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The magistrates were assembled, next day, in the rude town-hall.
William Blaxton, the hermit of Shawmut, had crossed
the craggy eminence which rose between his still sequestered
retreat and the lowly village of Boston, in order to hold an interview,
at their request, with the government of the colony.
His connection with the Gorges patent had ever been rather
nominal and accidental than real, and since the arrival of the
new settlers, and the summary measures which had been taken in
regard to Morton, Walford, Gardiner in New England, and
Oldham at home, he had dismissed from his thoughts the subject
concerning which he had been used occasionally to hear
discussions from the mouths of Gardiner and Morton. He had
certainly never much interested himself in the merits of the rival
claimants to the dominion of Massachusetts. He considered
himself as a pilgrim in a wilderness, a hermit in a desert, and
he had a whimsical but profound contempt for every species of
human authority. He had allowed himself to be whirled by an
eddy entirely aside from the rushing current of human affairs,
and he had long since devoted his existence to solitude and
nature. Had he foreseen that the band of emigrants who, in
small companies and at different intervals, had been arriving
during the last two or three years, were so soon to lay the foundation
of a permanent empire, and so soon to scare the spirit of
sylvan solitude from the lovely peninsula where he had established
his home, it is probable that he might have attempted
some means of counteracting their plans by any fair and amicable

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arrangement that was possible. He considered himself the
sole proprietor of Shawmut, or, as it was now called, Boston, by
right of occupation. He was the first Englishman who had ever
slept upon the peninsula, and he had dwelt there in undisturbed
dominion during five or six years. His gentle nature, however,
having been touched by the sufferings of the colonists at
Charlestown, he had voluntarily gone over to the governor and
expressly invited them to his peninsula, assuring them of the
sufficiency at least of fair water-springs, which were so much
wanting at Mishawum. Although the governor of the colony
considered that the dominion and property of the soil of Shawmut
belonged unquestionably to themselves, yet the just and
magnanimous mind of Winthrop could not brook the thought of
any injustice towards the hermit, although the question of summarily
ousting him from his adverse possession was fiercely
contended for by the more intolerant of the brethren. The
town had been, however, commenced, and the lots were soon to
be apportioned; but it was determined by the governor that an
ample portion of the territory should be assigned to Blaxton,
which, in a worldly point of view, now that a permanent settlement
had been made, would be of more value than the whole
peninsula, had it remained a wilderness. It was not probable,
however, that considerations like these would have any great
weight with the whimsical hermit. He already feared that his
dearly loved solitude was lost to him forever, should he remain
at Shawmut; but he shrank at present from the thought of
relinquishing a spot where he had dwelt so long.

It was for the purpose of conferring with the magistrates upon
matters of this kind, that he had made his appearance in the
town-hall that morning. The conference had been long and desultory,
for the character of Blaxton was singularly uncongenial
to that of the majority of the magistrates, and they had found
not a little difficulty in understanding each other.

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“It is therefore understood,” said Winthrop, with whom the
hermit seemed to feel the most sympathy, “it is understood that
fifty acres be set apart for your own use, Master Blaxton, including
the tract more particularly occupied by your domicile.”

“Acres, acres,” muttered Blaxton, dreamily, “the thought of
admeasurements, and fences, and allotments, confoundeth me.
I had forgotten that men carved up and subdivided in petty portions
the green and beautiful earth. I have sojourned so long in
the boundless wilderness, where my territory was wide as the
continent as unfettered as my thoughts, that I am become a
child, and can hardly understand the ways of men.”

“But we mean nothing but brotherly dealing,” said Winthrop,
“fair dealing and strict justice.”

“I never dreamed,” said Blaxton, in a pathetic tone, “that
my boundless territory would be contracted. I looked to have
dwelt with my orchards, and my books, and my young fawn, and
my bull, in undisturbed and harmless solitude. This new world,
they tell me, is very wide. Was there not room enough for ye
all? Could ye not leave the hermit in his corner?”

“Your fifty acre lot,” said Winthrop, practically but kindly,
“will soon be of more account and value than twenty wilderness
promontories like this —”

“What tell ye me of value?” interrupted the hermit, pettishly.
“I tell ye I am like a child in affairs of this world. I
have dwelt so long in the wilderness, that the voices of many
men sound strangely to me. I love my kind I believe, and would
serve them if I could, but look you, I cannot live with them.
My soul lacks air, and cannot brook confinement. I am a
peaceable man, and have never injured living thing, and yet my
spirit rebels at all law, and cannot bear the dictates of any
power but those of the Most High.”

“Laws, my reverend friend,” remonstrated Winthrop, “are
surely necessary to the preservation of society. Shall wolves

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and lambs, lions and kids, dwell together, and yet the fiercer
animals not be restrained?”

“I cannot abide with ye, I fear,” said Blaxton, following, as
was his wont, his own train of thought, and heeding little the
words which were addressed to him; “I cannot obey the laws of
man's making. 'T is for this I left my fathers' graves, and buried
myself in the desert. I am not of your religion neither.”

“We shall soon bring thee round,” interrupted Dudley, peremptorily;
“we will have no spies in the company, no recusants,
no blasphemers of our church. We have not come hither to find
surplices and copes in the wilderness, nor to hear the massbook
chanted in the forest.”

“Gently, brother Dudley,” interposed Winthrop, “our reverend,
learned, and contemplative friend hath acted towards us
in a most friendly and Christian spirit; let us have no contentions
upon religious matters yet.”

