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Columbian
Historical
Novels
_By JOHN R. MUSICK_
_With Reading Courses_
Being a Complete History of the United States from the Time
of Columbus to the Present Day
ONE HUNDRED PHOTOGRAVURES, HALF-TONE PLATES, MAPS OF THE
PERIODS AND NUMEROUS PEN-AND-INK DRAWINGS, BY F. A. CARTER
THE R. H. WHITTEN COMPANY _New York_ _Los Angeles_
Copyright, 1906, by FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
COLUMBIAN HISTORICAL NOVELS VOLUME VII
THE WITCH OF SALEM _or_ _Credulity Run Mad_
by
JOHN R MUSICK
_Illustrations by_ FREELAND A. CARTER
THE R. H. WHITTEN COMPANY _New York_ _Los Angeles_
Copyright, 1893, by the FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
[_Registered at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng._]
[Illustration]
_Printed in the United States_
PREFACE.
It is a difficult task to go back to ages by-gone, to divest ourselves
of what we know and are and form a clear conception of generations that
have been, of their experiences, objects, modes of life, thought and
expression. It is a task better suited to the novelist than the
historian, and even the former treads on dangerous ground in attempting
it. One of the prime objects of the Columbian Historical Novels is to
give the reader as clear an idea as possible of the common people, as
well as of the rulers of the age. The author has endeavored at the risk
of criticism to clothe the speeches of his characters in the dialect and
idioms peculiar to the age in which they lived. In the former volumes,
sentences most criticised are those taken literally as spoken or written
at the time. Though it would seem that a few critics grow more severe
the nearer an author approaches the truth, yet the greater number of
thinking men and women who review these books are students themselves,
and the author who adheres to the language of a by-gone age has nothing
to fear from them.
The "Witch of Salem" is designed to cover twenty years in the history of
the United States, or from the year 1680 to 1700, including all the
principal features of this period. Charles Stevens of Salem, with Cora
Waters, the daughter of an indented slave, whose father was captured at
the time of the overthrow of the Duke of Monmouth, are the principal
characters. Samuel Parris, the chief actor in the Salem tragedy, is a
serious study, and has been painted, after a careful research, according
to the conception formed of him. No greater villain ever lived in any
age. He had scarce a redeeming feature. His religion was hypocrisy,
superstition, revenge and bigotry. His ambition led him to deeds of
atrocity unsurpassed. Having drawn the information on which this story
is founded from what seem the most reliable sources, and woven the story
in a way which it is hoped will be pleasing and instructive, we send
this volume forth to speak for itself.
JOHN R. MUSICK.
Kirksville, Mo., Oct. 1st, 1892.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN WITH THE BOOK, 1
CHAPTER II.
PENNSYLVANIA, 23
CHAPTER III.
THE INDENTED SLAVE, 43
CHAPTER IV.
MR. PARRIS AND FLOCK, 65
CHAPTER V.
A NIGHT WITH WITCHES, 81
CHAPTER VI.
THE CHARTER OAK, 101
CHAPTER VII.
TWO MEN WHO LOOK ALIKE, 116
CHAPTER VIII.
MOVING ONWARD, 134
CHAPTER IX.
CHARLES AND CORA, 152
CHAPTER X.
CHARLES AND MR. PARRIS, 172
CHAPTER XI.
ADELPHA LEISLER, 191
CHAPTER XII.
LEISLER'S FATE, 216
CHAPTER XIII.
CREDULITY RUN MAD, 234
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FATE OF GOODY NURSE, 256
CHAPTER XV.
"YOUR MOTHER A WITCH!" 276
CHAPTER XVI.
ESCAPE AND FLIGHT, 290
CHAPTER XVII.
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE, 306
CHAPTER XVIII.
SUPERSTITION REIGNS, 327
CHAPTER XIX.
