, which so strongly mark the period, he
spent most of his time on the frontiers of the settlement, admitting
of little companionship, and yielding less of courtesy. When he
appeared in the colony, the women regarded his fine person, his
smile, at once sorrowful and tender, and his free, noble bearing with
admiration, not unmingled with terror; while men, even in that age of
manly physique looked upon his frame, lithe yet firm as iron, athletic
and yet graceful, with eyes of envious delight. Truth to say, John
Bonyton had never impaired a fine development by any useful
employment, or any elaborate attempts at book-knowledge. He knew all
that was essential for the times, or the mode of life which he had
adopted, and further he cared not. His great power consisted in a
passionate yet steady will, by which all who came within his sphere
found themselves bent to his purposes.

The Pilgrims even, unflinching and uncompromising as they were, felt
the spell of his presence, and were content to spurn, to persecute,
and set a price upon the head of a man whom they could not control.
Yet for all this John Bonyton died quietly in his bed, no one daring
to do to him even what the law would justify. He slept in perfect
security, for he knew this, and knew, too, that the woods were alive
with ardent and devoted adherents, who would have deluged the soil
with blood had but a hair of his head been injured. The Sagamore of
Saco was no ordinary man; and the men of the times, remarkable as they
were, felt this; and hence is it, that even to this day his memory is
held in remembrance with an almost superstitious awe, and people point
out a barrow where lie the ashes of the "Sagamore," and show the
boundaries of his land, and tell marvelous tales of his hardihood and
self-possession.

They tell of a time when a price had been set upon his head, how, when
the people were assembled in the little church for worship, John
Bonyton walked in with gun in hand, and stood through the whole
service, erect and stern as a man of iron, and no one dared scarcely
look upon him, much less lift a finger against him; and how he waited
till all had gone forth, even the oracle of God, pale and trembling,
and then departed in silence as he came. Surely there was greatness in
this--the greatness of a Napoleon, needing but a field for its
exercise.

CHAPTER II.

Methought, within a desert cave,
Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,
I