“Trust, sir—­trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people,” said Captain Lincoln, “nor teach them that they can ever be on other terms with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side by side through the French war.  Do not convert the streets of your native town into a camp.  Think twice before you give up old Castle William, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of true-born New Englanders.”

“Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair.  “A British officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops.  Your presence also will be required.  Till then, farewell.”

With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture.  The captain of Castle William fancied that the girl’s air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of those spirits of fable—­fairies or creatures of a more antique mythology—­who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe.  As he held the door for her to pass Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled.

“Come forth, dark and evil shape!” cried she.  “It is thine hour.”

In the evening Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various interests had summoned them together.  There were the selectmen of Boston—­plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the New England character.  Contrasting with these were one or two members of council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-like ceremonial.  In attendance, likewise, was a major of the British army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor’s orders for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports.  The captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson’s chair, with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the British officer by whom he was soon to be superseded in his command.  On a table in the centre of the chamber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for the lieutenant-governor’s signature.

Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains, which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady’s robe.  It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been there at such a time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it.  Meantime, the chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor a long and solemn protest against the reception of the British troops into the town.