gettin' a livin', an' were happy. The day o' the shootin', as well as the day o' the buryin', I went on with my farmin'.

'The time they come for me I was in my fiel' as usual. "We've come from the committee," they said. "What committee?" says I. "Oh," one o' them broke in,—he was a Boston chap, not one o' our peaceable farmers,—"Oh," says he, "is that all ye know about the affairs o' yer country? We're authorised by the Committee of Safety to visit every man in this county, and tell him he must either fight or flee."

'"Feth, a' I'll do neether," I said, an' whipped up my horses.

'They went off, an' I seen no more o' them till this mornin', when they come again—an'—well, here I am.'

I had listened with a sort of greedy interest to every syllable. 'Were there many in your settlement who refused to take up arms?' I asked.

'Bout half o' us at first; but when they begun the burnin', the shearin' an' paintin' o' the cattle an' horses; the smashin' o' windows, an' the threatenin' with tar and feathers, of course a number got frightened, an' said they'd fight.

'Then in our settlement the way they used old man Williams scared a lot. These men who said they'd been sent by the Committee o' Safety, seized the old man one night, fastened all the doors an' closed the chimney-top, and then smoked the ol' fellow so badly that it isn't known yet whether he'll live or die. My own daughter was pelted with rotten eggs—and by men, mind you, by men.'

His voice rose here almost to a scream, and I saw that great anger burned in his face.

'That's what's been goin' on all over this whole country for the last three weeks; an' that's not hearsay; I've seen it. It's cruel, it's wicked, it's persecution, an' how can it be any less wrong because it's done by the "Sons o' Liberty," as they call themselves? Fine liberty that tears a man away from his wife an' children, an' farm, an' lands him in a place like this.'

There was a note of bitter scorn in the closing words.

'These cruelties will make friends for the King, won't they?' I said.

'They will,' he said with emphasis; 'they've done that already.'

In answer to further questions I learned that my fellow prisoner's name was David Elton; that he had been a farmer all his life, and that his great hope was to return soon to his farm and family, which he claimed never needed him more than in this spring season of the year, when crops had to be put in. Of Boston and what was happening there he knew nothing, except that the siege was still going on.

We spent the night, both of us sleeping as best we could, on the door. The next morning we were blindfolded and led away. After a half-hour's walk we found ourselves in the presence of one of the numerous Committees of Safety.

These had, I learned afterwards, been organised all over the country as soon as the mobs of the wilder sort, described by David Elton, had driven away the lawful magistrates and judges who had held their offices under the King. These committees were made up of the most bitter partisans, and yet they were supposed to take the place of the King's courts of justice. The committees were approved by the Provincial Congress, and given absolute power over all matters civil as well as military. Thus, during the first weeks of the war, did the control of the entire country pass into the hands of the King's enemies, who were not slow to avail themselves of the fruits of even mob violence. The advantage gained through these committees was immense, as by their proclamation all neutrals and opponents of the revolution were designated rebels and enemies of authority and their country.

It was before one of these committees that my fellow prisoner and I were called. It was plain from the beginning that everything was against us. The man who occupied the chair was not a farmer, I noticed. I concluded at once that he, and at least half of the committee of twelve, were residents of Boston. This fact I was quite sure would not increase our chances of acquittal. I had often heard my father express his confidence in the farmer people of the country, but his opinion of many Boston merchants, whose sense of honour had been dulled by years of trading in smuggled goods, was far from high.

As I looked about the room I soon recognised that there were many other prisoners in addition to ourselves. I listened eagerly as one after another was put upon the stand and questioned. It soon appeared to me that most of the men were neutrals who, like David Elton, had been taken forcibly from their farms because they had refused to take up arms. A few boldly declared for the King; some promised to fight; many wavered. These latter, as a rule, were given a time limit, in which to decide finally, and were let go. The Loyalists were sent back to jail. David Elton, when called, stoutly refused to declare himself. He protested that he was a farmer, a man of peace, who had a large family to support, and he was determined to go back to his farm. He was handed over to a guard, then hurried away. Almost before the sound of his loud, shrill voice, raised high in protest, was out of my ears, I heard my own name sharply called by the court.

When I went forward I noticed a look of deepened interest on the faces of both committee and spectators. My case was not like those of the other prisoners, who were practically all farmers of the community. As I faced the crowd of onlookers I noticed that two men suddenly and quietly left the room. The chairman of the committee followed them sharply with his eye, a few others turned to look, but the great majority steadily and critically scrutinised myself. The murmur in the building fell to silence.

'Your name?' was the first question asked of me.

I gave it, also my age and place of residence.

'Will you now relate fully and concisely all that has taken place in your life since the morning of April twentieth?' This question was put by the man who was acting as judge.

I had spoken but a few words when a member of the committee rose, and addressing the chairman, asked to be excused. While I had not been positive of the face, since the light had been uncertain when I saw the man before, the first words he spoke dispelled all doubt. I knew the man. He was the person whom I had heard addressed as 'Colonel,' on the night Duncan escaped and I was made prisoner.

A chorus of protests broke from both committeemen and spectators. Instantly I understood. This was the man whom I had heard declare he would tell that Duncan Hale had been hanged. As a reward for his supposed services he had been chosen a member of the Committee of Safety!

During the parley that followed I was able to turn over the situation in my mind. The men who had gone out had evidently been members of the party which Duncan had eluded, and they had feared my story. What would I do? The 'Colonel' feared it also. Would telling the whole truth help or harm me? I did not care to go back to the mine, and I felt that I should proceed with the utmost caution. The mere promise to fight, I had learned from the cases of others that day, meant freedom. Would not this simplify matters? Should I not here under the circumstances be justified in making a promise that I did not intend to keep. I was sure the truth, if told, would make trouble for the 'Colonel'; but would it not make corresponding trouble for myself by showing my sympathy with Duncan Hale, who was hated as were few men of the King's party? Finally, I resolved to hazard the whole truth.

The uproar in the court ended in the 'Colonel' not being allowed to go, and I was ordered to proceed.

Knowing I had but one thing of importance to say, I spent little time in leading up to it. I said I had taken no part in the dispute: that I rode out to Lexington simply to learn the truth. I spoke of meeting the body of troops, and of seeing the old man at the graves; I referred briefly to the burial, even to the sermon—all this to stamp my story as unmistakably true—then I plunged into the