“Why, confound it, Harry,” he cried, “I tell thee, lad, do not look so.  Hadst thou killed Rob Waller instead of wounding him, it would have been thy life instead of thy pride thou hadst forfeited.”

“I wish to God I had!” I burst out, yet dully, for still I only half realised it all.

“Nay, Harry,” declared the parson, “thy life is of more moment than thy pride, and as to that, what will it hurt thee to sit in the stocks an hour or so for such a cause?  ’Twill be forgot in a week’s time.  I pray thee have some Burgundy, Harry, ’twill put some life into thee.”

“’Twill never be forgot by me,” said I, and indeed it never has been, and I know not why it seemed then, and seems now, of a finer sting of bitterness than my transportation for theft.

Presently I, growing fully alive to the state of the matters, wrought up myself into such a fever of wrath and remonstrance that it was a wonder that my wounds did not open.  I swore that submit to such an indignity I would not, that all the authorities in the Colony should not force me to sit in the stocks, that I would have my life first, and I looked about wildly for my own sword or pistols, and seeing them not, besought the parson for his.  He strove in vain to comfort me.  I was weakened by my wounds, and there was, I suppose, something of fever still lingering in my veins for all the bleeding, and for a space I was like a madman at the thought of the ignominy to which they would put me.  I besought that the lieutenant-governor should be summoned and be petitioned to make my offence a capital one.  I strove to rise from my couch, and the vague thought of finding a weapon and committing some crime so grave that the stocks would be out of the question as a punishment for it, was in my fevered brain.

“As well go to a branch of a locust-tree blown by the May wind with honey for all seeking noses, as to Chichely,” said Parson Downs.  “And as for the burgesses, they are afraid of their own necks, and some of us there be would rather have thee sit in stocks than lose thy life, for we hold thy life dear, Harry, and some punishment it must be for thee, for thou didst shoot a King’s officer, though with a damned poor aim, Harry.”

Then I said again, with my heart like a drum in my ears, that I wished it had been better, though naught I had against Robert Waller, and as I learned afterward he had striven all he dared for my release, but the militia, being under some suspicion themselves, had to act with caution in those days.

Presently, while the parson was yet with me, my brother John came in, and verily, for the first time, I realised that we were of one blood.  Down on his knees beside me he went.

“Oh, my God, Harry,” he cried, “I have done all that I could for thee, and vengeance I will have of some for this, and they shall suffer for it, that I promise thee.  To fix such a penalty as this upon one of our blood!”