THE WOMAN IN BLACK, 346
CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION, 364
HISTORICAL INDEX, 383
CHRONOLOGY, 391
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
William Penn making his treaty of peace and friendship
with the Indians (See page 32), _Frontispiece_
"Take it away!" 1
"Cannot rise! Prythee, what ails you, friend?" 11
Seizing a firebrand, he searched for the print of the
cloven foot, 21
William Penn, 27
"We all rose in the air on broomsticks," 95
Charles Stevens, at one sweep, snuffed out every
candle on the table, 108
The Charter Oak, 113
The sturdy wife assailed him with her mop-stick and
drove him away, 147
"Then you may both go down--down to the infernal
regions together!" 189
"Which of the twain shall it be?" 213
Eight men, bearing litters, were at the door. All were
dripping with water, 233
At every stroke he repeated, "I do this in the name of
the Lord," 239
"Its motions were quicker than those of my axe," 250
The sheriff brought the witch up the broad aisle, her
chains clanking as she stepped, 274
The jail trembled to its very centre, 301
Nought was to be seen, save massacre and pillage on
every side, 310
The resolute father continued to fire as he retreated, 320
Lieut.-Gov. Stoughton, 330
George Waters cut two stout sticks for crutches, 353
"Charles Stevens, do you seek death?" 371
Cotton Mather, 380
Witches' Hill, 382
Map of the period, 306
THE WITCH OF SALEM.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN WITH THE BOOK.
Through shades and solitudes profound,
The fainting traveler wends his way;
Bewildering meteors glare around,
And tempt his wandering feet astray.
--Montgomery.
[Illustration: "Take it away!"]
The autumnal evening was cool, dark and gusty. Storm-clouds were
gathering thickly overhead, and the ground beneath was covered with
rustling leaves, which, blighted by the early frosts, lay helpless and
dead at the roadside, or were made the sport of the wind. A solitary
horseman was slowly plodding along the road but a few miles from the
village of Salem. In truth he was so near to the famous Puritan
village, that, through the hills and intervening tree-tops, he could
have seen the spires of the churches had he raised his melancholy eyes
from the ground. The rider was not a youth, nor had he reached middle
age. His face was handsome, though distorted with agony. Occasionally he
pressed his hand to his side as if in pain; but maugre pain, weariness,
or anguish, he pressed on, admonished by the lengthening shadows of the
approach of night. Turning his great, sad, brown eyes at last to where
the road wound about the valley across which the distant spires of Salem
could be seen, he sighed:
"Can I reach it to-night? I must!"
Salem, that strange village to which the horseman was wending his way,
in October, 1684, was a different village from the Salem of to-day. It
is a town familiar to every American student, and, having derived its
fame more from its historic recollections than from its commerce or
industries, its name carries us back two centuries, suggesting the faint
and transient image of the life of the Pilgrim Fathers, who gave that
sacred name to the place of their chosen habitation. Whatever changes
civilization or time may bring about, the features of natural scenery
are, for the most part, unalterable. Massachusetts Bay is as it was when
the Pilgrim Fathers first beheld it. On land, there are still the
craggy hills, with jutting promontories of granite, where the barberries
grow, and room is found in the narrow valleys for small farms, and for
apple trees, and little slopes of grass, and patches of tillage where
all else looks barren.
The scenery is not more picturesque to-day, than on that chill autumnal
eve, when the strange horseman was urging his jaded steed along the path
which led to the village. His garments were travel-stained and his
features haggard.
Three hunters with guns on their shoulders were not half a mile in
advance of the horseman. They, too, evidently had passed a day of
arduous toil; for climbing New England hills in search of the wild deer
was no easy task.
They were men who had hardly reached middle age; but their grave
Puritanic demeanor made them look older than they were. Their
conversation was grave, gloomy and mysterious. There was little light or
frivolous about them, for to them life was sombre. The hunt was not
sport, but arduous toil, and their legs were so weary they could
scarcely drag themselves along.
"Now we may rejoice, John Bly, that home is within sight, for truly I am
tired, and I think I could not go much farther," one of the pedestrians
remarked to the man at his side.
"Right glad will I be when we are near!" answered the fatigued John
Bly. "This has been a hard day with fruitless result."
"We have had some fair shots to-day," put in a third man, who walked a
little behind the others.
"Verily, we have; yet what profits it to us, Samuel Gray, when our guns
fail to carry the ball to the place? I had as many fair shots to-day as
would bring down a dozen bucks, and yet I missed every time. You know
full well I am not one to miss."
"You are not, John Louder."
