The colonists, hearing his yells, and thinking that one of the dreaded attacks of the Indians was in progress, poured from the cabins, loading their muskets on the run.
“Wingfield has murdered Laydon!” cried Adam to the foremost runners. “He pitched him just there in the stream.”
Throwing aside their muskets, they waded in, and lifting Laydon from the shallow beach water bore him to the shore. While they were trying every means to restore life, President Smith came up and demanded the cause of the commotion. Adam, who had witnessed the whole affair, quickly put him in possession of the facts.
“Wingfield, you are a prisoner, and shall leave for England to-morrow on the returning ship. It is such as you who bring disgrace upon the colony,” said the President. “Let his example be a warning to you, men. As I deal with him, so will I deal with you.”
Kneeling beside Laydon, he put his ear against his breast.
“Take him up, men. He is alive. His heart is beating. Why, who is this?” he cried, gazing in astonishment upon the crouching form of Anne, speechless with horror at the scene she had witnessed. “Can it be possible that Anne Burras is mixed up in this disgrace? How will your honest mother and father feel when they hear of your conduct? Fetch Mrs. Forrest here, Martin.”
Panting with haste, the worthy lady answered the summons of Captain Smith. He told her briefly of the trouble.
“You good-for-nothing baggage! You hussy! Bread and water shall be your portion until I hear from your parents!” So saying, the irate lady caught hold of the girl, and dragged her off to the cabin. Arriving there, she locked the unhappy Anne in her room. “You will stay there, miss, for a week, and meditate on your folly.”
Throwing herself upon her bed, the miserable girl gave way to a passionate outburst of tears. Through the ensuing week her mistress came three times a day with food and drink. The harsh threat of bread and water was not carried out by Mrs. Forrest. After her anger wore off, pity for the misguided girl crept into her heart, and she began to make excuses to herself for Anne, and even defended her against the just indignation of Mr. Forrest.
“You know, Tom, ’tis all that villain’s fault,” argued Mrs. Forrest, with feminine consistency piling the entire blame upon Wingfield. “Anne is barely more than a child, no wonder her silly head was turned by the flattery of a fine gentleman. Her betters have fallen into that trap more than once before. And you know, Tom,” she continued, as she heaped his breakfast plate with broiled fish, fresh from the glowing coals, “we were young ourselves not so many years ago, so don’t be so hard upon the lassie,” and the girlish light of courtship’s days beamed again in her eyes as she drew back his head and touched his cheek with soft kisses.