“Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatched the pen; “for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul, Your Honor is that man.”

“Away!” answered Hutchinson, fiercely.  “Though yonder senseless picture cried ‘Forbear!’ it should not move me!”

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face—­which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look—­he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson.  Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation.

“It is done,” said he, and placed his hand upon his brow.

“May Heaven forgive the deed!” said the soft, sad accents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.

When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household, and spreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture had started from the wall and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson.  If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind; for within the antique frame nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvas since the memory of man.  If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind a century’s obscurity.  The truth probably was that Alice Vane’s secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary renovation.  But those who in that brief interval had beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph desired no second glance, and ever afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them.  And, as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped for breath and complained that he was choking with the blood of the Boston Massacre, and Francis Lincoln, the former captain of Castle William, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph.  Did his broken spirit feel at that dread hour the tremendous burden of a people’s curse?

* * * * *

At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine host whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but Mr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New England Museum.  Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.