“If friendship for me, and personal merit in the man, avail not to move you, at least listen to the voice of humanity.  You intend not surely to murder him.”

“What?” exclaimed Winthrop.  “Speak plainer, Sir Christopher.”

“I say, honored sir, that the treatment of this Joy, for an offence which can rank as a crime only by reason of some peculiarity in your situation, justifying extraordinary severity, is unworthy of you as the Vicegerent of his Majesty in this colony.

“Methinks,” said Winthrop, coldly and formally, “you have already, in other phrase, said the same thing.”

“But I aver now that this hapless, and, but for me, unfriended man, (alas that my influence in his behalf is less than nought,) is likely to escape the greater part of his sentence, by perishing on your hands, if not soon released from confinement.”

“Is he ill?”

“Ill unto death.  I fear.  Surely you cannot be acquainted with the cruelties practised upon him.  I have not beholden them with mine own eyes; but my knowledge is this—­as soon as I heard of Philip’s misfortune, in whom, why I feel an interest you now know, I hastened to his prison, and there, with some difficulty learned, that not only is he manacled, and his ancles chained, but also is confined by a band of iron around his body, to a post erected in the centre of his dungeon, so as to be unable to lie down, under a pretext of the desperation of the man and the weakness of his dungeon.”

“Believe me, Sir Christopher, I knew not this; but the thing shall be looked into, and if there be no error in your information, I will venture to brave the resentment of my colleagues and the rest, and release this Joy for the present, taking such order in other respects that the remaining sentence of the Court shall not remain a nullity.”

“I pray you, excellent sir, of your bounty, to be speedy in the inquiry into this matter,” urged the knight, “being well assured that you will find my information verified.”

“Rest satisfied with my peremptory promise,” replied Winthrop.  “And now, Sir Christopher, that this business which you have so much at heart is in a fair train to arrive at a result to content you, tell me something of your doings at the Mount of Promise, as it is your pleasure to call your retirement.  How fares it with your kinswoman, the lady Geraldine?  Time, I trust, doth blunt the edge of her melancholy.”

“Alas, no! she still continues to grieve with an unreasonable grief.  Time brings no balm.”

“It should not be so.  The sooner we become reconciled to the afflictive dispensations of Providence (under which I understand she suffers,) the better for both soul’s and body’s health.”

“There are some natures, whereupon, when an impression is once made, it is not readily effaced, and the lady Geraldine’s is such.  Yet do I not despair of her restoration to tranquillity.”

“I must request godly Mr. Eliot to visit her.  There is no soother so effectual as the soft voice of the Gospel.  But for yourself, Sir Christopher, tire you not of the monotony of your forest life?”