"We are Englishmen," Geoffrey called back.

"Now, by the sack of San Nicolas, out upon you," shouted Von Donck. "I am no Englishman. I am a Hollander, fellow, Hollander from head to heel."

"Ride!" exclaimed Geoffrey, smiting his comrade's mount. "G.o.d be with you, Pieter."

"And you, boy."

Von Donck lashed his pony and the nimble animal bounded off to the west, while Geoffrey dismounted, and, holding the savage dog at bay with his sword, advanced to meet the owner of the land.

"Do not fear, friend," he said, as they drew together. "I am no spy, but an Englishman from the north. He who rides yonder is a friendly Dutchman who has accompanied me upon the way. I pray you tell me is my Lord Baltimore within the town?"

The settler, a tall man in a quaker hat and black cloak, which fell from his neck almost to the ground, regarded the speaker with cold, unfavouring eyes.

"You know little of this country, young sir, if you believe that Lord Baltimore governs here," he replied at length. "You stand within the province of Ma.s.sachusetts beside the town of Boston, and the lord you seek rules over the province of Maryland and that country to the west of the bay of Chesapeake."

Geoffrey's heart sank at this chill reception, and he lowered his eyes despondently before the stern gaze of the Puritan as he answered:

"I come to pray for a ship and men to be sent against the French, who hold the north. He who sent me, charging me to deliver this ring in his name to Lord Baltimore, believes that his countrymen and mine will not fail to help us in the time of need."

"Put not your trust in Ma.s.sachusetts," said the listener dourly. "We have much ado to defend ourselves against the Mohicans and the pinch of famine. We know not ourselves where to turn for aid, and your cry is ours also. You have reached the valley of dry bones, young stranger."

"The dry bones stood up in an exceeding great army," returned Geoffrey boldly.

"Even so. If it be G.o.d's will, we also shall stand up. What is the name of him who sent you?"

"Sir Thomas Iden."

"Of county Kent?"

"The same."

"I have heard of that family as most loyal to the Crown. Arms, a chevron between three close helmets, if my memory mistake not. I also am from the south, driven out, like many a better man, by the hand of persecution. Come now! I will lead you to the house of John Winthrop, our governor."

The town of Boston was then a mere village of distressful huts crowded within a great palisade; the single street, which led to a quay of closely-packed logs covered by stones with earth atop, was rough ground over which the tyreless wheels of primitive carts jolted woefully. The candle-light from a few windows shed a dreary gleam across the way, where men closely m.u.f.fled drifted along with a stern "Good-e'en."

There was neither laughter nor tavern-singing nor play-acting in that cheerless town, no throwing of dice nor rattle of cups. The Puritan mind was dominant; and the only sound of music that disturbed the unhappy silence was the lugubrious droning of a psalm or sad-toned hymn.

A lamp flickered near the entry, and beside the watchman, who kept the light burning at the gate, stretched a board; and upon the board appeared in short black letters the notice:--

"No person within this province, professing to believe in Jesus Christ, shall be in any ways troubled, molested, or discountenanced for his or her religion, or in the free exercise thereof."

"See!" said the guide, without a smile. "Here we have liberty!"

At the entrance to a low house near the end of the street they stopped, and the guide knocked. After a long interval a shutter was pushed back and a voice demanded to know who it was that knocked.

"A stranger from the north to see the governor," said the guide.

The voice grumbled and lessened gradually, still grumbling, until it sounded more loudly and the door opened. An old man stood on the threshold, a lighted candle in his hand, the thick grease running upon his fingers. He looked from one to the other, and cried in a shrill voice: "The governor is with his reverence. The stranger must wait."

"I am content to wait," said Geoffrey.

Hearing a sound, he looked back, and saw the man who had brought him so far already receding in the gloom of the street. The porter bade him enter, and when he had done so provided him with a seat, and there left him for a good hour, at the end of which time he reappeared in darkness and said shortly: "Come!"

