"Prepare to strike a spark," he whispered. "But let no smoke arise if you would escape hanging. The troop shall carry away with them a tale to make these crystal mountains feared for ever."

"What plan is this?" said Geoffrey irritably. "We stand upon the most exposed spot of these mountains, and do you propose to light a fire so that all who are concerned may know where we may be found?"

"Control that voice and temper," whispered Von Donck. "Every sound carries over yon ravine. Come, sit near me, and watch as pretty a piece of art-magic as brain of man ever devised. Show not yourself above the great face, or we are undone, and drop no spark into that fire if you love your life."

Geoffrey crawled along the side of the face and lay flat beside the Dutchman's knee. The latter proceeded:

"The Indians have great fear of these mountains. I promise you yonder Frenchmen are driving their guide at the point of the sword, and feeling none too secure themselves at entering the devil's country. A man who fights a good sword shall sweat when a bird screams o' night.

So soon as they show themselves the old man of the mountains shall lift up his voice, and you shall find, boy, that his tongue is mightier than our swords."

When Von Donck had spoken a breath of wind swept the exposed ridge. As it pa.s.sed a faint groan arose from the rock, and pa.s.sed, leaving them staring at each other fearfully.

"It was but the wind," Geoffrey muttered.

"San Nicolas!" stammered the Dutchman. "This comes of playing with the powers of darkness. 'Twas the groan of a lost spirit."

"Stay!" whispered Geoffrey. "I thought that the sound proceeded from yonder stone."

His comrade regarded the round ma.s.s which had been indicated with starting eyes, but when he saw nothing supernatural, crawled near and examined it nervously, asking:

"Think you some spirit is imprisoned within?"

"See this hole?" exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing to a small aperture visible at the base. "'Tis what they call a blow-stone, if I mistake not. Here the wind enters and so makes the noise that we heard."

"Soft," said Von Donck, vastly relieved. "Soft, or you spoil my plan."

Setting his lips to the hole, Geoffrey sent his breath into the womb of the rock. A subdued murmur beat upon the air and settled the matter beyond dispute. Von Donck rocked himself to and fro, chafing his legs with his podgy hands, scarlet with excitement.

"A hundred thousand devils, but they shall run," he chuckled. "I had purposed to use my own voice, but this is better far."

The sound of other voices came in a murmur across the ravine.

"To the fire," whispered the Dutchman. "Nurse the flame, and let it not burst forth until I give the word."

He scrambled up the side of the rock and looked over the giant's nose.

The opposite cliffs were bathed in moonlight, and the watcher saw two men standing above the cataract.

"Now, boy," he muttered deeply. "Let the fire burn, and when the flames dart up choke them with the moss."

Geoffrey complied with the mysterious command; but as he pressed the moss down and a cloud of smoke ascended, a mighty bellowing shook the air, and he started round to behold Von Donck lying flat along the rock, his grotesque face and bulging cheeks pressed against the blow-stone, his body heaving like a gigantic bellows as he pumped his breath into the hole.

"More fire," came a choking whisper. "A strong flame, then smoke as before."

The flames darted up and whipped the moonbeams, the smoke followed, and again the bellowing shocked the night. Then Von Donck scrambled up, and his triumphant voice came down:

"They run! They run!"

The trackers were fleeing wildly from the crystal hills. Had they not seen fire and smoke belched up from the mouth of that terrible face of granite, and heard the giant's awful roars of anger? Headlong they went, mad with terror, leaving their ponies in the bush.

"Here is a brave victory," snorted Von Donck; and he gave vent to his delight by turning a caracole upon the forehead of the giant.

"Now for New Netherlands and Hudson's River!" he chanted, drawing at an imaginary cable as he danced along the great stone face. "'Tis scarce a hundred miles down to the sea. We have but to keep clear of Indians, and all shall be well. Yonder are ponies for us to ride, and, I doubt not, bags of provisions hanging to the saddles. We may laugh at pursuit, boy. The French shall not dare to return. Take now my hands and let me see you make a holiday caper. Higher! San Nicolas, the boy shall make a dancing-master. Ha, Pieter von Donck! Pieter von Donck!

'Tis as cunning an old rogue as ever wore shoe-leather!"

CHAPTER XXV.

NOVA ANGLIA.

