CHAPTER XIV

A MIGHTY RESOLUTION

THE sun had dropped behind Fort Hill, and long shadows darkened the soft sand of the street, when Miles at last ventured into the settlement. All the hot day he had lain hidden by the pool and watched the shreds of cloud skim across the deep sky and harked to the shrilling of the locusts, while he tried not to think, yet all the time was conscious of the awful thing that had happened, in which he had had a hand.

Disjointedly, from time to time, he had planned how he would act a part, would feign to be quite ignorant of the duel, and be amazed when he learned of it; but when the test came, when he found himself actually in the street of the town, his head whirled, and he felt that his guilt could be read in his very face.

From a dooryard some one called his name, whereat Miles's heart fairly ceased to beat; but it was only his friend, Jack Cooke, who came running to hang over his father's gate and speak to him: "Ah, Miles, where ha' you been? Have you heard talk of what happened?" There was no time for Miles to stammer out a vague answer, before Jack ran on: "Ned Lister and Ned Dotey, they fought a duel, real cut and thrust, up behind the hill, and the Captain came upon them, and they've had them before the Governor and the Elder, and there's been such a to-do."

"Had them? Then neither was killed?" Miles cried, with a momentary feeling that nothing could matter, if both men still lived.

"Nay, but Dotey has a great gash across the palm of his hand, and Ned Lister was slashed in the thigh so he scarce could walk. I saw 'em when they were fetched down into the village, and they have locked Dotey up at Master Allerton's house, and Lister at Master Hopkins's."

"Wh--what are they going to do to them?" faltered Miles.

"Something terrible, to be sure," Jack answered happily; "the Captain and all are main angry. And Goodman Billington was for flogging Francis mightily out of hand, but the Elder said stay till to-morrow, when they would question all further."

"What has Francis done?"

"Why, he was with them; he kept watch while they fought. That is, one of the lads lay in the grass and whistled them; the Captain had the least glimpse of him; but they found Francis prowling on the hill, so it must ha' been he. He says 'twasn't, but Francis is a deal of a liar, we all know."

Miles drew a long breath, and, turning from the gateway, went scuffing through the sand down the street. It was Francis, not he, whom they suspected, he repeated, but the next moment he told himself that it made no difference; since he was the culprit, he must come forward and take the blame. But when he saw Master Hopkins sitting by the house-door, his heart choked up into his throat, and his step faltered. After all, he would not speak to Master Hopkins yet; his share in the duel would be discovered soon enough.

With a feeling that he wished to propitiate every one, he trudged round the house to fetch an armful of wood, and there, by the pile, Giles was at work with an axe. "Well, Miles?" he said, pausing in his task, and then, as Miles came to his side, whispered him: "Look you, father thinks you were fishing with me all this day, that Ned sent you back to the house to be quit of you, and that you came home with me, but stopped at the spring. I told him naught; he just thought so and--I let him think so."

"Oh, Giles, you are right good," gulped Miles. "For I--"

"Hush now! I don't want to know aught." And Giles went back to his chopping.

No one would find him out, then; he was safe from the mighty beating he expected. Francis--well, since he was innocent, of course he would say so, and they would believe him and not punish him. Anyway, he had no thought of confessing, Miles assured himself hastily, as, on entering the living room, he met Master Hopkins's stern gaze.

The master of the house was in a gloomy temper that evening; a new sense of the gravity of that day's happenings came over Miles, as he looked on his harsh face. Mistress Hopkins, too, was silenced completely, and the young folk did not venture to speak while their elders did not address them, nor had they any wish to talk, with the two empty places at table confronting them. No word was uttered till the meal was nearly eaten, when Mistress Hopkins, after a swift glance at her husband, cut a thick end from the loaf of bread, and, setting it on a trencher, turned to Miles. "Fill a jug of water, and carry that and the bread to Edward Lister," she said sharply.

"Edward Lister may go fasting to-night," Master Hopkins spoke, in a grim voice.

Miles, who had slipped from his stool, stood shifting from one foot to the other, while he waited to see which he should obey.

"Do as I bid you, Miles," Mistress Hopkins repeated steadily, though one hand, which she rested on the edge of the table, clenched in nervous wise. "The man is hurt, and whatever he has done he shall not go hungry and thirsty. Either Miles shall take him food and drink, Stephen, or I shall do so myself." She rose, and, filling a jug from the water-pail, gave it to the dubious Miles. "Take it to him, there in the closet," she bade; so Miles, without waiting for Master Hopkins to prevent, stepped hastily into the little room and shut the door behind him.

The closet was very narrow, very hot, and very dusky, for the evening light came but sparsely through the little window. Just beneath the window, where whatever slight breeze entered the room could be felt, the old mattress was outspread, and on it Ned Lister lay. He had been resting his head upon his folded doublet, but at Miles's coming he drew himself up on his elbow; his face was white in the dimness, and he looked limp and sick and cowed.

"Here's bread and water, Ned," Miles began, as he crossed to him. "And--and I'm mighty sorry."