The room into which Geoffrey was ushered contained all the marks of extreme poverty. The light came from one great log glowing in the big fireplace, for the night was chill with the breath of the sea and a sharp north wind. Two figures occupied this comfortless room, one on either side of the fire, the older man attired in the simple gown and bands of a minister of religion; the other, dark, with luminous eyes and white forehead, leaned forward, the long fingers of his right hand trifling with his wig. Both were well-known in their generation. The layman was John Winthrop; the minister Roger Williams.

"You are welcome to Boston, sir," said Winthrop, without rising, but merely lifting his head in the firelight to scan the face of the visitor. "Come you to our town by chance?"

"I come from the far north to seek aid," said Geoffrey, with a boyish pride which caused Williams to frown.

"_Terra incognita_ indeed," he murmured. "A cold land where Popery is rampant. How great is the distance, and how came you thence?"

Geoffrey told his story and delivered his message. The two men watched him intently, Winthrop always playing with his wig, Williams leaning out with hands clasped over a ma.s.sive Bible held upon his knee. When Geoffrey had finished his tale, there was a moment of silence, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then the Puritans looked across the hearth and smiled.

"The poor man is the helper of the poor," murmured Williams.

John Winthrop laughed bitterly.

"When a poor man begs of me he has my all, and that I give to our poor brethren in the north. They have my prayers. Young man," he went on, rising and confronting the messenger, "you have n.o.bly performed a n.o.ble duty; but in coming to us you confront poverty indeed. Here night and day we struggle for existence. I myself have gone to rest, knowing not how to face the morrow. We have our wives and little ones to feed and protect, and these are our first charge. Daily the cry goes out to us: 'We want.' Nightly we dread to hear the shout of 'Mohican invasion.'

We fight, not for fame nor for honour among nations, but for a foothold upon this continent, where we are striving to plant a home for the free, to the glory of G.o.d, and the shame of England who has cast us out. Young man, you have done your duty."

"And your help shall come from Heaven," murmured the divine deeply.

"I shall proceed to Lord Baltimore. To him I was sent," said Geoffrey.

"Go to him if you will, but the answer you shall there receive will be that you have heard already," said Winthrop. "Virginia is in sore straits, being unable to convey her tobacco crop to the Old World, since there are no English ships to cross the seas."

"Nevertheless I shall go," said Geoffrey.

John Winthrop bowed his head. "You shall sleep under my roof this night and accept what poor hospitality I have to offer. My friend and servant shall minister to your needs."

He made a slight movement of his hand to signify that the interview was ended, and the messenger retired, sorely depressed at the manner of his reception. The old man who had opened the door gave him food and drink, asking no question and imparting no information; but continually droning through his nose a hymn, or muttering in gloomy tones some sad portion of the Scriptures. He was one of the most zealous of Winthrop's company, all of whom were Nonconformists, but not separatists. Indeed, they esteemed it an honour to call themselves members of the English Church, and openly admitted that they had emigrated in order that they might be divided from her corruptions, but not from herself. For all his devotion, the old servant was not a cheerful companion for a man who was already cast down in mind, and Geoffrey was glad to be rid of him and alone in a cold, bare room, which was as sad in all its details as the men who occupied the town.

It was long before sleep came to the traveller. He had become so accustomed to the open air that the atmosphere of his room stifled him.

When at last he succeeded in finding unconsciousness the boom of the sea shook the house and occupied his brain.

Morning came, and with it a heavy tramp of feet. A rough hand struck the door, and the sleeper awakened with a start, to behold at his side three men, cloaked and stern, the foremost holding a sc.r.a.p of paper, to which was affixed a red official seal.

"Sir stranger, surrender yourself," he said.

"What means this?" exclaimed Geoffrey. "I am an Englishman in a colony of the English."

"The charge against you is that of treason," replied the stern Puritan.

"Treason!" repeated the young man; and rose dumbfounded.

"It is suspected that you are a spy, in the employ of our enemies the Dutch."