Good fortune and fair weather smiled upon the two travellers during the remainder of their journey, and not another notable adventure befell them before they rode from the forest during the fall of day, and saw the fenced fields of the Lincolnshire farmers stretching before them down the Atlantic slope. Melancholy stumps of trees dotted the prospect as far as the eye could travel; beyond, the thatched or wooden roofs of small houses glowed in the strong light; and from the far distance came the inspiring wash of the sea.

Von Donck reined in his pony and fell from the saddle. "Dost now feel at home?" he cried.

Somewhat sadly Geoffrey shook his head. He was indeed grievously disappointed to find New England so different from the old. He had hoped to see neat hedgerows, compact farms, and sloping meadows, such as he might have looked on in his native county of Berks. He had hoped to see a wain creaking over the fields, to hear the crack of a whip and the carter's cheery song. He saw nothing but poverty, small beginnings, and the signs of a hard struggle for existence. Some men were working in the distance. He could see the quick flash of their axes and hear the solemn blows as steel bit the wood. Between dreary lines of fencing, jagged stubs, patches of corn, showing yellow here and there, springing from every cultivated foot of ground; beyond, some acres of burnt ground, and those cold wooden houses with their enormous chimneys, so altogether unlike the warm brickwork of Old England homes.

"This is not Virginia?" he asked.

"Virginia lies five hundred miles to the south, very far beyond Hudson's River," replied Von Donck. "'Tis a fairer province than this, and better settled, because older. Be not downcast, boy. Here thought is free, and here a man may reap the full reward of his labours. You shall find no tax, nor persecution, nor kingly oppression in this land.

Here the people rule for the people; and here you may worship G.o.d after your own inclining, and dwell in peace all the days of your life."

"It is a barren land," protested Viner.

"What would you look for in the new world? That island of yours was once a land of forest and swamp. The first man was put into the garden to till it. Labour shall conquer here as elsewhere. Mark you the richness of the soil and the purity of the air. Here you shall fear no pestilence, and if your hands be not afraid to work you shall raise two crops of corn in one season. Gold and silver there are none; but he who owns an ox and has no corn may exchange with him who has corn but wants for meat. In our settlement we use strings of wampum for currency. A sh.e.l.l from the beach becomes gold when it shall buy a man that which he lacks."

The comrades drew back into the forest and waited for evening, because Geoffrey would not advance alone, and Von Donck dared not risk his life among the Puritans, who were at war with the people of New Netherlands.

They partook of their last meal together, and when the shadow of night grew heavy upon the fields, Pieter rose and shook himself.

"We have now come to the parting of our ways," he muttered. "You are among your people. We will together cross yonder fields, and then you shall wish me G.o.d-speed. The town of Boston lies upon your right hand.

I shall beat inland at the base of Connecticut, until I reach the bank of Hudson's River, and there I am upon my own territory where no man shall lead me. I shall ride beside the river until I come to the little city of the Manhattoes, where William Kieft rules. San Nicolas!

How old Will the Testy shall stare and blow at his pipe when he sees Pieter von Donck on the steps of his bowerie!"

They set out upon the last stage along a trail between the whispering corn. Von Donck had grown suddenly silent. He plucked at the panther skin, snorting occasionally, and casting side glances at his companion, who rode close to his side, intent upon the prospect of low houses and broken bush. When Geoffrey at length leaned over with a warning to point out the figure of a man, who was proceeding down a side path with a dog at his heels, the old Dutchman replied by touching the shoulder nearest him and saying:

"Dost feel the smart of that wound yet?"

"It is nothing," Geoffrey answered. "See you not that man advancing?"

"The marks shall remain," went on Pieter solemnly. "The scar will be there to remind you of a good friend in New Amsterdam. My lad, I shall seek to hear of you. Each time I look on this skin I shall breathe a wish for the happiness of the boy who saved my life in the crystal hills. When you come to make your home in Virginia, send to Pieter von Donck at the hostel by San Nicolas, and if he be alive, and not grown too fat to walk, he will come out to meet you. Will not forget the old rogue who tricked the French?"

Geoffrey put out his hand and grasped the podgy fingers. "May I meet a traitor's end if I forget my friend," he answered. "Had it not been for you my dry body would now be swinging in the wind of the mountains.

I wish you well, Pieter; I shall ever wish you well. Now ride! You would not have me fight for you against my own people."

"There is no English blood in him," snorted Von Donck. "A Dutchman, I say, a Dutchman to the ends of his hair."

The dog was bounding towards the travellers, and the farmer put up his hand and hailed them.