It is not the fear of man, but the fear of God,
that has laid a spell upon the place. It is the Sabbath, or what we
moderns call Sunday, and law and conscience have set their double seal
on every door, that neither man, woman nor child, may go forth till
sunset, save at the summons of the meeting-house bell. We may wander
all the way from the parsonage on the hill, to Captain Konkapot's hut
on the Barrington road, without meeting a soul, though the windows
will have a scandalized face framed in each seven by nine pane of
glass. And the distorted, uncouth and variously colored face and
figure, which the imperfections of the glass give the passer-by, will
doubtless appear to the horrified spectators, but the fit typical
representation of his inward depravity. We shall, I say, meet no one,
unless, as we pass his hut by Konkapot's brook, Jehoiachim
Naunumpetox, the Indian tithing man, spy us, and that will be to our
exceeding discomfiture, for straightway laying implacable hands upon
us, he will deliver us to John Schebuck, the constable, who will
grievously correct our flesh with stripes, for Sabbath-breaking, and
cause us to sit in the stocks, for an ensample.
But if so mild an excursion involve so dire a risk, what must be the
desperation of this horseman who is coming at a thundering gallop
along the county road from Pittsfield? His horse is in a foaming
sweat, the strained nostrils are filled with blood and the congested
eyes protrude as if they would leap from their sockets to be at their
goal.
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