"He was a brave man--my benefactor and lord. His son, the first-born, was torn from me as I fled from the white fiends that murdered his father. They will make him a slave--he a king's son! The chief of his tribe a slave! a slave!" The woman reeled on her feet as she stood, and fell into the chair again, panting for breath. With an effort she spoke on. "Thee shall be mother to this little one, sister Rachael." "Even as my husband shall be its father," said Mrs. Parris, laying her hand upon the child's head. "That husband--presently--when I have more breath, thee shall tell me about him, for I know nothing. It is long, very long, since I have been able to gain tidings from the settlements. Even now I came upon this house at the last moment, and feeling about to fall to the earth, looked in, seeking for help, and saw thee." "Thank God that it was my house. Alas, how haggard and worn you look, my sister! I read years of suffering in your face, and I so happy, so unconscious all the time. But no one ever talked of my childhood." "They would not thus accuse themselves; they who lashed thy sister with stripes, and drove her into the woods like a dog. How could such men look into thy pure face, and tell this unholy truth?" "But my husband; surely he must have heard of this cruelty, for he was minister here before I was born. Yet when I question him of my childhood, he always puts the subject aside." A wild light came into the woman's eye. She sat upright in the chair, and looked down into the face of her sister. "A minister, Rachael! what is thy husband's name?" The name faltered on the young wife's lips, not as usual from reverence, but fear. "Parris--his name is Parris." The woman gathered herself slowly up. "Samuel Parris?" "Yes," replied the wife, in a timid whisper. "An old man now?" "Yes." The woman stood upright, struggling to walk, but without the power to move. Her chest heaved, her throat swelled, she groped about blindly with her hand, searching for her child. "Sister, sister, what troubles you?" cried Mrs. Parris, trembling violently. "_Rachael, that man was one of my judges!_" The words came out hoarsely, rattling in her throat. She fell back, struggled with awful force for a moment, and then a cold, gray corpse settled down in the chair, terribly in contrast with the savage dress. The child, who had been growing paler and paler, went softly up to the chair, and burying its face in the gorgeous vestments that clung about the corpse, remained motionless and mute as the dead. She neither wept nor moaned like an ordinary child, but a dull pallor stole over her neck and her little hands, which proved how terrible that still grief was. Ah, who shall tell how much of the iron that rusted through her after-life, entered that human soul during those moments of silent agony! Mrs. Parris stood looking at them both, then, struck with a pang of terrible anguish, she crept out of the room, moaning as she went. CHAPTER XI.