AN HONORED GUEST
On the following morning, after the lord of the manor, his family, and
all his retainers had partaken of their rude but abundant breakfast,
and washed it down with copious draughts of ale, which at that time
took the place of coffee or tea, Sir Amory ordered the prisoner of
the preceding evening to be brought before him. The dining-tables,
which were merely boards laid on trestles, were cleared away, and the
great hall was made ready to serve as a court of justice. Witnesses
were summoned, and spectators gathered, until but few of the knight's
following were absent. Squires, pages, men-at-arms, grooms, foresters,
and under-servants, all filled with an eager curiosity, flocked to the
scene of trial; for the case in hand was of so serious a nature that
its resulting punishment would be certain to afford vast entertainment.
In those days the killing of a deer by any person beneath the rank of
a gentleman was a capital offence; while the killing of a hunting dog
by one of the peasant class ranked as a crime so abominable as to merit
the severest penalty. For either of these things the offender might be
hanged, whipped to death, or executed in any other fitting manner, at
the discretion of the judge. He might not be beheaded, as that form
of punishment was reserved for offences against the state, committed
by persons of rank. Neither might he be burned, since the stake was
only for witches and victims of religious persecution. If the lord of
the manor were inclined to be merciful, the deer-stealer or dog-killer
might be given his life, and escape with some such slight punishment
as having his ears cropped or a hand chopped off; but in the present
case it was universally agreed that the crime was of a nature to demand
the severest possible punishment. Thus, when the prisoner appeared,
he was regarded with eager curiosity as one who promised to furnish a
spectacle of uncommon interest.
Friendless, wounded, ragged, half starved, and utterly ignorant of the
situation confronting him, the son of Longfeather was led the whole
length of the great hall to the dais at its upper end, on which sat the
master of his fate. As he was halted, Sir Amory exclaimed,--
"On my soul, as scurvy a knave as ever I set eyes upon. I knew not that
even a gypsy could present so foul an aspect. What is thy name and
condition, sirrah?"
Not understanding what was said, Nahma made no answer. Only, recalling
the teaching of his own people, he stared his questioner full in the
face with a mien that, in spite of his sorry plight, was quite as
haughty as that of the knight himself.
"A contumacious varlet and insolent," remarked Sir Amory, "but it is
possible that we may find means to lower his pride. Let the ranger
named Jem stand forth and relate his tale of the occurrence concerning
which this investigation is made."
So Jem told his story, and it was corroborated by the other forester.
Also were the dead hounds introduced as evidence, together with the
dirk that Nahma had used so effectively.
"What hast thou to say in thy own behalf, scoundrel?" asked the knight,
turning again to the prisoner after all this testimony against him had
been submitted.
Still there was no answer, but only an unflinching gaze and a proudly
uplifted head.
"Think you the creature is dumb?" inquired the puzzled magistrate.
"No, Sir Amory," replied one of the foresters, "of a surety he is not,
for we heard him call loudly to the bear, and at sound of his voice the
beast made violent effort to break his chain that he might get to him."
"Chain?" quoth the knight. "This is the first mention I have heard of
any chain. What mean you? Was the bear indeed chained?"
"Chained and muzzled was he," admitted the ranger, "else it had gone
more hardly with the dogs than happened."
"Chained and muzzled," repeated the knight, reflectively, and
casting a searching gaze upon the prisoner. "Still, it may be only a
coincidence." With this he gave an order in a low tone to a page who
stood at hand, and the boy darted away.
"Saw you trace of other gypsies at or near that place?" asked the
knight, continuing his examination of the forester.
"No, Sir Amory. That is, we saw no humans, but there was a booth partly
built close at hand."
"What is the material of the prisoner's dress?"
"Deer-skin, Sir Amory, nothing less."
At this moment a tapestry was drawn aside, and a lady, appearing on the
dais, stood beside her husband with a look of inquiry. She was followed
by one bearing in her arms a child, at sight of which the prisoner was
surprised into a momentary start as of recognition.
"My dear," said Sir Amory, "will you favor us by glancing at yonder
gypsy and telling if ever you have set eyes on him before?"
The lady looked in the direction indicated, but shook her head. Ere she
could speak, however, the maid, who had followed her gaze, uttered a
cry, and exclaimed,--
"It is the very one, my lady. The youth, I mean, who danced with that
dreadful bear and saved the life of my little mistress."
