"We're a gonter tie ye up an give it to ye on the bare back."

"We'll give ye a dose o' yer own med'cin."

"I don' wanter hurt ye, sis, but ye muss git aout o' the way," said a burly fellow to Eliza, who, with her mother, had thrown herself between the mob and Justice Dwight, his undaunted aspect appearing to excite the special animosity of the rabble. The other three justices were huddled in the furthest corner.

"It's all right, men, it's all right. No need of any more words. Here's the paper," said Perez, authoritatively. A man caught it from his hand and gave it to another, saying,

"Here, Pete, ye kin read. Wot does it say?" Pete took the doc.u.ment in both hands, grasping it with unnecessary firmness, as if he depended in some degree on physical force to overcome the difficulties of decipherment, and proceeded slowly and with tremendous frowns to spell it out.

"We-promise-not-to-ak-under-our-c-o-m,-commishins-until-the- g-r-i-e-grievunces,"-

"Wot be them?" demanded one of the crowd.

"That means taxes, 'n loryers, 'n debts, 'n all that. I've hearn the word afore," exclaimed another. "G'long Pete."

"Grievunces," proceeded the reader, "of-wich-the-people-complain."

"That's so."

"That's dern good. In course we complains."

"Is that writ so, Pete?"

"G'long, Pete, that ere's good."

"Complains," began the reader again.

"Go back tew the beginnin Pete, I los' the hang on't."

"Yes, go back a leetle, Pete. It be mos'z long ez a sermon."

"Sh.e.l.l I begin tew the beginnin?"

"Yes, begin tew the beginnin agin, so's we'll all on us git the hang."

"We-promise-not-tew-ak-under-our-commishins,-until-the-g-r- grievunces-of-wich-the-people-complain,-are-r-e-d-r- redressed."

"Wot's redressed?"

"That's same ez 'bolished."

"Here be the names," pursued Pete.

"Charles Goodrich."

"He's the feller ez loss his hat."

"William Whiting."

"James Barker."

"Elijah Dwight."

"It's false," exclaimed Dwight, "my name's not there!"

But few, if any, heard or heeded his words, for at the moment Pete p.r.o.nounced the last name, Perez shouted:

"Now, men, we've done this job, let's go to the jail and let out the debtors, come on," and suiting action to word he rushed out, and was followed pell-mell by the yelling crowd, all their truculent enthusiasm instantly diverted into this new channel.

The four justices, and the wife and daughter of Dwight, alone remained in the room. Even the people who had been staring in, with their noses flattened against the window panes, had rushed away to the new point of interest. Dwight stood steadfastly looking at his daughter, with a stern and Rhadamanthine gaze, in which, nevertheless, grief and reproachful surprise, not less than indignation, were expressed. The girl shrinking behind her mother, seemed more in terror than when the mob had burst into the room.

"And so my daughter has disobeyed her father, has told him a lie, and has disgraced him," said the justice, slowly and calmly, but in tones that bore a crushing weight of reproof. "Add, sir, at least, that she has also saved his life," interposed one of the other justices.

"Oh, don't talk to me so, papa," cried the girl sobbing. "I didn't write your name, papa, I truly didn't."

"Do not add to your sin, by denials, my daughter. Did the fellow not read my name?" Dwight regarded her as he said this, as if he were somewhat disgusted at such persistent falsehood, and the others looked a little as if their sympathy with the girl had received a slight shock.

"But, papa, won't you believe me," sobbed the girl, clinging to her mother as not daring to approach him to whom she appealed. "I only wrote my own name."

"Your name, Eliza, but he read mine."

"Yes, but the pen was bad, you see, and my name looks so like yours, when it's writ carelessly, and the 'a' is a little quirked, and I wrote it carelessly, papa. Please forgive me. I didn't want to have you killed, and I quirked the 'a' a little."

The Rhadamanthine frown on Dwight's face yielded to a very composite expression, a look in which chagrin, tenderness, and a barely perceptible trace of amus.e.m.e.nt mingled. The girl instantly had her arms around his neck, and was crying violently on his shoulder, though she knew she was forgiven. He put his hand a moment gently on her head, and then unloosed her arms, saying, dryly,

"That will do, dear, go to your mother now. I shall see that you have better instruction in writing."

That was the only rebuke he ever gave her.

CHAPTER TENTH

GREAT GOINGS ON AT BARRINGTON CONTINUED

When Perez and the men who with him were in the act of advancing on the jail, were so suddenly recalled by the cry that the people were stoning the judges, Prudence had been left quite alone, sitting on Perez' horse in the middle of the street. She had no clear idea what all this crowd and commotion in the village was about, nor even what the Stockbridge men had come down for in such martial array. She only knew that Mrs. Hamlin's son, the captain with the sword, had said he would bring her to her father, and now that he had run off taking all the other men with him, she knew not what to do or which way to turn. To her, thus perched up on the big horse, confused and scared by the tumult, approached a tall, sallow, gaunt old woman, in a huge green sunbonnet, and a b.u.t.ternut gown of coa.r.s.est homespun. Her features were strongly marked, but their expression was not unkindly, though just now troubled and anxious.

"I guess I've seen yew tew meetin," she said to Prudence. "Ain't you Fennell's gal?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "I come daown to see father." Prudence, although she had profited by having lived at service in the Woodbridge family, where she heard good English spoken, had frequent lapses into the popular dialect.

"I'm Mis Poor. Zadkiel Poor's my husban'. He's in jail over thar long with yer dad. He's kinder ailin, an I fetched daown some roots 'n yarbs as uster dew him a sight o' good, w'en he was ter hum. I thort mebbe I mout git to see him. Him as keeps jail lets folks in sometimes, I hearn tell."

"Do you know where the jail is?" asked the girl.

"It's that ere haouse over thar. It's in with the tavern."

"Let's go and ask the jailer if he'll let us in," suggested Prudence.