"I'm not," Ned answered, in a dogged tone. "I wish only that I'd killed him. Give me a drink." He took the jug from Miles and gulped down the water with audible swallowings; then, when he could drink no more, set it beside him. "They'd 'a' made little more tumult if I had killed him," he went on. "But I care not what they do to me."

"What--what do you think they will do to us, Ned?" Miles quavered; the young man's prisoned and unfriended state and desperate tone had dislodged him from his last stronghold of security.

"They spoke of flogging us," Ned answered hopelessly.

"A public flogging?"

"Yes."

It was only a birching Miles had looked for. A public flogging! The horror and fright were actual and overwhelming, for it never entered his head that in punishment a distinction would be made between the two principals in the duel and their wretched little second. "Flog us!" he repeated dazedly. "Or--or perhaps they will hang us?"

"I care not if they do," Ned retorted, and, taking up the jug, drained out the last of the water. "Fetch me another draught, Miley, that's a good lad," he begged. "My throat is all afire."

It was darker now in the living room, so none could note the expression of his face, and Miles was glad for that. When he filled the jug at the pail he slopped the water clumsily, so Mistress Hopkins chided him. He could not seem to think or even see, for, as he stumbled back into the closet, he bumped his forehead against the door. "Oh, Ned," he whispered, as he bent over the injured man again, "they--they have accused Francis in my place, but I--"

"Why, that's well," Ned spoke, as he set down the jug. "I'm glad for't; you'll not be punished along o' me. I'll tell no word of you, Miley, you may be sure, and if Dotey will but hold his blabbing tongue--"

"But--but they'll flog him; I ought to tell--"

"Let him be flogged, the imp!" Ned growled. "But you, Miley--"

There was no chance to finish, for Master Hopkins, appearing in the doorway, sternly ordered Miles to come forth, and, when he had quitted the closet, bolted the door.

By now it was too dark for a reading lesson, and, even if it had been light, the whole routine of the day seemed overturned. Miles wandered out into the house-yard, but he had no will to seek the other boys; they might talk to him of Francis. Somehow, too, he did not wish to see Dolly or Mistress Brewster, who had told him how his mother looked for him to be a good lad. He went and sat down alone on the woodpile, where he harked to the distant frogs that were piping, and watched the stars come out over the sea.

So he was still sitting when at last Constance stole out to him, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, whispered him he mustn't go away and grieve so about poor Ned. He shook her off surlily; he was tired and sleepy, and didn't want to talk, he said, and so rose and slouched away to his bedroom. There it was stiflingly hot, so when he lay down he pushed aside the coverlet, and even then he thrashed restlessly.

Presently Giles came in and lay down in the other bed that Dotey and Lister had shared; he did not offer to talk, but, settling himself at once to sleep, was soon breathing regularly. Miles counted each indrawing of his breath, and tried, breathing with him, to cheat himself into sleeping; and tried too, with the bed beneath him scorching hot, to hold himself quiet in one position. His face was wet with perspiration, and his head ached. Somewhere in the room a mosquito sang piercingly, so he must strike about him with his hands, and still the creature sang and the air was breathless, and he could not sleep.

Then he ceased the effort to gain unconsciousness, and deliberately set himself to face it all, and reason it out. He had done a wicked thing, and he should be punished for it. Francis was accused, but Francis was innocent and must be declared so. It did not matter though his comrades bade him keep silent; it was one thing for Giles not to bear tales of Miles, and another for Miles not to bear tales of himself; and for Ned Lister's way of thinking, it was not the way which Captain Standish would have counselled. What would the Captain think of him, when he knew him for a rascal who deserved whipping, Miles wondered miserably. Yet it was the Captain who had told him hard things must be done, not shirked aside; and by that ruling Miles realized that the only way for him was to let them know it was he himself, not Francis, who had borne a part in the duel.

Specious objections came, and he crushed them down; and there came, more stubborn, the promptings of fear. A public flogging, Ned had hinted; and Miles recalled a dull day in the market town, whither his father had taken him, a jeering crowd of motley folk, a cart with a fellow laughing on the driver's seat, and tied by the wrists to the cart's tail, stripped to the waist, a man who kept his head bent down and never winced, for all the great blows the constable was laying across his shoulders. Even now Miles turned sick at the remembrance of the red gashes the whip had made. But Francis had not earned such punishment, and he had earned it.

Miles rose from his restless bed, and stood by the window to catch a breath of air. The moon was up now, and a pale, hot glow lay on the fields to northward, but not a whiff of a breeze was astir. The harbor, as he saw it from the window, lay glassy smooth beneath the moon. He put his weary head down on his arms, and for a moment did not think, only wished it were last night, when the duel was yet unfought.

Then he lay down in bed, and turned and tossed, and went his round of courage and fears again. He was not conscious that there had been a period of sleep; he had no sense of restfulness just ending, only of bitter dreams, but he found the room alight and a faint, early-morning freshness in the air, so he knew some time had passed and it was day.