Then the three men looked mysteriously at each other. They were all
believers in supernatural agencies, and the fact that such a faultless
marksman should miss was enough to establish in their minds a belief
that other than natural causes were at work. There could be no other
reason given that John Louder should miss his mark, than that his gun
was "bewitched." It was an age when the last dying throes of
superstition seemed fastening on the people's minds, and the spasmodic
struggle threatened to upset their reason. The New Englander's mind was
prepared for mysteries as the fallow ground is prepared for the seed. He
was busied conquering the rugged earth and making it yield to his
husbandry. His time was divided between arduous toil for bread and
fighting the Indians. He was hemmed in by a gloomy old forest, the
magnitude of which he did not dream, and it was only natural, with his
fertile imagination, narrow perceptions and limited knowledge, that he
would see strange sights and hear strange sounds. Images and visions
which have been portrayed in tales of romance and given interest to the
pages of poetry were made by him to throng the woods, flit through the
air and hover over the heads of terrified officials, whose learning
should have placed them beyond the bounds of superstition. The ghosts of
murdered wives, husbands and children played their part with a vividness
of representation and artistic skill of expression hardly surpassed in
scenic representation on the stage. The superstition of the Middle Ages
was embodied in real action, with all its extravagant absurdities and
monstrosities. This, carried into the courts of law, where the relations
of society and conduct or feelings of individuals were suffered to be
under control of fanciful or mystical notions, could have but one
effect. When a whole people abandoned the solid ground of common sense,
overleaped the boundaries of human knowledge, gave itself up to wild
reveries, and let loose its passions without restraint, the result was
more destructive to society than a Vesuvius to Pompeii. When John Louder
said his gun was bewitched, there was no incredulous smile on his
companions' faces.
The political complexion of New England at that time no doubt had much
to do with the superstitious awe which overspread that country. Within
the recollection of many inhabitants, the parent government had changed
three times. Charles II. had lived such a life of furious dissipation,
that his earthly career was drawing to a close.
The New England people were zealous theologians, and Massachusetts and
Plymouth hated above all sects the Roman Catholics. Charles II. could
not reign long, and James, Duke of York, his brother, would be his
successor, as it was generally known that Charles II. had no legitimate
heir. It was hoped by some that his illegitimate son, the Duke of
Monmouth, a Protestant, might succeed him. Some had even hinted that
Charles II., while flying from Cromwell, had secretly married Lucy
Waters, the mother of the duke; but this has never been proved in
history.
The somewhat ostentatious manner in which the Duke of York had been
accustomed to go to mass, during the life of his brother, was the chief
cause of the general dislike in which he was held. Even Charles, giddy
and careless as he was in general, saw the imprudence of James' conduct,
and significantly told him on one occasion that _he_ had no desire to go
upon his travels again, whatever James might wish. When it became
currently reported all over the American colonies that this bigoted
Catholic would, on the death of his brother, become their ruler, the New
Englanders began to tremble for their religion. There was murmuring from
every village and plantation, keeping society in a constant ferment.
The three hunters were still discussing their ill luck when the sound of
horse's hoofs fell on their ears, and they turned slowly about to see a
stranger approaching them on horseback. His sad, gray eye had something
wild and supernatural about it. His costume had at one time been
elegant, but was now stained with dust and travel. It included a wrought
flowing neckcloth, a sash covered with a silver-laced red cloth coat, a
satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, a trooping scarf and a silver
hat-band. His trousers, which were met above the knees by a pair of
riding boots, like the remainder of his attire, was covered with dust.
The expression of pain on his face was misconstrued by the superstitious
hunters into a look of fiendish triumph, and John Louder, seizing the
arm of Bly, whispered:
"It is he!"
"Perhaps----"
"I know it, Bly, for he hath followed me all day."
"Then wherefore not give him the ball, which he hath guarded from the
deer?"
"It would be of no avail, John. A witch cannot be killed with lead. He
would throw the ball in my face and laugh at me."
The three walked hastily along, casting wary and uneasy glances behind
as the horseman drew nearer. Each trembled lest the horseman should
speak, and once or twice he seemed as if he would; but pain, or some
other cause unknown to the hunters, prevented his doing so. He rode
swiftly by, disappearing over the hill in the direction of Salem.
When he was out of sight the three hunters paused, and, falling on their
knees, each uttered a short prayer for deliverance from Satan. As they
rose, John Louder said:
"Now I know full well, good men, that he is the wizard who hath tampered
with my gun."
"Who is he?"
"Ah! well may you ask, Samuel Gray, who he is; a stranger, the black
man, the devil, who hath assumed this form to mislead and torment us.
