Before he could be seated, another man had followed him, naming the same errand, then another and another, until the room was crowded. Through the window, Margeret could see, with sinking heart, more and more dark figures hurrying through the snow and down the schoolhouse lane. A tall, stolid-faced Indian, wrapped in his blanket, slipped in among the rest, but was noticed little, since curiosity often brought these warriors from the forest whenever they saw a crowd gather. Margeret, glancing at him hastily, had a vague feeling that his face was one she knew, but of that she could not be certain. Last of all the company, Samuel Skerry came in and stood, scowling, by the fireplace. The winter darkness fell so early that the candles had to be lighted before the lessons were over. The children looked about, bewildered, at the rows of sober faces, but they stood nobly by their teacher, their dear Mistress Margeret, and spoke their learning manfully. Finally the hour struck, the bell rang, and school was over. “And now,” said Margeret, her spirit, after the long strain, flaring suddenly high in the face of that silent, waiting assemblage, “have you aught to say, my Masters?” There was an embarrassed silence for a moment, broken at last by Skerry’s harsh voice. “I say,” he began, “that a woman has no place as mistress of a school. Look yonder at the birch rods, brothers, how they gather dust and cobwebs. She never uses them, nor has she strength to do so if she would.” “Nay, sir,” Goodman Allen interrupted mildly. “I have seen that when the birch is wielded too oft at school, it must also be used many times at home and, for myself, the task is one that I like not.” There was a murmur of laughter and assent. “In my belief,” added another, “a woman can lead our lads and lasses better than a man and there is much other work for men to do.” “Then know this,” cried Skerry, striding out into the center of the room while the children watched him in round-eyed wonder; “know that this woman has broken our laws and betrayed our faith, that she has given help and comfort to the Papist priest who for years lived hid in the forest, within the very bounds of our Colony. I myself saw him read his mass in the garden and saw his altar decked with the candles made by her hands. Shall our children be taught by one who is a friend of Popery?” The crowd of men drew together and a buzz of wondering whispers began. Did the shoemaker really know? Could such a terrible accusation be true? Roger Bardwell stepped forth from among them and stood beside Margeret. “Listen not to him, good people,” he said. “Such wrong as Mistress Margeret may have done in the eyes of the law was accomplished innocently and when she was but a child. Whatever aid and comfort were given to the French father, that night he slipped through Hopewell and escaped to France, came through my fault. Lay the blame upon me.”