Two days after, the sheriff is instructed that, after adjournment of the court, he is to convey John Rogers to the Hartford prison and see that he is shut up in a dark room, where a certain French doctor will “shave his head and give him purges,” to cure him of his madness. Such treatment, added to all the memories of past wrongs, would seem enough to give the sanest man the temporary appearance of a maniac. The more he can be made to appear like a maniac, the more plausible will be the excuse for consigning him to a worse than prison cell. Had it remained for Gurdon Saltonstall to carry out this inhuman purpose, the statement that John Rogers died in Hartford prison, or in a madhouse, would probably have ended this man’s history. Some person, to whom the sheriff confided the inhuman plot, being friendly to the prisoner, John Rogers is informed of the doom prepared for him. He goes directly to the sheriff, to inquire into the truth of the statement, and asks to see the warrant for this new procedure, which the sheriff shows him. He there recognizes the handwriting of Gurdon Saltonstall. Few men could be readier in resources than the man in custody. A person is quickly found to carry word, this very (Saturday) evening, to John Rogers, Jr., at Mamacock, of the impending peril. The hurried message quite suffices. With all possible speed, before the night is far advanced, John, Jr., is at hand, with a staunch boat, near by, well manned, to convey his father to Long Island. He has also money for his use, and, finding him in need of a suitable shirt, takes off his own and gives him. The boat was easily moored not far from the prison, which is by the Mill Cove, and also not far from the Thames River, into which the cove leads. This boat, propelled by hands well skilled, pulls out from shore, in cover of the night, and goes to brave the winds and waves of March across Long Island Sound. John, Jr., returns to Mamacock, with thrilling tale of this, so far, successful rescue. Many a follower besides John Bolles anxiously awaits the tidings. Eagerly, no doubt, they gather in the big front room at the Mamacock “mansion house,” to talk the matter over and speculate regarding the result, noting the weather betimes and praying for a bon voyage.