THE TIME OF PERIL.
Of what use to stay in Salem now, that my love had come to such a sorry
end? Yet I did not like that he should triumph over me, nor would I
purchase my freedom at the price he offered.
To stay? To go?
“I will remain here,” I said, after a moment’s pause. He made a gesture
that showed his displeasure. “But mistake me not, Sir George, Mistress
Keith shall see no more of me. I stay, not on her account, but my own.
Now, enough of womenkind. With you it seems I have a score to settle
yet.”
Sir George nodded his head.
“You have made threats,” I went on. “You feel aggrieved; you consider me
your enemy, and I, no less, you mine. The Danes are not accustomed to
shun danger; to permit old scores to be unsatisfied; to leave an enemy
behind them. Therefore I stay, Sir George.”
He made as if he would go, but I stood before him. He was looking beyond
me with a curious glint in his eyes, and, though I was directly in his
path, he did not seem to notice me.
“Draw, sir,” I commanded, gently. “Let us see who of us shall go or
stay; who of us shall die? There have been enough of threats. Draw, sir;
I pray you.”
Still he looked beyond me as if at some vision behind the oak walls,
until stung by his indifference I came so close up against him that his
arm touched mine.
“Will you not fight?” I cried, peering into his eyes that refused to see
me.
He said not a word, but ever continued to gaze away.
“Come,” I sneered, “will you do me the honor to cross swords?”
“Not with a traitor,” was his sudden answer.
“Nor I with a coward,” I exclaimed. I snatched up the broken whip and
struck him full in the face with it. The blow raised a red weal from his
eye to his chin.
I have seen wild beasts aroused, and raging Indians mad with the lust of
murder, yet I never saw such a look as came into the face of that man
when I struck him. Verily I shrank back somewhat, and my sword went up
on guard. But with a fierce mastery of the passion that must have been
tearing at his very heart, Sir George moistened his lips with his
tongue, and hoarsely whispered:
“Are you mad? No man ever yet struck me and lived after it. But the
sword of a gentleman and a soldier is too good for such as you, traitor
that you are. I will not sully my steel with your blood. Think not,
though, that you will escape me. Die you shall, but in such manner as no
man died before;” and, ere I could stop him he had rushed from the room,
and I was alone.
There was half a thought in my mind to follow him, but I did not care to
engage with him on the open highway, and I knew I would meet with him
again. That he meditated some evil to me I was sure. What it might be I
could not say.
Well, I would be off now to see Lucille after my long absence. I stopped
with a jolt, as suddenly as does a trooper whose horse balks at a hedge.
Lucille!
“Ha!” I cried, gaily. “Nay, Lucille no more, but Lady Keith. What a fool
I’ve been to let her see that I loved her. What a fool any man is to
love a woman. What fools men are, anyhow, at all times.
“Bah! Lucille! And she took my kisses.
“What ho! Well, ’tis many a stolen kiss a soldier has, and mine had been
purloined favors, though I knew it not. Why, then, should I give her up?
She loved me, even her husband admitted that. And why had not I, whom
she loved, a better right, to her than he whom she loved not? With some
there would have been but one answer to this. A clash of steel, and,
right or wrong, he who loved and won, would have her whom he fought for.
Why not I? What if she was his wife?
“Should love recognize limitations of earthly honor? Why not cast honor
as men saw it to the winds? With Sir George out of the way I would have
naught to fear from his warrant, and his wife--bah! the words went
bitter in my mouth--his wife could then be mine. I had no doubt that in
a combat with him I could be the victor. We had quarreled, I had struck
him. If he was a man he must fight after that. Then a meeting early in
the morning, a clash of swords, a lunge, a feint, a trick I knew well,
having had it from a master of the art, and that would be the end. The
end of all save my happiness with Lucille.
“No!”
I spoke the word aloud. I had not sunk so low as that. It would be sad
indeed if love gave such license. There was but one way out of the
matter. If I stayed in Salem I must fight Sir George, and all would say
that I had slain him that I might take his wife.
Love would be sweet, with Lucille to share it with me, but not love with
dishonor. Therefore I must go.
Heigh-ho! This, then, was an end to all my dreams. Nothing left to
battle for save life, and that was scarce worth the struggle. I tried to
banish the memory of Lucille from me, but I could not. Her whisper that
she loved me sounded in my ears loud above the din of the fights I had
passed through. One right I had still. To love her in secret, to know
that she loved me, and, knowing that, to let it be the end.
It was night now. There came a knock on my door, and Willis entered.
“What, not gone?” he asked. “Why, I thought you were in haste to be
away.”
“So I was,” I answered, with a short laugh, “but I have changed my mind
now. Much haste oft means a slow journey. I’ll stay here with you. Let
us have some wine up, Master Willis. ’Tis so long since I have tasted
any that my throat has forgot the flavor. Bring plenty, for when a man
has been to the wars there is need of some cheer on his return, even
though he comes conquered instead of a conqueror.”
He brought the wine, and we drank together, I not so much that I wanted
the drink, but companionship.
“How goes the witchcraft here, Willis?” I asked. “I heard ’twas broke
out again, as I came through Boston.”
“Hush,” he said, glancing around as though he feared some one would hear
me. “Verily it is most horrible. The townspeople have gone mad, it
seems. Scarce a day goes by that some poor woman or man is not accused
of being in league with the devil, or banded with witches to work evil
spells. The Colony groans under the terrors, for nearly half a score of
people have been put to death after being convicted of witchcraft.
