His expression was so miserable that Abigail’s ready tears flowed again in sympathy, so that she was obliged to pick up the hem of her petticoat and wipe them away. Her attention was suddenly attracted by noisy singing and much merriment. She dropped her petticoat. “Happen like there be a dancing-bear in town?” she asked eagerly. “Nay,” answered Master Ronald, “’tis some of my fellows at the tavern, who have been suspended a day for riotous conduct.” “Come, come,” cried he, taking her almost fiercely by the hand. There was a new ring in his voice, a sudden strong resolve shining in his face. He led her along the road in the direction from which the sounds proceeded, and paused at last in front of a tavern which had as a sign a head of lettuce painted in red. From this place came the singing. Master Ronald, still holding her hand, swung the door open and stepped inside with her. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light she perceived some eight or ten young fellows with lank locks falling about their faces, seated around a large bowl of hasty pudding, into which bowl they dipped their spoons. Two or three who were perched on the table, however, had ceased eating, and were smoking long brier-wood pipes. They did not perceive Master Ronald and Abigail. Suddenly they all lifted high their mugs of sack and broke into song. “Where the red lettuce doth shine, ’Tis an outward sign, Good ale is a traffic within. It will drown your woes And thaw the old snow That grows on a frosty chin, That grows on a frosty chin.” “Enough, enough, sirs!” Master Ronald cried sharply; “down with your mugs! Are ye to drink and be merry when murder—murder, I say—is being done in the name of the church and the law?” The students turned in open-mouthed amazement, several still holding their mugs suspended in the air. At first they were evidently disposed to be merry as people accustomed to all manner of jesting, but the pallor and rigid lines of the young man’s face checked any such demonstration, as well as the unusual appearance of a little maid in their midst. Then one tall and powerful fellow rose. “Murder,” he said slowly, shaking back his hair, “murder—under sanction of the church and law. How comes that?” Master Ronald made a gesture commanding silence, for the others had risen, and a confused hubbub of questions was rising. Then he pointed to Abigail, who was near to sinking to the floor with mortification, as all eyes were turned upon her. “This little maid,” he continued, when the room was again silent, “journeyed alone from Salem to Boston Town, to find and tell me that in Salem prison there is confined another maid condemned for witchery and under sentence of being hanged on the morrow.” His words were interrupted by groans and hisses.