however, had appeared to be ages, there was a noise without as of a stealthy step. Blaxton sprang to the window again, and, as he did so, actually confronted the same mournful face, which had once before visited him at the dead of night. Exactly, as upon the previous occasion, the vision was of one very dear to him, who had been long laid in the grave. The beautiful face, with its deep prophetic eyes, was in startling proximity to his own, and looked in upon his midnight solitude with an expression of terror and of warning. He staggered backwards a few paces, overcome by the suddenness of the apparition. He recovered himself, however, very soon, by a powerful effort, but the face had already vanished from the window. He rushed from the house into the midnight air, and as he did so, he distinctly saw a figure gliding among the trees across his lawn. It seemed to bend its course towards the water's edge, and to pause when very near the beach. As it paused, Blaxton thought he heard a repetition of the scream which had at first alarmed him, but it was so much fainter as to be almost inaudible.

Impelled by an irresistible impulse, he followed unhesitatingly in the pathway of the mysterious figure, as it rapidly glided before him. After a moment's pause, however, at a particular spot upon the beach, the vision seemed suddenly to fade away. Whether it was a figure of flesh and blood, which had evaded his pursuit by a sudden retreat through the briery swamp, which bounded his domain upon the south-west, the hermit could not tell. In an instant, he had reached the spot where it had disappeared, but he could discover, however eagerly he strained his eyes in every direction, no further traces of its presence. While he stood agitated, and pondering upon the meaning of this second mysterious visitation, he suddenly heard a faint groan. It seemed to proceed from the ground, and almost from beneath his feet. He stooped to search in the dim starlight, and amid the rank grass, for the cause of this singular sound,

when to his astonishment and horror he became aware of the presence of a corpse lying seemingly stark and stiff almost at

his feet.

There seemed now to be some cause for the various mysteries which had lately so perplexed him. Why he had been thus visited, and what was to be the result of these apparitions, he knew not, but he felt a vague terror taking possession of him, as he stood there in that midnight solitude, with that ghastly companion.

His

The phenomena of the heavens which had exerted so keen an influence upon his imagination, a short time before, he had in a measure interpreted. The vision of the aerial ships he had explained by the arrival of the Naumkeak colony soon afterwards; and now it seemed to him that the phantom sword had portended the scene of violence and bloodshed, which appeared so recently to have been enacted near his own threshold. thoughts, which were wandering into infinite space, were, however, suddenly recalled to earth again, by a repetition of the groan. His sympathies were at once aroused, and bending over the prostrate form of Maudsley, he discovered, by the faint beating of his heart, that life was not wholly extinct. Without hesitating any longer, and exerting all his strength, he lifted the body from the ground, and bore it with difficulty to his cottage.

CHAPTER IX.

ENDICOTT AT NAUMKEAK.

MANY weeks had passed away. It was now early in November, and the hundred emigrants who, two months before had arrived with Governor Endicott in the good ship Abigail, were now established at Naumkeak. That narrow tongue of land, covered with thick forests up to that epoch, and tenanted only by the two or three scattered families, of whom these pages have already spoken, had already undergone a considerable change.

Walter Ludlow's solitary residence was now upon the skirts of a little village. It was, to be sure, a village of but a dozen thatched and mud-walled hovels, and had been constructed with great rapidity during the autumn, that the emigrants might have some refuge against the rigors of their first Massachusetts winter.

Although the coming winter had allowed, as yet, but few prognostics of its severity to be felt, although the climate still seemed tolerably mild, yet the sufferings of the settlers had already begun. The scurvy raged among them like a pestilence, fevers and inflammatory disorders, induced by low diet and exposure to a new and treacherous climate, had already assaulted almost every family, and in the immediate future the icy spectre of the approaching winter, the gaunt image of impending famine, rose before them, not like threatening phantoms, but as terrible realities.

In the centre of the little extemporaneous village, stood a mansion of much more considerable dimensions than the huts which surrounded it. A two-storied house, consisting of a skeleton of

timber-work, filled in with bricks, and having a projecting roof, which was covered with red tiles, was the most prominent object upon the clearing. The materials out of which this edifice had been constructed had been brought from Cape Ann.

Within the lower apartment of that dwelling were assembled several persons of grave and earnest appearance. A frugal midday meal had just been partaken of by the company, who were of both sexes, and a conversation upon serious and important matters had succeeded to the repast. At the upper end of the board sat a person of striking appearance; and yet he was neither handsome in countenance nor commanding in figure. The man was a little under middle age and a little above middle stature. He wore a Geneva skull-cap, a doublet of dark-colored serge, with a broad linen collar falling over it, and other habiliments of so grave a character, that he might have been easily taken for a clergyman, had it not been observed that his hand rested habitually and rather caressingly upon the iron handle of his long rapier, and had not the bold expression of his features and the restless glancing of his eye, forbidden the supposition. The lines of his face were stern and energetic, but somewhat harsh and heavy. The short grizzly locks, the heavy moustache and chin-beard of iron grey, the decided brow, the inflexible mouth, were all expressive of command. It was the physiognomy rather of a man of action, than of a profound thinker, and yet there was much in its character which was deliberate, earnest and imposing. Altogether, the whole appearance of the personage who sat at the head of that humble board, gave assurance of a man.

This was Captain John Endicott, the man who had been intrusted by the newly organized Massachusetts company with the command of the first emigration, and who had thus far wisely and resolutely conducted their affairs.

"You understand me then, thoroughly, Master Conant," said

he, addressing a grave and hardy looking personage who sat near him, who was the most prominent of the few brave and persevering settlers who had preceded Endicott's arrival at Naumkeak. "You understand my views, and that of the company whom I represent, entirely?"

'Truly, Master Endicott, I think we have at last arrived at a settlement of all disputes," replied Conant, "and I rejoice that all our differences are fairly healed."

"The company, which has been organized for a great and sacred purpose, is determined to send hither none but pious, orderly and energetic men," continued Endicott; "and to send no idle drones, neither to permit any such to remain within the limits of their patent."

"I believe you have effectually destroyed one nest of hornets," answered Conant, "by your late expedition across the bay."

"Aye, there needed but little deliberation to crush such a swarm of caterpillars," answered Endicott, "and I am truly beholden to our neighbors of Plymouth, and to their trusty captain, Master Standish, for his well executed capture of the master mischief-maker of that ungodly crew. How called you him,

Master Conant?"

"Thomas Morton, sometime a pettifogger of Furnival's Inn," replied Conant," and lately principal Master of Misrule at the place he has profanely denominated Merry-Mount.”

"And which is henceforth to be denominated Mount Dagon," answered Endicott. "The vile reveller is disposed of, and the places that knew him shall know him no more. I have dispersed his infamous crew, and have cut down the idolatrous May-pole, with which he dared to profane this pure and sacred wilderness." "Aye," said Conant, "it was almost your first deed in New England, and a worthy commencement of your career. The place was a den of infamy, and a rallying point for loose vagabonds and peace-breakers, for hundreds of miles around.”