eir
knees, each uttered a short prayer for deliverance from Satan. As they
rose, John Louder said:

"Now I know full well, good men, that he is the wizard who hath tampered
with my gun."

"Who is he?"

"Ah! well may you ask, Samuel Gray, who he is; a stranger, the black
man, the devil, who hath assumed this form to mislead and torment us.
One can only wonder at the various cunning of Satan," and Louder sighed.

"Truly you speak, friend John," Bly answered. "The enemy of men's souls
is constantly on the lookout for the unwary."

"I have met him and wrestled with him, until I was almost overcome; but,
having on the whole armor of God, I did cry out 'Get thee behind me,
Satan!' and, behold, I could smell the sulphur of hell, as the gates
were opened to admit the prince of darkness."

The shades of night were creeping over the earth, and the three weary
hunters were not yet within sight of their homes, when the horseman who
had so strangely excited their fears drew rein at a spring not a fourth
of a mile from the village of Salem and allowed his horse to drink. He
pressed his hand to his side, as if suffering intolerable anguish, and
murmured:

"Will I find shelter there?"

Overcome by suffering, he at last slipped from his saddle and, sitting
among the rustling leaves heedless of the lowering clouds and threatened
storm, buried his face in his hands. Two hours had certainly elapsed
since he first came in sight of Salem, and yet so slow had been his
pace, that he had not reached the village; but on the earth, threatened
with a raging tempest, he breathed in feeble accents a prayer to God for
strength to perform the great and holy task on which he was bent. He was
sick and feeble. In his side was a wound that might prove fatal, and to
this he occasionally pressed his hand as if in pain.

He who heareth the poor when they cry unto Him, answered the prayer of
the desolate. A farmer boy came along whistling merrily despite the
approaching night and storm. Not the chilling blasts of October, the
dread of darkness, nor the cold world could depress the spirits of
Charles Stevens, the merry lad of Salem. In fact, he was so merry that,
by the straight-laced Puritans, he was thought ungodly. He had a
predisposition to whistling and singing, and was of "a light and
frivolous carriage." He laughed at the sanctity of some people, and was
known to smile even on the Lord's Day. When, in the exuberance of his
spirits, his feet