white and agitated lips of the
trembling burgesses.

"This comes of the faithless conduct of Berkeley," says one.

"Yes; I always said that Bacon should have his commission," says
another.

"It is downright murder to deny him the right to save the colony from
the savages," says a third.

"And we must suffer for the offences of a despotic old dotard," said the
first speaker.

"Say you so, masters," cried out old Presley, wedging his huge form
between two of his brethren at the window--and all his loyalty of the
preceding night having oozed out at his fingers' ends, like Bob Acres'
courage, at the first approach of danger--"say you so; then, by God, it
is my advice to let him put out the fire of his own raising."

But see there! Bacon and his staff are conferring together. It will soon
be known what is his determination. It is already read in his fierce and
angry countenance as he draws his sword half way from its scabbard, and
frowns upon the milder councils of Hansford and Bland. Presently a
servant of one of the members comes in with pale, affrighted looks, and
whispers to his master. He has overheard the words of Bacon, which
attended that ominous gesture.

"I will bear a little while. But when you see my sword drawn from my
scabbard, thus, let that be the signal for attack. Then strike for
freedom, for truth, and for justice."

The burgesses look in wild alarm at each other. What is to be done? It
were vain to resist. They are unarmed. The rebels more than quadruple
Governor, Council, and Assembly. Let those suffer who have incurred the
wrath of freemen. Let the lightning fall upon him who has called it
down. For ourselves, let us make peace.

In a moment a white handkerchief suspended on the usher's rod streams
from the window, an emblem of peace, an advocate for mercy, and with one
accordant shout, which rings through the halls of the state-house, the
burgesses declare that he shall have his commission.

Bacon sees the emblem. He hears the shout. His dark eye flashes with
delight as he hails this bloodless victory over the most formidable
department of the government. The executive dare not hold out against
the will of the Assembly. But the victory is not yet consummated.

Suddenly from the lips of the excited soldiery comes a wild cry, and
following the direction of their eyes, he sees Sir William Berkeley
standing at the open window of the Council Chamber. Yes, there stands
the proud old man, with