Then old Tituba saw what had happened and followed him, uttering wild cries of distress. The man took no heed, but carried his captive around the house in sight of her brother. A yell of mingled rage and despair broke from that young heart. The lad tore and strained at his bonds like a trapped panther--fiery tears leaped to his eyes, specks of foam flew from his mouth. "Not her, not her!" he shrieked, in English. "She is only a little baby. Let them whip me, sell me, kill me. I will work and suffer for both." The anguish in that young voice reached Mrs. Parris, where she lay with her face buried in the pillows of her bed. Like a beautiful white nun she came out of her chamber, down the stairs, and into the midst of those Puritan soldiers. Terrible suffering had cast its ashes over her; but there was resolution in her eyes, pain on her forehead. She went up to the man, who still held the little savage and took her gently from his arms. "She is mine. The minister will care for her. Little children are not our enemies. Christians do not make slaves of them." There was something in the very gentleness of her words that almost conquered the man, who muttered a gloomy protest. The little creature clung to her with thrilling tenacity. "Leave the child with me. I will answer for its safety to your leader. I, the wife of Samuel Parris, whom you all know." There was something in the face of this gentle young matron that enforced respect even from the men who had so rudely invaded her dwelling--a depth and intensity of suffering that prevailed more surely than command. "Nay, if you will take charge of the little heathen we have nothing to say. In the minister's house she may find a gate of salvation open." A spasm of pain swept the fair face of the matron; but her soul was strong enough for the moment to put this physical anguish aside. She took the infant in her arms, folded it close to her aching bosom, and went with it into the house. Old Tituba stood in the door. "Take her, take her! and God have mercy on us all!" cried Elizabeth, tottering forward and giving up the child. Then she went feebly up the stairs and entered her chamber again. The princely Indian boy, true to the reticent instincts of his father's race, became silent as marble when he saw that his little sister would not be harmed. Even the cry of joy that rose to his lips when the child was given up he bravely suppressed. He would not, by one action, let his persecutors know how dear the little wanderer was to him. Had he spoken a word, or challenged attention by a gesture, the minister's wife would have learned that her sister's son was in peril, and might perhaps have saved him also. But he was too brave for complaint, and she went on, ignorant of his danger to the hour of her death.