days a very strong jail was not so important as at present.  If one had committed a crime so heinous that he was unfit to live, he was forthwith put beyond the power of doing mischief; but if the offence were of a less atrocious character, modes of punishment were usually resorted to which did not involve the necessity of supporting him at public charge—­such, for instance, as whipping, cutting off the ears, slitting the nose, and like improvements of the human form divine.  If through defect of the prison, or from any other cause, the offender escaped, it was pretty certain that he would not make his appearance in a hurry, lest some worse thing might befall him, and so there was one malcontent the less, and one disturber of the peace gone, even though the ends of punishment were not perfectly attained.

Spikeman, on reaching the house of the jailer, was about to knock at the door, when his attention was arrested by sounds which made him pause.  The weather being warm, the window was open, and he was able to hear distinctly what was said within.  Motives of delicacy or honor weighed not much in the mind of a man like him, and he scrupled not to appropriate any advantage to be derived from eaves-dropping.

“What made you, Sam Bars, take all the ornaments off Philip but the bracelets, without saying anything to me?” inquired a voice, which Spikeman recognized as belonging to the jailer’s wife.

“Why, Margery, to confess, I forgot to tell you,” answered her husband; “but,” added he, laughing, “I had no fear on thy account, for thou art a match for a man any day.”

“When I took him in his supper,” said the woman, “there was poor Philip rubbing his ankles to get the swelling out.  Truly I pitied him, for he is a proper young man.”

“Oh! goody, the women always pity proper young men.  I warrant me now if it had been a grizzled old wolf like me, you would not have thought so much of his ankles.”

“Say not so, Sam,” replied the woman, affectionately, “nor liken thyself to a wolf.  O, how they used to howl every night when we first came to this wilderness; but the Lord protected his people.  I dare say now, it was thy kind heart made thee take off the irons.”

“That it was not, wife.  They were put on by order of one I am bound to obey; nor durst I take them off but by command of a higher authority.”

“Why do you talk as though you were giving me riddles to guess?  Am I not bone of thy bone?”

“A big heap of bones we make together,” muttered Sam, glancing at the large frame of his wife, not much excelled by his own, “but she’s a good soul, amiss only in her tongue at whiles; howbeit, saith not Paul, it is an unruly member?  Well, Margery, an thou must know, it was by order of the Governor’s own mouth to me they were taken off, and what is more, I am to let Philip go free in the morning.”

“Bless his sweet face,” cried the woman, “I always said the worshipful Governor was the sweetest; and virtuousest and excellentest man in the whole country.”