from one of the rooms in the rear.

A sudden roar of firearms, followed by wild yells and cries without,
shattered the peaceful brooding of the place, and caused Parson Legg to
spring wildly from his chair.

“The heathen are upon us!” he gasped, his articulation being somewhat
impeded by the presence of a huge piece of venison in his mouth. “The
heathen are come upon us with riotin’ an’ slaughter! John–John
Devereux, hide me, I beseech thee,–hide me from their vengeance. I am
a man o’ peace, an’ the sight o’ bloodshed is somethin’ I could ne’er
abide.”

John paid no attention to the terrified little man, but springing up
with an impetuosity that sent his chair flying across the room, stood
erect and scowling, his face turned toward the sounds of strife, and
his strong fingers gripping his gun.

“Anne–wife–where art thou?” he cried, as the din increased, and more
shots were fired.

“Here.” And she quietly entered the room, her face pale, but perfectly
calm. “The noise hath awakened the little boys, but I have left Shubar
with them, and promised to return shortly.”

“Where is Joane?” her husband asked quickly.

“With Shubar and the boys.”

“Good; for then there be one gun near, to assure the little ones.”

He had been nervously fingering the hammer of his own piece, and while
speaking he crossed the room and took a position near that side of the
house from whence came the sound of firearms.

Anne remained by the hearth, watching him closely, her tightly clenched
hands being all that told of the agitation within.

“Are the little ones much affrighted?” he asked.

“No,” she said, still in her calm, sweet fashion; “they do not seem to
be–that is, not much. Humphrey begged that he might have a gun, and
Robert sat quiet, looking at me with eyes so like your own as he asked,
‘Art fearful, mother? Father will ne’er let them hurt us.'”

John Devereux smiled proudly, for the moment forgetting the din about
them.

“And John,” he asked,–“what said our second son?”

“He seemeth most affrighted of all,” she replied. “He wept at first,
and hid his face in my gown; but he was calm when I came away. Thou
knowest, John, that the lad hath not been well since the fever, last
fall.”

“Aye, true,–poor little Jack!” the father said. And he now wondered
what might have happened outside, for there was a ceasing of the uproar.

He listened intently a moment. “Methinks, sweetheart, I’d best go
outside and see what this silence doth mean. Thou’lt not be fearful if
I leave the house awhile?”

She grew still paler, but only shook her head. Then she asked
suddenly, “Where be Parson Legg?”

Husband and wife looked about the room, and then at one another.

“He was here when the firing began,” said John, finding it difficult
not to smile as he recalled the scene.

“But wherever can he have gone?” persisted Anne.

“Hiding somewhere, I warrant me,” was her husband’s reply. “He is an
arrant–“

His words were drowned by the roar of a blunderbuss, coming apparently
from just over their heads, and this was followed a moment later by a
wild yell of triumph from outside.

It was from John’s men, and he started to open the door. But before he
could do this there arose such a clamor in the nursery above that he
and Anne, forgetful of all else, sped up the stairway.

Old Shubar’s voice came to them raised in shrill cries, echoed by those
of the boys,–only that Humphrey and Robert seemed to speak more from
indignation than fright.

Wondering what it could all mean, they hurried into the room, where an
absurd sight met their alarmed eyes.

In one corner, beside Humphrey’s pallet, stood Shubar, still uttering
the wild shrieks they had heard, and huddling about her were the three
boys,–John clinging to her gown, while Humphrey and Robert, both
facing about, were shouting at a strange figure that burrowed
frantically into the pallet occupying the opposite corner of the
chamber.

“Shubar says ‘t is a witch,” cried Robert. “Take thy gun and slay her
before she bring evil upon us.”

“Be quiet, my son,” said his father, scarcely able to repress his
laughter, for at the sound of his voice Parson Legg’s weazened face,
all blanched by fear, was lifted from out the pillows, and a pair of
terror-stricken eyes peered over his shoulder.

He had been lying face downward, partially covered by the bedclothes,
under which he was still trying to conceal himself; and his
steeple-crowned hat, now a shapeless wreck, was pulled down over his
ears, as if to shut out more effectually the sounds of strife that had
well-nigh bereft him of reason.

“It would seem thou canst preach far better, Parson Legg, than defend
thyself from the enemy,” John Devereux said rather grimly, looking down
with unconcealed contempt upon the little coward, while Anne busied
herself in reassuring the children and quieting Shubar’s angry
mutterings.

“Even so, neighbor John, even so,” answered the Parson, in no wise
disconcerted at the sarcasm of the other’s words and tone, and making
no movement to emerge from his retreat. “As I told thee below, I am a
man o’ peace, an’ I like not the sound o’ war an’ the sight o’
bloodshed. But what doth this silence portend?–are the enemy
routed,–are they vanquished, an’ put down, smitten hip an’ thigh, an’
put to flight by thy brave followers?”

His anxious queries met with no reply, for John Devereux, who was
standing upon the threshold of the room, had become conscious of a
sharp current of air blowing upon his cheek. It told him that the
scuttle was open overhead, and turning about, he darted swiftly up the
ladder.

He was soon upon the roof, and here he stood a few moments and looked
keenly about.

The voices of his men came to him from the ground below. They had left
their concealment, and the lightness of their tones told him that all
danger was past.

As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, the dim starlight
revealed to him the outlines of a form crouching behind the great
chimney not far away.

“Joane!” he called softly, suspecting who it might be.

She arose and came to him, and he heard her laughing to herself.

“What camest thou up here for?” he demanded, speaking quite sharply.

“Joane shoot pirate captain,” she answered, still laughing. “Heap
scare ’em–no know where shot come from–all run away to ship.”

And so it proved. The marauders, having received a very different
reception from the one they had expected, were utterly discomfited when
an unseen enemy–in the person of Joane and her blunderbuss–scattered
a mighty charge of slugs and bullets in their midst. Their leader was
struck in the arm, and fearing they had fallen into an ambuscade from
which it would be difficult to escape, he shouted to his men that he
was wounded, and bade them fly to the ship.

This was the last of the raids that had so annoyed the colonists, and
thenceforth they were free from such molestation.

John Devereux’s days passed on, full of peace and pleasantness, until
he died at a ripe old age, respected and loved by all his
fellow-townsmen, and mourned deeply by the faithful wife who did not
long survive him.

The boys lived to man’s estate, were married, and had children of their
own. But Humphrey and John died in their father’s lifetime; and so it
was that Robert, the second son, became the heir.