turned away and was walking toward home, when the tall
Virginian, by a few quick strides, overtook him and, laying his hand on
his shoulder, said:

"You do not care to hear these threats; but I have not done with you
yet. Listen; I want to say more. If you seek to thwart me, I will kill
you. Do you hear?"

"I have no fear of you, Mr. Martin," cried Charles Stevens, turning on
the tall, swarthy southerner a glance which made him quail. "Your
profession is brutality. You are a stranger to mercy; yet I will defy
you. I fear you not, and, if you seek my life, you had better take heed
for your own."

Charles boldly walked away, leaving the discomfited Virginian to fume
and rage alone. The shades of night were falling fast over the village
of Salem, as Charles hurried homeward, and he was amazed as he came in
sight of the house, to see a great throng of people going away from the
door. The young man quickened his pace, hardly knowing whether he was
asleep or awake. A negro slave came running toward him crying:

"Massa! Massa! Massa!"

"What has happened?" asked Charles.

"Um tuk um away! Dey tuk um off!"

"Who?"

"Yo mudder."

"My mother! Oh, God!" Charles Stevens ran swift as a roe buck toward the
crowd, which had now almost reached the jail.

"What does this mean?" he demanded of John Bly, whom he met near the
jail.

"Your mother is a witch," Bly answered.

"You lie!" cried Charles, and with one swift, sure blow, he laid the
slanderer senseless at his feet.

"Hold, Charles Stevens! Hold! Be not rash, or she may fare worse,"
whispered a kind voice at his side, and, turning, he saw the sad face of
John Nurse. He had drunk the bitter cup to its dregs and could advise.
The world seemed swimming before the eyes of Charles Stevens. He tried
to rush to that throng, whom he saw dragging both his mother and Cora
Waters to the jail; but in vain. His feet refused to carry him. He
strove to utter an outcry; but his voice failed, and all became
darkness.

CHAPTER XVI.

ESCAPE AND FLIGHT.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:
Here is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
--Moore.

When Charles Stevens regained consciousness, he was lying on a bed, and
kindly faces were bending over him. He was conscious from the first of
an op