"Yes," said the lady, slowly. "I did not recognize him on the moment;
but now me-thinks he is the same from whose hands I received my child,
safe and unharmed, though blood-bespattered. But, Amory, what is he
doing here? A prisoner and under guard! Surely----"
"It is all a mistake," cried the knight, rising to his feet in great
agitation. "He is not a prisoner, but an honored guest. Nor is he
under guard, but under the protection of one who owes to him a life
dearer than his own. Gentlemen, the hearing is dismissed; the prisoner
is honorably acquitted, and will hereafter be known as my friend, if
indeed he can forgive the cruel wrong I meditated against him. Away,
ye varlets. Bring food and wine. Fetch warm water and clean napery,
salve and liniments. Body o' me! The youth is wounded and hath had no
attention. He looks ready to drop with weakness. Draw a settle for him
beside the fire. Fetch----"
But the servants were already flying in every direction in their
efforts to minister to the evident needs of him whose position had
undergone so sudden a transformation.
At the same time Nahma himself was even more bewildered by the good
fortune that was overwhelming him than ever by the hard fate that had
for so long been his constant attendant.
Somewhat later the lady who, with her companions, had withdrawn, came
again to the hall, and stepping to where she could obtain a good view
of the youth, looked at him steadily for the space of a minute. He, in
the mean time, had been bathed and fed, his wounds had been dressed,
and he wore a body-gown from the knight's own wardrobe that gave him an
air of grace and dignity.
"He is no gypsy, Sir Amory," said the lady, finally, withdrawing her
gaze and turning to her husband.
"I myself am beginning to doubt if he belongs to those nomads," replied
the knight. "But if not a gypsy, to what race can he lay claim, with
that tinge of color and with hair of such raven blackness?"
"Dost remember the tale told us in London by my cousin Edward
concerning an arrival from the New World in whom he had taken an
interest?"
"Ay, well do I, and it so aroused my curiosity that I made an errand
shortly after to the place where he was said to be, but he had
disappeared. How was he called? Can you remember the name?"
"He was called 'Massasoit,'" replied the lady, uttering the word
distinctly and observing the youth as she spoke.
Turning quickly he looked at her with eager questioning.
"Who are your friends?" she asked, addressing him directly and speaking
the words slowly.
He understood and answered, "Bear frien'. Tasquanto frien'. White man
frien', Winslow."
"That proves it!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "He must be the
American Indian of whom Cousin Edward told us, and who is said to be a
prince in his own country. At any rate, as he certainly saved the life
of our child, we have ample reason to befriend him."
"Indeed, yes," agreed Sir Amory. "And to fail in a duty so plainly
indicated would lay us open to the charge of base ingratitude."
Thus it happened that the young American who had been kidnapped from
his own country, sold as a slave in London, and finally arrested on a
charge that threatened to cost him his life, became the honored guest
of a stately English home. His hosts sought in every way to promote
his comfort and happiness, and when they discovered that he preferred
living in the open to dwelling under a roof, he was promptly given
the freedom of their domain. He was also accorded full liberty to
dwell on it where he pleased, and to kill such of its abundant game as
would supply his needs. Armed with this permission, Nahma immediately
repaired to the place where he had already begun the building of a
lodge after the fashion of his own people, and completed it to his
satisfaction as well as that of his hosts, who took a lively interest
in his work. He covered it with bark and lined its interior with the
skins of fur-bearing animals. In the centre was his fireplace, and at
one side his couch of dry sedge-grass covered with the great shaggy
hide of his one-time friend, the bear. Here our Indian dwelt almost as
contentedly as though in his own land and under the trees of his native
forest.
Much of his time was devoted to accompanying Sir Amory on his hunting
expeditions, during which the youth's marvellous skill in tracking game
and his fearlessness in moments of peril won for him both admiration
and respect.
On days when there was no hunting he busied himself with making bows,
arrows, or snow-shoes, and in receiving visits from the green-coated
foresters, whose tastes and pursuits were so similar to his own. He
taught them some things, but learned more than he taught; and chiefest
of all the things that he learned was to load and fire a musket. Thus
was solved the mystery of the white man's thunder-stick, and he could
now smile as he recalled the melancholy experience of Tasquanto and
himself in attempting to fire a salute.
So some months were happily passed, and it seemed as though our young
American would spend the remainder of his life as an English forester.
Then all of a sudden there occurred an amazing thing, by which he was
rendered so unhappy that he no longer cared to live if the balance of
his days must be passed under existing conditions.