Low as was the tone, the words struck the ear of Spikeman.
"Whatever be my sins," he said, "even though dark as those of David, I have been zealous unto slaying for the people of God. Is the enemy taken?" he inquired.
"Whom mean you?" asked Winthrop.
"Whom should I mean, but the man ye call the Knight of the Golden Melice?"
"He is not yet taken," answered the Governor.
"Let him be hunted, as a partridge on the mountains; let him be run down and seized; kill him, if he resists."
"This is no fitting frame of mind for a parting spirit," said Mr. Eliot. "Let me beseech you to turn your thoughts on the Saviour."
But delirium had now taken possession of the mind of the dying man, and made him insensible alike of all that was said and of pain.
"Away with him!" he cried, "who lays snares for the feet of my people. Hew him down, though he hugged the arms of the altar."
"Shall we not, beloved brother, unite our supplications to the throne of grace, for the last time on earth?" asked Mr. Eliot, bending over him.