“Neighbors have denounced and testified against neighbors; fathers
against sons, and daughters against their mothers.”
“Why, ’tis worse than I dreamed,” I said.
“Aye, it is bad enough,” responded Willis, glancing behind his chair, as
if he expected to see a witch perched on the bed post.
“There are strange tales told,” he went on, “of how witch meetings are
held on the common, and those who have been witness to them say they see
the forms of their acquaintances riding athwart broomsticks or fence
rails in the air.
“Let but a cow be taken sick, and straightway ’tis said that the animal
is bewitched. Then the owner goes before the judges and swears some poor
dame has cast an evil spell on the beast. The woman is taken and put in
gaol, and little enough as the evidence is sometimes, she is condemned
and hanged. Oh, I promise that you will see horrors enough if you stay
here long.
“Why, no further back than six days one man was accused because he was
so strong that the witch-crazed people said he must have had help from
Satan to lift the weights he did. He was taken, tried and executed.”
“I am like to suffer then,” I said, laughing. “Do you recall the big
stone by the brook?”
“Heaven forbid,” said Willis. “But do not laugh, Captain. It is no small
matter when half the townsfolk are crazed, and the other half ready to
follow where the first lead. Surely you must have noticed how distraught
the people were as you came along.”
“Nay,” I answered, “I was thinking of other matters. But I remarked that
the few friends I passed in the road seemed not to know me. But what
does it signify?”
“Much,” proceeded Willis. “Much in very truth. No man’s life nor liberty
is safe now. It is a perilous time. Why, Salem gaol to-night holds two
score poor wretches, whose only fault is some one has said they are
witches.
“And more. The Governor has sent a special court with judges and
constables and soldiers to attend to the trials. They are fearsome
ordeals, too. It is ordained that if the accused one will confess that
he is a witch that one may go free, for, it is said, that being a witch,
by confession in the presence of a minister, the spirit of Satan is
abashed, and leaves the body. But many will not confess, maintaining,
even on the scaffold that they are innocent, and all such have been put
to death. So many have been executed that there is fear in many hearts.
“Some are tried by water. They are thrown into the mill pond, and if
they sink they are free from the accusation of witchcraft. Little good
it does the poor souls though, for they never live to know that they are
innocent. A true witch will float, ’tis said, and all such are killed.”
“Do you speak the truth?” I asked, for I could scarce believe what I
heard.
“As I live,” answered Willis. “It is a time for every man to look to
himself, especially if he has an enemy. Many of the witch trials, I
believe, are but vents for the enmity which cannot be satisfied in other
ways. A few of the accusers, however, seem in earnest, claiming that
their maladies and troubles are spells of their enemies, and the
afflicted ones call out the names in great agony.”
“Bah! Willis,” I said. “You are chicken-hearted from staying too much at
home.”
“Wait and see,” replied the inn keeper. Then he left me.
I did not want to go to bed yet; there was no sleep in me; so I resolved
to walk out to let some of my busy thoughts fly away, if they would. The
moon was up, a big round silver disk, larger than the head of a cider
barrel. It cast long shadows across the road and fields.
As I tramped on toward, I knew not where, nor cared, I found my steps
leading, unconsciously, to the home of the woman I loved.
I half turned back. No. I would go on. Not to see her. Not to clasp her
in my arms, as I had hoped to do. Never that again. I would but pass by
on the other side. It was to be my farewell.
There was a light burning in the house when I came up to it. I fancied I
could see through the window in the glare of the candle Lucille. Yes,
there she was. Like a thief in the night I crept nearer until I could
discern her face. Her head was resting on her hands; she seemed waiting
for some one. I prayed it might be me, yet she must wait in vain.
Nearer I went. She turned, and gazed out into the night, straight at me.
But I slipped into the shadow of an oak tree, that by no chance she
might see me. She was more beautiful than ever. Oh, why had she not told
me all that was in the past, before she let me love her.
The wind rustled through the trees, sighing like a lost soul, a most
mournful sound. I stretched up my hands to the sky; I reached them out
to the woman I loved. Both were beyond me.
Once more I looked at her. She had risen from her seat. She stooped over
the candle, so that the glare showed me her fair face, the ringlets of
her hair, the soft curve of her throat, all her loveliness.
“Lucille!” I cried, but the word was tossed back to me by the wind.
“Lucille!” I whispered, but a moonbeam stole her name away.
“Lucille!” She snuffed the candle, and it went out in a blur of
darkness, so that the night swallowed her up, and I was left alone.
Then with the bitter heart of a man who has no sweetness left in life I
came away.
As I took the road to the inn I thought that once or twice along the
path, half hidden by the trees, a form followed me. I stopped, and
looked intently at the black shadow.
An owl hooted mournfully, a frog croaked in a near-by pool, and a
cricket chirped pleasantly from the grass.
“’Twas the owl,” I said, and I passed on.
Again I heard a dry twig snap as if some heavy animal or a man had
stepped on it. This time, as I halted to looked about I heard not far
off the howl of a lone wolf.
“It was the wolf,” I muttered, “after a stray sheep,” and I walked on,
for the night was chill, and I was not warmly clad.
I had reached the inn, and hurried to my room. Then I looked from the
window, and I saw passing across the fields the figure of a man.
“Ho,” I whispered, “it was no wolf then.”
But I looked again and saw that the man was Sir George Keith.
“Aye, it was a wolf,” I said.