“Speak on, friend,” said Goodman Allen, as the men drew back to give him space.
“I, too, was a friend of that French father who dwelt in the wood,” he pursued. “He led me to the Christian faith and taught me to walk in upright ways. I and my comrades, we loved him dearly, we loved Monsieur Simon too for the help that he gave. And we love also that garden of his, the spot where we worshipped together and said our last farewell. Our little father is dead now, dead in his own happy France and we know that he sleeps the quieter for knowing of that last mass we said together.”
A slight noise of the door’s opening and closing caused no interruption. Samuel Skerry had stolen out into the dark, but he went unheeded, so intent were the men upon what the Indian had to say.
“Of late,” the tale continued, “a secret word has come from the settlements in Canada, a message that has been passed on from tribe to tribe. The French love not the English and have been stirring up the Indians to strike at the New England settlers, to destroy their towns where they can, and to cut off the outlying farms. You have heard of such deeds all about you: you knew that they were ordered by the French but do you know why you have been spared? It was because we who loved Monsieur Simon would not listen to evil counsel, because that garden of his has become, for us, a sacred spot, because when danger threatened, we ringed you round and held you safe. The English Puritans are great and powerful, but it is well for them, nevertheless, to have the wandering Jesuits and the humble red men for their friends.”
In awed silence the men of Hopewell had heard him to the end. Then arose suddenly a tumult of voices, not the outcry of fear and anger such as had been heard half an hour before, but a thunder of joyful admiration and cries of:
“God bless our Master Simon and his garden!”
A lane opened in the crowd through which Master Simon passed, leaning upon the Indian’s arm. In little groups, by twos and threes, the village men and their children followed, talking excitedly as they went. Margeret lingered to cover the fire and snuff the candles, while Roger Bardwell, to no one’s surprise, waited also. Goodman Allen, leading his little boy by the hand, was the last to go. He turned at the door.
“You two have weighty matters of which to talk,” he said with his honest, kindly smile. “So trouble not, Mistress Margeret, I will see that your father comes safe to his home. You, and this youth who has so much to say to you, need not to hasten as you walk through the lane!”
CHAPTER VII
GOODY PARSONS ON GUARD