He did not remember in detail the thoughts of the night, but the conclusion was the same, and still clearer for him to see in the glare of morning. Rising quickly, he dressed himself so hurriedly that he was done before sleepy Giles had pulled on his shirt; then went out into the living room. Mistress Hopkins was lighting her fire with flint and steel, and Constance was stirring up porridge for the breakfast; but he gave them no heed, for outside the door he caught a glimpse of Master Hopkins.

"Why, Miles, are you ill?" Constance asked, as she looked up at him.

Miles shook his head, and stepped out upon the doorstone. At the bench alongside the door Master Hopkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was washing his face in a basin of water; he did not look up, but Miles, without waiting for his notice, plunged into the confession while his courage held. "Master Hopkins, I want to tell you--"

"What is it, Miles?" Hopkins asked curtly, as he began wiping his face on the big, coarse towel.

"It was not Francis, sir, it was I. The duel, you understand--" Miles's voice was faint and quavering,--"it was not Francis."

"What do you mean?" said Stephen Hopkins then, and lowered the towel from his face; the water-drops clung to his forehead, and his hair was all on end, but the very grotesqueness of his look made it the more formidable to Miles.

"It was not Francis," he repeated shakily, while his trembling fingers picked at a splinter in the door-frame. "I took the rapier out o' your bedchamber; I was in the grass and whistled to them." He stopped there, with his eyes on the toes of his shoes; he did not want to look at Master Hopkins's face, and he held his body tense against the grasp which he expected would hale him into confinement along with Ned Lister.

But instead there was a sickening silence that seemed to last for minutes; then Master Hopkins said slowly: "I marvel why that you, the son of a godly man, should have a hand in all the evil doings of the settlement. You must go tell this unto the Governor, so soon as breakfast is ended. And I shall myself speak more of it to you."

Mechanically Miles stood aside to let Master Hopkins pass into the house, and then he still stood a time, gazing at the gray doorstone beneath his feet. Presently he stepped down on the turf and slouched round to the corner of the house, where Trug was tied at night; though every one thought him evil, and they were going to flog him, Trug would still lick his hands lovingly. He untied the dog, and, holding to one end of his strap, went back through the yard; Constance, from the doorway, called to him to come in to breakfast, but, shaking his head, he walked on.

Outside the yard the street was quite empty, for the colonists were all at their morning meal. Miles trudged slowly through the sand up the hillside, and then turned down the path to the spring, which he judged at that hour would be deserted. Sure enough, the only moving things beneath the high bluff were the leaping waters of the living well, and the sunbeams that sifted through the branches of the encroaching alders, and sprinkled the trodden turf.

Casting himself down on the margin, Miles took a long drink of the water, that might have been brackish and hot for any good taste he had of it, then sat up and leaned against Trug, with one arm about the dog's neck. He had thought, so soon as he was thus by himself, he would cry, but he felt all choked inside; his wickedness was too deep even for tears.

Suddenly two hands were clapped over his face. "Guess who 'tis," piped a treble voice, and, uncovering his eyes, Miles thrust up one hand and dragged Dolly down beside him,--a very brave Dolly, in a clean apron, with her scarlet poppet hugged under one arm. "I ran to the spring for Mistress Brewster," she explained, "but I cast away my jug when I saw you. Why are you here, Miles?"

"Oh, Dolly," Miles burst out, "I have been uncommon wicked and helped fight a duel, and they are going to flog me through the streets, and maybe they'll hang me, and I would my mother were here." He mastered the inclination to screw his knuckles into his eyes, and, as he sat scowling at the hill across the brook, and blinking bravely, to keep a good showing before the little girl, a mighty new idea popped into his head and made him happy again. "But I shan't let them flog me," he said, grandly as Ned Lister himself. "You tell it to no one, Dolly, but I have it in mind to run away."

"Whither, Miles?" the damsel asked, with interest, but no great amazement.

"I shall go into the woods and live with the Indians," Miles said slowly, forming his plan as he spoke. "They're good, pleasant folk; and I'll build me a house of branches, and eat raspberries, and maybe kill birds with a sling, and I'll have Trug at night." It occurred to him that Trug would not be the liveliest of company. "Why, Dolly, say you come too," he cried. "We'll keep the house together, as I thought they'd let us when father died."

Dolly's face dimpled at the prospect, then grew sober. "But if we live in the woods, Miles, we cannot go to meeting of a Sunday, and that would never do. Let's build our house just over the brook--"

"Pshaw!" said Miles, contemptuously, "I might as well go back and let them whip me now. I'm going away into the forest. Will you come?" He rose and walked manfully toward the stepping-stones, but Dolly still sat hugging her poppet in her arms. "If you've no wish to--" Miles said, feeling brave and important, no longer a poor, trembling, little culprit. Then he turned his back on her, and gave his attention to leading Trug safely from stone to stone across the brook.

But, as he gained the opposite bank, he heard a cry behind him: "Wait, oh, wait, Miles!" Dolly, with the poppet in her arms, came slipping and scrambling across the stepping-stones and caught his hand. "Love Brewster says he does not like girls and went away to play with Harry Samson," she panted. "And you are the only brother I have, Miles, and I love you, and methinks I'd liefer go with you and be an Indian."