“Hast thou visited it thyself?”

“Once, on a hunting expedition, did I wander thus far, and partake of the hospitality of the Pequot Chief, who, in return, was prevailed upon to visit my poor quarters.”

“I wonder what induces the noble savage to linger so long about Massachusetts Bay, after having made his visit to you, and confess to some apprehensions on his account.”

“Have no fear on that score,” said the Knight, cheerfully.  “Sassacus is prudent as well as brave, and, as you saw on the night when he was attacked by the Taranteens, has some of his men with him; besides, the Aberginians are at peace with his tribe.”

“It is only the ingenious malice of the Assistant Spikeman that I dread.”

“Be assured, also, on that head.  He will not venture into Boston during our absence, and will so carefully keep out of the way as to allow no opportunity for violence.”

How mistaken was the Knight, is already known; but the most consummate tact and profoundest wisdom are not able to guard against every possible emergency.

With conversations of this kind did the two companions beguile the way, on their journey homeward, which occupied somewhat less time than it took to reach the Indian village.  It was early in the morning—­that is to say, the sun had just risen—­when they stood on the edge of the clearing within which stood the Knight’s habitation.  Here they were met by an Indian, who, to Sir Christopher’s inquiry if all was well, answered, sententiously, “All well.”  On arriving at the house, they found the soldier, Philip, who manifested his joy at seeing them again in a manner contrasting somewhat with that of the phlegmatic native.

After the demonstrations of welcome, Philip said, “I know not, Sir Christopher, whether you have not got away from one danger, only to fall into another.  According to my thinking, a man of any spirit may better trust himself with the salvages, whom I find nice, reasonable people enough, who will not interfere with him if he will let them alone, than with the meddlesome, crop-eared knaves down on the Bay.”

“Remember in whose presence you are speaking, Philip,” said the Knight, “and that it becomes not me to hear those whose ambassador I am, evil spoken of.”

“I crave pardon,” said Philip; “but, if all tales be true, they deserve no such forbearance.  It was out of no friendship, they sent you to be murdered by them Taranteens, nor will they fire a culverin at your return.”

“Out with thy news, at once,” cried the impatient Arundel, “nor stand there hanging fire, like a musket when the priming is wet.  What hast to tell?”

“Ill news, Master Arundel, folk say can travel a mile, while good is putting on his boots; but you seem not to be contented with its haste.  Nay,” added Philip, noticing that the Knight began to show impatience, “an’ you will have it.  It is little less than treason, I fear, they are charging against Sir Christopher.  It is a kind of Guy-Fawks plot they are accusing him of hatching—­that is to say, that he means to make himself king of both colonies.”