“God was awakening the churches by marvellous signs,” said one, extending a lank, cold hand to salute Eli Kirke.

“Have we not wrestled mightily for signs and wonders?” demanded another with jaw of steel.  And one description of the generation seeking signs was all but off the tip of my tongue.

“Some aver there be no witches—­so fearfully hath error gone abroad,” lamented young Mather, keen to be heard then, as he always was.  “Brethren, toleration would make a kingdom of chaos, a Sodom, a Gomorrah, a Babylon!”

Faith, it needed no horoscope to forecast that young divine’s dark future!

I stood it as long as I could, with palms itching to knock their solemn heads together like so many bowling balls; but when one cadaverous-faced fellow, whose sanctity had gone bilious from lack of sunshine, whined out against “the saucy miss,” meaning thereby Mistress Hortense, and another prayed Heaven through his nose that his daughter might “lie in her grave ere she minced her steps with such dissoluteness of hair and unseemly broideries and bright colours, showing the lightness of her mind,” and a third averred that “a cucking-stool would teach a maid to walk more shamefacedly,” I whirled upon them in a fury that had disinherited me from Eli Kirke’s graces ere I spake ten words.

“Sirs,” said I, “your slatternly wenches may be dead ere they match Mistress Hortense!  As for wearing light colours, the devil himself is painted black.  Let them who are doing shameful acts to the innocent walk shamefacedly!  For shame, sirs, to cloak malice and jealousy of M. Picot under religion!  New England will remember this blot against you and curse you for it!  An you listen to Deliverance Dobbins’s lies, what hinders any lying wench sending good men to the scaffold?”

At first they listened agape, but now the hot blood rushed to their faces.

“Hold thy tongue, lad!” roared Eli Kirke.  Then, as if to atone for that violence:  “The Lord rebuke thee,” he added solemnly.

And I flung from the house dumb with impotent rage.

My thoughts were as the snatched sleep of a sick man’s dreams.  Again the hideous nightmare of the old martyr at the shambles; but now the shambles were in the New World and the martyr was M. Picot.  Something cold touched my hand through the dark, and there crouched M. Picot’s hound, whining for its master.  Automatically I followed across the commons to the court-house square.  It stopped at the prison gate, sniffing and whining and begging in.  Poor dog!  What could I do?  I tried to coax it away, but it lay at the wall like a stone.