One can only wonder at the various cunning of Satan," and Louder sighed.
"Truly you speak, friend John," Bly answered. "The enemy of men's souls
is constantly on the lookout for the unwary."
"I have met him and wrestled with him, until I was almost overcome; but,
having on the whole armor of God, I did cry out 'Get thee behind me,
Satan!' and, behold, I could smell the sulphur of hell, as the gates
were opened to admit the prince of darkness."
The shades of night were creeping over the earth, and the three weary
hunters were not yet within sight of their homes, when the horseman who
had so strangely excited their fears drew rein at a spring not a fourth
of a mile from the village of Salem and allowed his horse to drink. He
pressed his hand to his side, as if suffering intolerable anguish, and
murmured:
"Will I find shelter there?"
Overcome by suffering, he at last slipped from his saddle and, sitting
among the rustling leaves heedless of the lowering clouds and threatened
storm, buried his face in his hands. Two hours had certainly elapsed
since he first came in sight of Salem, and yet so slow had been his
pace, that he had not reached the village; but on the earth, threatened
with a raging tempest, he breathed in feeble accents a prayer to God for
strength to perform the great and holy task on which he was bent. He was
sick and feeble. In his side was a wound that might prove fatal, and to
this he occasionally pressed his hand as if in pain.
He who heareth the poor when they cry unto Him, answered the prayer of
the desolate. A farmer boy came along whistling merrily despite the
approaching night and storm. Not the chilling blasts of October, the
dread of darkness, nor the cold world could depress the spirits of
Charles Stevens, the merry lad of Salem. In fact, he was so merry that,
by the straight-laced Puritans, he was thought ungodly. He had a
predisposition to whistling and singing, and was of "a light and
frivolous carriage." He laughed at the sanctity of some people, and was
known to smile even on the Lord's Day. When, in the exuberance of his
spirits, his feet kept time to his whistling, the good Salemites were
horrified by the ungodly dance.
Charles Stevens, however, had a better heart, and was a truer Christian
than many of those sanctimonious critics, who sought to restrain the joy
and gladness with which God filled his soul. It was this good Samaritan
who came upon the suffering stranger whom the three Puritans had
condemned in their own minds as an emissary of the devil.
"Why do you sit here, sir?" Charles asked, leaving off his whistle.
"Night is coming on, and it is growing so chill and cold, you must keep
moving, or surely you will perish."
"I cannot rise," was the answer.
"Cannot rise! prythee, what ails you, friend?"
"I am sick, sore and wounded."
"Wounded!" cried Charles, "and sick, too!"
[Illustration: "Cannot rise! Prythee, what ails you, friend?"]
His sharp young eyes were enabled to penetrate the deepening shades of
twilight, and he saw a ghastly pallor overspreading the man's face, who,
pressing his hand upon his side, gave vent to gasps of keen agony. His
left side was stained with blood.
"You are wounded!" Charles Stevens at last declared. "Pray, how came it
about?"
"I was fired upon by an unseen foe, for what cause I know not, as, being
a stranger in these parts, I have had no quarrel."
"Come, let me help you to rise."
"No, it is useless. I am tired and too faint to go further. Let me lie
here. I will soon be dead, and all this agony will be over."
At this, the cheerful mind of Charles Stevens asserted itself by
inspiring hope in the heart of the fainting stranger.
"No, no, my friend, never give up. Don't say die, so long as you live.
It is but a few rods further to the home where I live with my mother. I
can help you walk so far, and there you can get rested and warmed, and
mother will dress your wound."
"Can I go?" the traveller asked.
"Men can do wonders when they try."
"Then I will try."
"I will help you."
The boy threw his strong arm around the man and raised him to his feet;
but his limbs no longer obeyed his will, and he sank again upon the
ground.
"It is of no avail, my good boy. I cannot go. Leave me to die."
Charles turned his eyes about to look for the stranger's horse; but it
had strayed off in the darkness. To search for him would be useless, and
for a moment the good Samaritan stood as if in thought; then, stripping
off his coat and wrapping it around the wounded man, he said hopefully:
"I will be back soon, don't move," and he hurried away swiftly toward
home. On reaching the threshold, he thanked God that he was not a
wanderer on such a night.
