Those rats in the attic grew noisier, and presently sounds a mighty
hallooing outside, with a blowing of hunting-horns and baying of
hounds. What ado was this in Boston, where men were only hunters of
souls and chasers of devils? The rats fell to sudden quiet, and from
the yells of the rabble crowd I could make out only "King-killers!
King-killers!" These were no Puritans shouting, but the blackguard
sailors and hirelings of the English squadron set loose to hunt down
the refugees. The shouting became a roar. Then in burst Eli Kirke's
front door. The house was suddenly filled with swearings enough to
cram his blasphemy box to the brim. There was a trampling of feet on
the stairs, followed by the crashing of overturned furniture, and the
rabble had rushed up with neither let nor hindrance and were searching
every room.
Who had turned informer on my uncle? Was I not the only royalist in
the house? Would suspicion fall on me? But questions were put to
flight by a thunderous rapping on the door. It gave as it had been
cardboard, and in tumbled a dozen ruffians with gold-lace doublets,
cockades and clanking swords.
Behind peered Eli Kirke, pale with fear, his eyes asking mine if I
knew. True as eyes can speak, mine told him that I knew as well as he.
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