While Chief Justice Oliver gazed sadly at the Province House, before which a sentinel was pacing, the double leaves of the door were thrown open, and Sir William Howe made his appearance.  Behind him came a throng of officers, whose steel scabbards clattered against the stones, as they hastened down the court-yard.  Sir William Howe was a dark-complexioned man, stern and haughty in his deportment.  He stepped as proudly, in that hour of defeat, as if he were going to receive the submission of the rebel general.

The chief justice bowed and accosted him.

“This is a grievous hour for both of us, Sir William,” said he.

“Forward! gentlemen,” said Sir William Howe to the officers who attended him:  “we have no time to hear lamentations now!”

And, coldly bowing, he departed.  Thus, the chief justice had a foretaste of the mortifications which the exiled New Englanders afterwards suffered from the haughty Britons.  They were despised even by that country which they had served more faithfully than their own.

A still heavier trial awaited Chief Justice Oliver, as he passed onward from the Province House.  He was recognized by the people in the street.  They had long known him as the descendant of an ancient and honorable family.  They had seen him sitting, in his scarlet robes, upon the judgment seat.  All his life long, either for the sake of his ancestors, or on account of his own dignified station and unspotted character, he had been held in high respect.  The old gentry of the province were looked upon almost as noblemen, while Massachusetts was under royal government.

But now, all hereditary reverence for birth and rank was gone.  The inhabitants shouted in derision, when they saw the venerable form of the old chief justice.  They laid the wrongs of the country, and their own sufferings during the siege—­their hunger, cold, and sickness—­partly to his charge, and to that of his brother Andrew, and his kinsman Hutchinson.  It was by their advice that the king had acted, in all the colonial troubles.  But the day of recompense was come.

“See the old tory!” cried the people, with bitter laughter.  “He is taking his last look at us.  Let him show his white wig among us an hour hence, and we’ll give him a coat of tar and feathers!”

The chief justice, however, knew that he need fear no violence, so long as the British troops were in possession of the town.  But alas! it was a bitter thought, that he should leave no loving memory behind him.  His forefathers, long after their spirits left the earth, had been honored in the affectionate remembrance of the people.  But he, who would henceforth be dead to his native land, would have no epitaph save scornful and vindictive words.  The old man wept.

“They curse me—­they invoke all kinds of evil on my head!” thought he, in the midst of his tears.  “But, if they could read my heart, they would know that I love New England well.  Heaven bless her, and bring her again under the rule of our gracious king!  A blessing, too, on these poor, misguided people!”