Old Waban sat under a patriarchal oak, grave and stately. A blanket trimmed with shells was thrown over him. He wore leather breeches, and herons’ plumes covered his head. He was an old man, but his hair was black and long. His hands were hard and brawny as copper, and as he sat down on a shelf of rock under the oak, he rested his chin on a staff. Among the Indians who gathered around him were several who claimed to be nearly one hundred years old. Peambow, or Peam Boohan, the ruling elder of Hassanamesit (Groton), was there, and Pennahannit, or Captain Josiah, the governor-general of the Praying Indian towns. Several sagamores came in blankets and feathers, and some twenty or more white people were present. Finally came Joshua Mayhew, Esq., on horseback, as the representative justice of the General Court of Massachusetts to the rustic court of the Christian Indian community. It was high noon, and old Judge Waban slowly rose, and stood with lifted hand. “Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind.” He looked a forest patriarch, as he stood in the shadow of the sun-crowned oak. “The peace has been broken. A white man is the witness of it. Let the prisoners be brought, and Thomas Trembly, who is the witness. Sit down!” All sat down on the ground. The two prisoners were brought, with their hands tied behind them. After them came Tommy Trembly. “Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” said Old Waban, rising, with lifted hand. “Thomas Trembly, tell us the story of the fight which you saw at Pendergast’s.” Tommy told his story,—the quarrel, and how he was robbed. “It was a bad place?” said Waban, shaking his head. “It was an orful bad place,—an _orful_ place,” said Tommy. “The people were all drinking there?” “All drinking. Yes, it was orful.” “Did you drink?” “I took a warm supper. I had been travelling and tinkering.” Squaw Pendergast bent her black eyes angrily upon him. “And I was robbed,” said Tommy, with a martyr-like air. “The squaw she first got away from me all my money for—my supper. Then I was frightened, and then I was robbed. I have lost almost a week’s work.” “Ugh!” said Old Waban; “hard times you’ve had. Ugh!” “Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” he presently said. “What shall be done with the Indian Pendergast?” There was a council of the leading Indians. “Let him be tied to a hornbeam, and given fifty lashes on his bare back,” said Waban. A small hornbeam-tree stood near. Indian Pendergast was tied to it, his clothing was partly removed, and he was whipped, amid the silence of the assembly. “Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! Listen to the voice of the Wind,” said Old Waban. “What shall be done with the squaw?” Another council, as before. “Twenty-five lashes on her shoulders,” pronounced Old Waban.