CHAPTER XVI.
He was not altogether disappointed. Rachel Dyer knew much of the woman who had fabricated the story of the spindle and sheet, and was only waiting for proof to impeach her for it, face to face, before the people and the judges. Her name was Hubbard; she was in the prime of life, with a good share of beauty; bold, crafty and sly, and very much feared by those who believed her story; and Rachel Dyer, though a woman of tried worth and remarkable courage, was unwilling to appear against her, till she could do so with a certainty of success, for it would be a fearful stake to play for, and she knew it—nothing less than life to life—her life against that of Judith Hubbard.
But though she knew this, having been very familiar with the aspect of peril from her youth, and being aware that she was looked up to with awe by the multitude—not so much with fear, as with a sort of religious awe—great love mingled with a secret, mysterious veneration, as the chief hope of her grandmother, Mary Dyer, the prophetess and the martyr—she determined to play for that stake.
She knew well what a wager of death was, and she knew well the worth of her own life. But she knew what was expected of her, and of what she was capable, in a period of general and sore perplexity and sorrow; for twice already in her short life she had approved her high relationship to the martyr, and the sincerity of her faith as one of that people, who, when they were smitten of one cheek, turned the other, and who, when they were reviled, reviled not again,—by going forth into the great woods of North-America, while they were beset with exasperated savages and with untamed creatures of blood, forever on the track of their prey, to intercede for those who had been carried off into captivity by the red heathen ... pursuing her fearful path by night and by day ... in winter and in summer ... and always alone ... to prove her faith; and prevailing in each case where there seemed to be no sort of hope, and thereby preserving to the colony eight of her precious youth; and among others, one who had despitefully used her a little time before, and whose grandfather was reputed to have been the real cause of her beloved grandmother’s death.
When Burroughs arrived at the door, and laid his hand upon the rude latch, he started, for the door flew open of itself; there was no lock on it, no fastening, neither bolt nor bar. He found the two sisters with a large book open before them, and Rachel reading to Elizabeth in a low voice, with her arm about her neck. How now? said he.
They gave him a hearty cheerful shake of the hand; but he observed, or thought he observed a slight change of colour in the face of Rachel, as he turned his eye to the book and saw a paragraph with her name in it.
You were reading, said he, as he drew up a chair to the table. Go on, if you please.
Thank thee, George; we had nearly finished....
What are you reading, pray?
We were just reading the beautiful story of ... why, Rachel Dyer ... if thee ain’t a goin’ to shet up the book afore we are half done with the chapter! said Elizabeth, jumping up with a look of surprise ... well, I do think!