THE THE OUTCAST. PART II. HE sympathies of the Puritan were now fully excited. "Rise, my poor boy, and come with me, and fear no harm." The orphan wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth, as if the cold heart underneath were warmer to him than any in a living breast. The traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly; and seeming to acquire some degree of confidence in the kind stranger, he at length arose. But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death for support. 66 'My poor lad, are you so feeble? When did you taste food last?" "I partook of bread and water with my father in the prison," replied Ilbrahim, "but they brought him none either yesterday or to-day, saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey's end. Trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked food many times ere now." The traveller took the child in his arms, and wrapped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instruments of persecution. In the awakened warmth of his feeling he resolved, at whatever cost, not to forsake the defenceless being whom heaven had confided to his care. With this determination, he left the accursed field, and resumed the homeward path, from which the wailing of the poor child had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his progress,' and he soon beheld the fire-rays of his cottage. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection. "Look up, child," said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, "there is our home." At the word "home" a thrill passed through the child's frame, but he continued silent. A few moments brought them to the cottage door, at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The summons was answered by a bond-servant, a coarseclad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him in. Farther back in the passage, the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little troop of children came bounding forth to greet their father's return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust aside his cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim's face to his wife. "Dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom Providence hath put into our hands," observed he. "Be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have departed from us.” "What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?" she inquired. "Is he one whom the wilderness folk have ravished from some Christian mother?" "No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the wilderness," he replied. "The heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and to share a corner of his wigwam; but Christian men, alas ! had cast him out to die." Then he told his wife how he had found him beneath the gallows, upon his father's grave, and how his heart had prompted him to take the little outcast home, and be kind to him. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and she approved of all his doings and intentions. "Have you a mother, dear child?" she inquired. The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he attempted to reply; but Dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger or the wild beasts. This was no uncommon method of disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed to declare that the Indians of the wilderness were more hospitable to them than their own countrymen. "Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a kind one," said Dorothy. "Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I shall be your mother." The good woman prepared the little bed, from which her own children had successively been borne to another resting-place. Before Ilbrahim could consent to occupy it, he knelt down; and as Dorothy listened to his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled how the parents that had taught it to him could have been judged worthy of death on account of their religion. When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive gladness in her heart. 1 Impeded his progress, retarded | his footsteps. 2 Indispensable, absolutely neces sary. 3 Wigwam, Indian name for his hut. Successively, one after the other. 5 Spiritual countenance, a face impressed with high thought and deep feeling. 6 Pensive gladness, thoughtful joy. THE QUAKER MARTYRS, [GILES COREY, a Quaker accused of witchcraft, sentenced, with his wife, to be crushed to death by means of heavy weights; RICHARD GARDNER, a sea-captain; Jailer; Sheriff.] Scene-Salem Jail, 1692. Corey. Now I have done with earth and all its cares; And my immortal soul to Him who made it. Enter the Jailer, followed by Richard Gardner. Jailer. Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner, That comes to seek me out in my disgrace! And you but come in time to say farewell. I thank you. There is something in your presence, Perhaps it is the bearing of a man Familiar with all the dangers of the deep, Familiar with the cries of drowning men, With fire, and wreck, and foundering ships at sea! Gardner. Ah, I have never known a wreck like yours! Would I could save you! Corey. Do not speak of that. It is too late. I am resolved to die. Gardner. Why would you die who have so much to live for? Your daughters, and Corey. You cannot say the word.' My daughters have gone from me. They are married; What would you have me do ? Gardner. Confess and live. Corey. That's what they said who came here yesterday To lay a heavy weight upon my conscience, By telling me that I was driven forth As an unworthy member of the Church. Corey. "Tis but to drown, And have the weight of all the seas upon you. Gardner. Say something; say enough to fend off death Till this tornado of fanaticism 2 Blows itself out. Let me come in between you And your severer self, with my plain sense; Do not be obstinate. Corey. I will not plead. If I deny, I am condemned already In courts where ghosts appear as witnesses,* Which is not life, but only death in life. I will not bear false witness against any, Not even against myself, whom I count least. Gardner (aside). Ah, what a noble character is this! I feel the pressure of the heavy weight Gardner (aside). How mean I seem beside a man like this! Corey. As for my wife, my Martha and my martyr— |