“Men are law-makers and tyrants by nature,” continued the
hermit, “even as tigers are carnivorous. When the lion dandleth
the kid, shall I hope to repose calmly in the lap of civil
authority. No, my masters,” said he, facing the magistrates in
an attitude of simple dignity, and slightly elevating his voice,
“no, my masters, I came from England because I could not obey
the Lord bishops; but I fear I cannot dwell with you, for I
can never obey the Lord brethren.”

Dudley frowned as the eccentric solitary made this last observation,
and was upon the point of uttering some harsh rejoinder,
when the door opened, and the sergeant announced that the
prisoner, whose presence their worships had desired, was now
in attendance.

“Let her be brought before the court,” said Winthrop; and
a female was accordingly introduced, wearing a thick veil, and
wrapped in a dark mantle, which quite concealed her form.
Thus attired, she stood in front of the magistrates' table.

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In the mean time a number of colonists, directed thither
partly by curiosity, partly by other motives, had found their
way into the hall. Among the rest were Maudsley and the
Ludlows, who gazed upon the proceedings with great earnestness.

“The prisoner will declare her name,” said the imperious
voice of Dudley.

An indistinct murmur was heard, which failed to reach the
ears of the magistrates.

“The prisoner will remove her veil,” said Dudley.

The order was complied with, and the woman throwing
aside her veil, revealed a face of extraordinary loveliness.

It was a strange, almost a patriarchal scene. That rude
apartment thronged with its earnest, darkly-habited spectators,
the stern, but expressive heads of the magistrates, and in the
midst of all, and gazed upon with breathless curiosity by all, the
shrinking figure of that young, beautiful, desolate woman.

Blaxton, who had been upon the point of retiring, as soon as
his conference with the magistrates was concluded, had been
accidentally detained for a few moments within the hall. As
the prisoner lifted up her veil, his wandering eyes happened to
be turned in that direction. As her countenance met his view
he was observed to turn pale as ashes. Incapable for the
moment of speech or motion, he stood for a brief interval transfixed
and horror-struck, as if a thunderbolt had suddenly
descended from heaven. At last he aroused himself, and feeling
that a solution of many mysteries which had perplexed him, was
near at hand, be glided close to the prisoner, and gazed long
and wistfully upon her.

“Art thou not Magdalen Groves, of Boirdly?” said he at last.

“I am,” said the woman, gently but firmly, answering the
gaze of Blaxton with an earnest and imploring look.

“They told me thou wert dead,” said the solitary.

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“Thou wert deceived, basely, treacherously deceived,” answered
Magdalen, in a low and trembling voice.

“And hadst thou part and lot in the deceit?” asked the
hermit.

There was no reply. The woman sighed heavily, but was
silent.

“I am answered,” said the hermit, “the mystery is solved.
And so without saying a single word further, he took his staff
and went forth to his hermitage again.

The examination of the prisoner now proceeded. A variety
of interrogatories were addressed to her, but her answers were
brief and unsatisfactory. She knew nothing, she said, of the
present retreat of Gardiner, and trembled violently at every
question concerning him or his plans. All that could be elicited
from her in answer to their various queries, was, that she
believed the knight to be a Catholic, and that she had understood
him to be descended from the family of Stephen Gardiner,
the celebrated Bishop of Winchester. Touching Sir Ferdinando
Gorges, she knew nothing, and she had nothing to communicate
concerning the intrigues of Thomas Morton, with
whom she acknowledged some slight acquaintance.

The possession of the papers which had been so recently
delivered to the magistrates, and which had been found in Gardiner's
house, seemed to throw so much light upon the whole
history of the Gorges plot, that it seemed to them unnecessary
to pursue the examination of the prisoner further. Her conduct
was so close and impenetrable, and she really seemed to know
so little concerning the designs and the whereabouts of the
knight, that it seemed necessary to defer all further hope of
entirely unravelling the business, until the apprehension of Sir
Christopher Gardiner, as we must continue to call him, who was
not yet taken, and who was supposed to have fled to the savages.

“The prisoner may be removed,” said the governor.

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“Let her be kept in prison, and watched strictly,” said
Dudley, “till her paramour be taken. Remove her at once,
Sergeant Underwood.”

“Perhaps,” said the governor, wishing to deal in more gentle
fashion with the prisoner, “there may be some virtuous and
well-disposed Christian matron who may be willing to take upon
herself the custody and the care of the prisoner, till such time
as the court may again require her presence.”

There were a number of females present, among whom were
observed the two respectable matrons who had not long previously
been exhibited with their heads in a cage. All, however,
more especially that worthy pair, tossed their chins in the
air, and manifested a superfluous quantity of indignation at the
contamination thus suggested.

The sergeant was approaching to lead the unfortunate prisoner
away, when Esther advancing from the corner where she
had been watching the whole proceeding with tearful eyes, said
modestly to the governor,—

“If the magistrates permit, I will readily offer the shelter of
my roof to our unfortunate sister. My brother and myself will
deal kindly with her, and will be responsible for her appearance
when the court desire it.”

Magdalen Groves, who had stood like a statue of ice during
the latter part of this scene, chilled to the heart by the freezing
looks which met her upon every side, at hearing these few
words of womanly and Christian sympathy, trembled violently
from head to foot, and would have fallen, had not Esther received
her in her arms. For a few moments the unfortunate and
deserted woman seemed overcome by silent but convulsive
emotions.

After a time, however, she recovered her composure by a
strong and energetic effort, and then, supported by Esther, she
silently withdrew from the hall.

p285-470

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