"Methinks it is like the wailing of a child--some infant, it may be,
which has strayed from its mother and chanced upon this place of
death. For the ease of mine own conscience I must search this matter
out." He therefore left the path and walked somewhat fearfully across
the field. Though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and
trampled by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the
spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead
to their loneliness.

The traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the middle
upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been
erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death.
Under this unhappy tree--which in after-times was believed to drop
poison with its dew--sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood.
It was a slender and light-clad little boy who leaned his face upon a
hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth and wailed bitterly, yet
in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of
crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand
upon the child's shoulder and addressed him compassionately.

"You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you
weep," said he. "But dry your eyes and tell me where your mother
dwells; I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you
in her arms tonight."

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to
the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not
more than six years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much
of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy's frightened
gaze and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to
reassure him:

"Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were
to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on
a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch? Take heart,
child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home."

"Friend," replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice,
"they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here."

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the
moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made
the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung
up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the
apparition stood the test o