Sassacus—­the once mighty Chief of this mighty and heroic people—­was basely slain by the Mohawks, among whom he had sought fellowship and protection, for the sake of the treasures that be had brought with him from his own lost dominions; and his heart was sent by his murderers as a peace-offering to the government of Connecticut.

Thus ended the war which had been commenced as a necessary measure of self-defence, and in which the pious and high-minded Roger Williams had, at first, taken so active and influential a part.  The manner in which it was carried out, and the cruelty that marked so many of its details, were repulsive in the highest degree to his just and benevolent spirit; but where mercy was concerned, his opinion and advice had no influence with the stern men of Boston.  The only act which met with his approbation in the conclusion of the campaign, was the assignment of the depopulated lands of the Pequodees to Uncas, the Chief of the Mohicans.  As being a conquered territory, the usual laws of war would have annexed it to the territory of the victors.  But, in this case, the settlers adhered to their original principle of only obtaining, by purchase from the natives, those tracts of land on which they desired to settle; and a great part of that which was now bestowed on Uncas, was afterwards bought back from him and his inferior Sachems, or obtained by friendly contract, until the English became possessors of the whole district.

At a subsequent period, the Pequodees who had escaped from their desolated land, and joined other tribes, assembled themselves together, and made one final effort at establishing their independence in a distant part of the country.  But their power and prosperity were broken for ever.  Captain Mason was again sent to subdue this remnant of the tribe; and the destruction that was accomplished on these unhappy exiles spread a fear of the white men through all the Indian race in that part of the continent.  From that time the settlers of Connecticut—­who had been the original cause of this cruel war—­enjoyed an unbroken peace and security for forty years.

CHAPTER XXIV.

’The voices of my home!  I hear them still! 
                They have been with me through the stormy night—­
The blessed household voices wont to fill
                My heart’s clear depths with unalloyed delight! 
I hear them still unchanged; though some from earth
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth—­
        Wild silvery tones, that rang through days more bright,
Have died in others—­yet to me they come
Singing of boyhood back!—­the voices of my home!’ HEMANS.

One Sabbath evening, a few months after the events related in the last chapter, and when the short second Indian summer, that so often returns late in the month of September, was at its height, the inhabitants of New Plymouth were assembled at their meeting-house on ’the Burying Hill,’ and engaged at their usual devotions.  None were left in their dwellings except those whom age or sickness prevented from joining the rest of the congregation, or those who were necessarily detained by the care of young children.