The New England kitchen, with its pewter-filled dresser, reflecting and
multiplying the genial blaze of the log-heaped fire-place, its
high-backed, rush-bottomed chairs, grating as they were moved over the
neatly sanded floor, its massive beam running midway of the ceiling
across the room, and its many doors, leading to other rooms and attics,
was a picture of comfort two hundred years ago. The widowed mother, with
her honest, beautiful face surrounded by a neat, dark cap border, met
her son as he entered the kitchen and, glancing at him proudly, said:
"The wind gives you good color, Charles."
"Yes, mother," rubbing his cheeks, "they do burn some;--mother."
"Well?"
"I heard you tell Mr. Bly, the other day, that you could trust me with
all you had. Will you trust me with old Moll and the cart to-night?"
"What do you want with Moll and the cart?"
"To go to the big spring under the hill for a poor man who is sick and
wounded."
"And alone?"
"Yes, mother."
"It is a freezing night."
"Yes, mother, and he may die. He is unable to walk. Remember the story
of the good Samaritan."
After a long pause, the widow said, "Yes, you may have old Moll and the
cart. Bring him here, and we will care for him; but remember that
to-morrow's work must be done."
"If you have any fault to find to-morrow night, don't trust me again!"
and the boy, turning to the cupboard beneath the dressers, buttered a
generous slice of bread, then left the room with a small pitcher, and
returned with it brimming full of cider, his mother closely noting all,
while she busied herself making things to rights in her culinary
department. Charles next went out and harnessed the mare to the cart,
then returned to the kitchen for his bread and cider.
"Why not eat that before you go?" queried the mother.
"I am not hungry, I have had some supper, you know. Good night, mother.
I will be back soon; so have the bed ready for the wounded stranger."
"God bless you, my brave boy," the mother exclaimed, as he went out and
sprang into the cart. She now knew that he had taken the bread and cider
for the sick man, under the hill.
Charles hurried old Moll to a faster gait than she was accustomed to go,
and found the stranger where he had left him. Leaping from the cart, he
said:
"I am back, sir! You said you were faint. Here's some of our cider, and
if you will sit up and drink it and eat this bread, you will feel
better, and here is old Moll and the cart ready to take you home where
you will receive good Christian treatment until you are well enough to
go on your way rejoicing."
So he went on, bobbing now here and now there and talking as fast as he
could, so as not to hear the poor man's outpourings of gratitude, as he
ate and drank and was refreshed. With some difficulty, he got the
stranger into the cart, where, supported by the boy's strong arm, he
rode in almost total silence through the increasing darkness to the home
of the widow Stevens. He was taken from the cart and was soon reclining
upon a bed.
His wound, though painful, was not dangerous and began to heal almost
immediately. Surgery was in its infancy in America, and on the frontier
of the American colonies, every one was his own surgeon.
The widow dressed the wound herself, and the stranger recovered rapidly.
Charles next day found a horse straying in the forest with a saddle and
holsters, and, knowing it to be the steed of the wounded stranger, he
brought it home.
As the wounded man recovered he became more silent and melancholy. He
had not even spoken his name and seldom uttered a word unless addressed.
One night this mysterious stranger disappeared from the widow's cottage.
He might have been thought ungrateful had he not left behind five golden
guineas, which, the note left behind said, were in part to remunerate
the good people who had watched over and cared for him so kindly.
Charles Stevens and his mother were much puzzled at this mysterious
stranger, and often when alone they commented on his conduct.
Their home was outside the village of Salem, and for days they did not
have a visitor; but two or three of their neighbors had seen the
stranger while at their house, yet they told no one about him. His
mysterious disappearance was kept a secret by mother and son. Little did
they dream that in after years they would suffer untold sorrow for
playing the part of good Samaritans.
John Louder and his friends had almost forgotten their day of hard luck
in the woods. Their more recent hunts had proven successful, for the
witches had temporarily left off tampering with their guns. The stranger
whom they had met on that evening was quite forgotten.
A fortnight after the stranger disappeared, John Louder was wandering in
the forest, his gun on his shoulder. The sun had just dipped below the
western hills and trees, and he was approaching a small lake at which
the deer came to drink.
It was a dense forest through which he was pressing his way. In places
it was so dense he was compelled to part the underbrush with his hands.
Centuries of summer suns had warmed the tops of the same noble oaks and
pines, sending their heat even to the roots. Though the early frosts of
October had stricken many a leaf from its parent stem, enough still
remained to obscure the vision at a rod's distance.
