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 massive 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 nobly performed a noble 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 God, 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.