aster-stroke presently," cried some, "because
he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to be
dragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King
street."

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their
minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic
dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his
profession--a crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied at that
period that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take
the place of that worthy in the _Primer_.

"The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew," cried
others. "We are to be massacred, man and male-child."

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class
believed the governor's object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor
under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first
settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing
that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of
military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing
himself of their chief.

"Stand firm for the old charter-governor!" shouted the crowd, seizing
upon the idea--"the good old Governor Bradstreet!"

While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the
well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of
nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with
characteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constituted
authorities.

"My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly.
Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England and expect
patiently what the Lord will do in this matter."

The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of the drum
had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with
reverberations from house to house and the regular tramp of martial
footsteps it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made
their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with
shouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as to present a row of
fires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress of a
machine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next,
moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode
a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund
Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around