Night was approaching, and John Louder, brave as he was to natural
danger, had a strange dread of shadows and the unreal.
He pressed his way through the wood, until a spot almost clear of timber
was in sight. This little area, which afforded a good view of the sky,
although it was pretty well filled with dead trees, lay between two of
those high hills or low mountains into which the whole surface of the
adjacent country was broken.
Dashing aside the bushes and brambles of the swamp, the forester burst
into the area with an exclamation of delight.
"One can breathe here! There is the lake to which the deer come to
drink. Now, if Satan send not a witch to lead my bullets astray,
perchance I may have a venison ere an hour has passed."
He gathered some dry sticks of wood and, with his flint and steel,
quickly kindled a fire.
His fire was to keep off the mosquitoes, which were tormenting in that
locality. The fire did not alarm the deer, for they had seen the woods
burn so often that they would go quite close to a blaze.
Hardly had he lighted his fire, when he was startled by the tramp of
feet near, and a moment later a horseman rode out of the woods and drew
rein before him.
Louder was surprised, but by no means alarmed. A man in the forest was
by no means uncommon, yet he felt a little curious to know why he was
there. He reasoned that probably the fellow had lost his way, and had
been attracted by his camp fire; but the stranger's question dispelled
that delusion.
"Are you John Louder?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You live at Salem?"
"I do."
"Are you a Protestant?"
"I am."
"You do not believe in the transubstantiation of the body and blood of
Christ into the bread and wine of the Sacrament?"
John Louder, who was a true Puritan and a hater of the Papists, quickly
responded:
"I do not hold to any such theology."
"Nor do you believe in the infallibility of the pope?"
"I believe no such doctrine."
"Then there can be no doubt that you are a true Protestant."
"I am," Louder answered with no small degree of pride.
"So much the better."
The stranger dismounted from his horse and slipped his left hand through
the rein, allowing the tired beast to graze, while with his right hand
he began searching in his pockets for something.
"Would you have a Catholic king?" he asked while searching his pockets.
"No."
"You prefer a Protestant."
"I do."
"I knew it," and he continued, "King Charles is nearing his end. But a
few months more must see the last of this monarch, and then we will
have another. The great question which appeals to the heart of every
Englishman to-day is, shall it be a Protestant or a Catholic?"
"A Protestant!" cried John Louder, in his bigoted enthusiasm.
"Then, John Louder, it behooves the English people to speak their minds
at once, lest they have fastened upon them a monarch who will wrench
from them their religious liberties."
Louder was wondering what the man could mean when the stranger suddenly
took from his pocket a book. It was a book with a red back, as could be
seen from the fire-light. The stranger drew from another pocket a pen
and an ink horn and, in a voice which was solemn and impressive, said:
"Sign!"
John Louder was astonished at the request, or command, whichever it
might be, and mechanically stretched out his hand to take the book. At
this moment the camp-fire suddenly flamed up, and he afterward averred
that the face of the stranger was suddenly changed to that of a devil,
and from his burning orbs there issued blue jets of flame, while the
whole air was permeated with sulphur. With a yell of horror, he started
back, crying:
"Take it away! take away your book! I will not sign! I will not sign!"
"Sign it, and I promise you a Protestant king."
"Away! begone! The whole armor of God be between me and you."
[Illustration: Seizing a firebrand, he searched for the print of a
cloven hoof.]
Quaking with superstitious dread, Louder sank down upon the ground and
buried his face in his hands. For several minutes he remained thus
trembling with fear, and when he finally recovered sufficiently to raise
his eyes, the stranger was gone.
He and his horse had vanished, and John Louder, seizing a firebrand,
searched the ground for the print of a cloven foot. He found it and,
snatching up his rifle, ran home as rapidly as he could. It was late
that night when he reached his house and, rapping on the door, called:
"Good-wife! Good-wife, awake and let me in!"
"John Louder, wherefore came you so early, when I thought you had gone
to stalk the deer and would not come before morning?"
"I have seen him!"
"Whom have you seen?"
"The man with the book."
This announcement produced great consternation in the mind of good-wife
Louder. To have seen the man with the book was an evil omen, and to sign
this book was the loss of one's eternal soul.
"Did you sign it, John?" she asked.
"No."
"God be praised!"