hey were in such a tumultuous
throng, hurrying through the forest, that she was quite unable to
ascertain their numbers. It will be remembered that Mrs. Rowlandson's
side had been pierced by a bullet at the destruction of Lancaster. The
wound was much inflamed, and, being worn down with pain and
exhaustion, she found it exceedingly difficult to keep pace with her
captors. In the distribution of their burdens they had given her two
quarts of parched meal to carry. Fainting with hunger, she implored of
her mistress one spoonful of the meal, that she might mix it with
water to appease the cravings of appetite. Her supplication was
denied.

Soon they arrived at Swift River, somewhere probably within the limits
of the present town of Enfield. The stream was swollen with the
melting snows of spring. The Indians, with their hatchets, immediately
cut down some dry trees, with which they made a raft, and thus crossed
the stream. The raft was so heavily laden that many of the Indians
were knee deep in the icy water. Mrs. Rowlandson, however, sat upon
some brush, and thus kept her feet dry. For supper they made a broth
by boiling an old horse's leg in a kettle of water, filling up with
water as often as the kettle was emptied. Mrs. Rowlandson was in such
a starving condition that a cupful of this wretched nutriment seemed
delicious.

Feeling that they were now safe from attack, they reared some rude
wigwams, and rested for one day. It so happened that the next day was
the Sabbath. The English who were pursuing came to the banks of the
river, saw the smoke of their fires, but for some reason decided not
to attempt to cross the stream. During the day, Wetamoo compelled her
slave to knit some stockings for her. When Mrs. Rowlandson plead that
it was the Sabbath, and promised that if she might be permitted to
keep the sacred day she would do double work on Monday, she was told
to do her work immediately, or she should have her face smashed. The
smashing of a face by an Indian's bludgeon is a serious operation.

The next morning, Monday, the Indians fired their wigwams, and
continued their retreat through the wilderness toward the Connecticut
River. They traveled as fast as they could all day, fording icy
brooks, until late in the afternoon they came to the borders of a
gloomy swamp, where they again encamped.

"When we came," writes Mrs. Rowlandson, "to the brow of the
hill that looked toward the swamp, I thought we had