We lumbered up through the straggling village in one of those clumsy coaches that had late become the terror of foot-passengers in London crowds.  My aunt pointed with a pride that was colonial to the fine light which the towns-people had erected on Beacon Hill; and told me pretty legends of Rattlesnake Hill that fired the desire to explore those inland dangers.  I noticed that the rubble-faced houses showed lanterns in iron clamps above most of the doorways.  My kinsman’s house stood on the verge of the wilds-rough stone below, timbered plaster above, with a circle of bay windows midway, like an umbrella.  High windows were safer in case of attack from savages, Aunt Ruth explained; and I mentally set to scaling rope ladders in and out of those windows.

We drew up before the front garden and entered by a turnstile with flying arms.  Many a ride have little Rebecca Stocking, of the court-house, and Ben Gillam, the captain’s son, and Jack Battle, the sailor lad, had, perched on that turnstile, while I ran pushing and jumping on, as the arms flew creaking round.

The home-coming was not auspicious.  Yet I thought no resentment against my uncle.  I realized too well how the bloody revenge of the royalists was turning the hearts of England to stone.  One morning I recall, when my poor father lay a-bed of the gout and there came a roar through London streets as of a burst ocean dike.  Before Tibbie could say no, I had snatched up a cap and was off.

God spare me another such sight!  In all my wild wanderings have I never seen savages do worse.

Through the streets of London before the shoutings of a rabble rout was whipped an old, white-haired man.  In front of him rumbled a cart; in the cart, the axeman, laving wet hands; at the axeman’s feet, the head of a regicide—­all to intimidate that old, white-haired man, fearlessly erect, singing a psalm.  When they reached the shambles, know you what they did?  Go read the old court records and learn what that sentence meant when a man’s body was cast into fire before his living eyes!  All the while, watching from a window were the princes and their shameless ones.

Ah, yes!  God wot, I understood Eli Kirke’s bitterness!

But the beginning was not auspicious, and my best intentions presaged worse.  For instance, one morning my uncle was sounding my convictions—­he was ever sounding other people’s convictions—­“touching the divine right of kings.”  Thinking to give strength to contempt for that doctrine, I applied to it one forcible word I had oft heard used by gentlemen of the cloth.  Had I shot a gun across the table, the effect could not have been worse.  The serving maid fell all of a heap against the pantry door.  Old Tibbie yelped out with laughter, and then nigh choked.  Aunt Ruth glanced from me to Eli Kirke with a timid look in her eye; but Eli Kirke gazed stolidly into my soul as he would read whether I scoffed or no.