Suddenly her gaze became fixed as she caught the flash of spears and saw mounted soldiers emerge from the forest and come rapidly down the winding road from the opposite hill. Some dim instinct of self-preservation struggled through the stupor which enveloped her. She raised her arm and pointed to the forest. So strange, so silent, seeming guided by a mysterious power, was that gesture, that a tremor as at something supernatural passed through the people.
They saw the minister speak excitedly to the hangman, whose jaw dropped in amazement. Soon was distinctly heard the trampling of horses. A moment later four soldiers, riding two abreast, swept up the hill with cries of:—
“Way, make way, good people, in the King’s name!”
Following these came his Excellency the new Governor, Sir William Phipps. He sat severely erect on his richly caparisoned horse, attended by two more soldiers. Reaching the scaffold he reined in his horse and waited. A yet more astonishing thing than the unlooked-for arrival of the Governor was about to occur.
There next appeared, a goodly distance behind, a sedan-chair carried by four Moors. The occupant of the chair was a man of great size, whose left leg was bandaged and rested on a pillow. Despite the cool morning the sweat was rolling off his face, and he groaned. But dusty, warm, and in pain as he seemed, he had a most comely countenance. The silken chestnut curls fell on his shoulders, whilst his high and haughty nose bespoke power in just proportion to the benevolence of his broad brow. As the slaves bore him along very slowly, for they were much exhausted, Sir Jonathan Jamieson, making his way through the crowd to join a group of the gentry, crossed the path directly in front of the sedan-chair. Here he paused, lingering a moment, to get a glimpse of the Governor, not turning his head to perceive what was behind him.
As he thus paused, the stranger was observed to half rise and draw his sword. But suddenly his face changed colour, his sword arm fell, and he sank back on his pillows, his hand clutching his side. Those near by heard him murmur, “As Thou hast forgiven me, even me.” But the rest of the way to the scaffold not once did he raise his head nor remove his hand from his side.
Sir Jonathan passed serenely, swinging his blackthorn stick, all unwitting how nigh death he had been in that short moment.
Next there came riding a-horseback, Master Ronald Wentworth, the brother of the condemned maid.
His student’s cap was set on the back of his head, his dark locks falling on either side of his white face, his small-clothes and riding boots a-colour with the mud.
But doubtless the most astonishing sight of all to the amazed people was a small, mud-bespattered maiden, attired in sad-coloured linsey-woolsey, seated on a pillion behind the Fellow of Harvard, her chin elevated in the air, her accustomed meekness gone.