erect and scowling, his face turned toward the sounds of strife, and his strong fingers gripping his gun.
"Anne—wife—where art thou?" he cried, as the din increased, and more shots were fired.
"Here." And she quietly entered the room, her face pale, but perfectly calm. "The noise hath awakened the little boys, but I have left Shubar with them, and promised to return shortly."
"Where is Joane?" her husband asked quickly.
"With Shubar and the boys."
"Good; for then there be one gun near, to assure the little ones."
He had been nervously fingering the hammer of his own piece, and while speaking he crossed the room and took a position near that side of the house from whence came the sound of firearms.
Anne remained by the hearth, watching him closely, her tightly clenched hands being all that told of the agitation within.
"Are the little ones much affrighted?" he asked.
"No," she said, still in her calm, sweet fashion; "they do not seem to be—that is, not much. Humphrey begged that he might have a gun, and Robert sat quiet, looking at me with eyes so like your own as he asked, 'Art fearful, mother? Father will ne'er let them hurt us.'"
John Devereux smiled proudly, for the moment forgetting the din about them.
"And John," he asked—"what said our second son?"
"He seemeth most affrighted of all," she replied. "He wept at first, and hid his face in my gown; but he was calm when I came away. Thou knowest, John, that the lad hath not been well since the fever, last fall."
"Aye, true—poor little Jack!" the father said. And he now wondered what might have happened outside, for there was a ceasing of the uproar.
He listened intently a moment. "Methinks, sweetheart, I'd best go outside and see what this silence doth mean. Thou'lt not be fearful if I leave the house awhile?"
She grew still paler, but only shook her head. Then she asked suddenly, "Where be Parson Legg?"
Husband and wife looked about the room, and then at one another.
"He was here when the firing began," said John, finding it difficult not to smile as he recalled the scene.
"But wherever can he have gone?" persisted Anne.
"Hiding somewhere, I warrant me," was her husband's reply. "He is an arrant—"
His words were drowned by the roar of a blunderbuss, coming apparently from just over their heads, and this was followed a moment later by a wild yell of triumph from outside.
It was from John's men, and he started to open the door. But before he could do this there arose such a clamor in the nursery above that he and Anne, forgetful of all else, sped up the stairway.
Old Shubar's voice came to them raised in shrill cries, echoed by those of the boys—only that Humphrey and Robert seemed to speak more from indignation than fright.
Wondering what it could all mean, they hurried into the room, where an absurd sight met their alarmed eyes.
In one corner, beside Humphrey's pallet, stood Shubar, still uttering the wild shrieks they had heard, and huddling about her were the three boys—John clinging to her gown, while Humphrey and Robert, both facing about, were shouting at a strange figure that burrowed frantically into the pallet occupying the opposite corner of the chamber.
"Shubar says 't is a witch," cried Robert. "Take thy gun and slay her before she bring evil upon us."
"Be quiet, my son," said his father, scarcely able to repress his laughter, for at the sound of his voice Parson Legg's weazened face, all blanched by fear, was lifted from out the pillows, and a pair of terror-stricken eyes peered over his shoulder.
He had been lying face downward, partially covered by the bedclothes, under which he was still trying to conceal himself; and his steeple-crowned hat, now a shapeless wreck, was pulled down over his ears, as if to shut out more effectually the sounds of strife that had well-nigh bereft him of reason.
"It would seem thou canst preach far better, Parson Legg, than defend thyself from the enemy," John Devereux said rather grimly, looking down with unconcealed contempt upon the little coward, while Anne busied herself in reassuring the children and quieting Shubar's angry mutterings.
"Even so, neighbor John, even so," answered the Parson, in no wise disconcerted at the sarcasm of the other's words and tone, and making no movement to emerge from his retreat. "As I told thee below, I am a man o' peace, an' I like not the sound o' war an' the sight o' bloodshed. But what doth this silence portend?—are the enemy routed—are they vanquished, an' put down, smitten hip an' thigh, an' put to flight by thy brave followers?"
His anxious queries met with no reply, for John Devereux, who was standing upon the threshold of the room, had become conscious of a sharp current of air blowing upon his cheek. It told him that the scuttle was open overhead, and turning about, he darted swiftly up the ladder.
He was soon upon the roof, and here he stood a few moments and looked keenly about.
The voices of his men came to him from the ground below. They had left their concealment, and the lightness of their tones told him that all danger was past.
As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, the dim starlight revealed to him the outlines of a form crouching behind the great chimney not far away.
"Joane!" he called softly, suspecting who it might be.
She arose and came to him, and he heard her laughing to herself.
"What camest thou up here for?" he demanded, speaking quite sharply.
"Joane shoot pirate captain," she answered, still laughing. "Heap scare 'em—no know where shot come from—all run away to ship."
And so it proved. The marauders, having received a very different reception from the one they had expected, were utterly discomfited when an unseen enemy—in the person of Joane and her blunderbuss—scattered a mighty charge of slugs and bullets in their midst. Their leader was struck in the arm, and fearing they had fallen into an ambuscade from which it would be difficult to escape, he shouted to his men that he was wounded, and bade them fly to the ship.
This was the last of the raids that had so annoyed the colonists, and thenceforth they were free from such molestation.
John Devereux's days passed on, full of peace and pleasantness, until he died at a ripe old age, respected and loved by all his fellow-townsmen, and mourned deeply by the faithful wife who did not long survive him.
The boys lived to man's estate, were married, and had children of their own. But Humphrey and John died in their father's lifetime; and so it was that Robert, the second son, became the heir.
CHAPTER I
