The eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike peal of that voice—­fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in prayer—­were irresistible.  At the old man’s word and outstretched arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and the advancing line stood still.  A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude.  That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause whom the oppressor’s drum had summoned from his grave.  They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New England.

The governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition.  He, however, blenched not a step, but, glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros.  One would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the Crown, had no alternative but obedience.

“What does this old fellow here?” cried Edward Randolph, fiercely.—­“On, Sir Edmund!  Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen—­to stand aside or be trampled on.”

“Nay, nay!  Let us show respect to the good grandsire,” said Bullivant, laughing.  “See you not he is some old round-headed dignitary who hath lain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change of times?  Doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll’s name.”

“Are you mad, old man?” demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh tones.  “How dare you stay the march of King James’s governor?”

“I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now,” replied the gray figure, with stern composure.  “I am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and, beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints.  And what speak ye of James?  There is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror.  Back, thou that wast a governor, back!  With this night thy power is ended.  To-morrow, the prison!  Back, lest I foretell the scaffold!”