“Nay, brother, nay,” interposed Mr. Williams; “thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a public street.”

“Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!” answered Endicott, imperiously.  “My spirit is wiser than thine for the business now in hand.—­I tell ye, fellow-exiles, that Charles of England and Laud, our bitterest persecutor, arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even hither.  They are taking counsel, saith this letter, to send over a governor-general in whose breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the land.  They are minded, also, to establish the idolatrous forms of English episcopacy; so that when Laud shall kiss the pope’s toe as cardinal of Rome he may deliver New England, bound hand and foot, into the power of his master.”

A deep groan from the auditors—­a sound of wrath as well as fear and sorrow—­responded to this intelligence.

“Look ye to it, brethren,” resumed Endicott, with increasing energy.  “If this king and this arch-prelate have their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at noon-day.  We shall hear the sacring-bell and the voices of the Romish priests saying the mass.  But think ye, Christian men, that these abominations may be suffered without a sword drawn, without a shot fired, without blood spilt—­yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit?  No!  Be ye strong of hand and stout of heart.  Here we stand on our own soil, which we have bought with our goods, which we have won with our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, which we have tilled with the sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to the God that brought us hither!  Who shall enslave us here?  What have we to do with this mitred prelate—­with this crowned king?  What have we to do with England?”

Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood close behind him.

“Officer, lower your banner,” said he.

The officer obeyed, and, brandishing his sword, Endicott thrust it through the cloth and with his left hand rent the red cross completely out of the banner.  He then waved the tattered ensign above his head.

“Sacrilegious wretch!” cried the high-churchman in the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself; “thou hast rejected the symbol of our holy religion.”

“Treason! treason!” roared the royalist in the stocks.  “He hath defaced the king’s banner!”

“Before God and man I will avouch the deed,” answered Endicott.—­“Beat a flourish, drummer—­shout, soldiers and people—­in honor of the ensign of New England.  Neither pope nor tyrant hath part in it now.”

With a cry of triumph the people gave their sanction to one of the boldest exploits which our history records.  And for ever honored be the name of Endicott!  We look back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the rending of the red cross from New England’s banner the first omen of that deliverance which our fathers consummated after the bones of the stern Puritan had lain more than a century in the dust.