it was on the day that the bells of all new england were ringing to announce the death of good queen anne and the accession to the english throne of her far-distant cousin, george of hanover, that alisoun and gilbert sheffield, married now for many years, extended the boundary of master simon’s garden for the third time. it reached now down the hill to the swift brook that sang so loud on summer nights, stretched as far as the steep, dusty highway, and took in, at the corner of the field, the great pine that had always been called king james’ tree. master simon had planted it, a little spruce sapling, in the last year of the reign of king james the first. a new highway had been built, skirting the southern edge of his land, and there, where the slope was steepest and the sun shone hottest, he had set the tree at the corner of the road.

“it is planted in the king’s service,” he had said to mistress radpath, “for some day it will stretch its boughs across the road and yield shade and shelter to such of his majesty’s subjects who pass this way. therefore will we call it king james’ tree.”

james the first had long been dead, his son had sat upon the throne and lost it through trying to rule with too high a hand, his grandsons had won the royal power back and lost it again, his great granddaughters, mary and anne, had ruled and died, and now the royal house of stuart had come to an end. quite regardless of all these wars and turmoils, the great pine had grown steadily, spreading its broad branches and its grateful shade across the highway. kings and queens might rise and fall, but it seemed that the king’s tree was to grow undisturbed forever.

“it is a noble old pine,” said alisoun, looking up at the tall, straight stem. “i wish that master simon could see how faithfully it is performing the task to which he set it.”

behind them, as they stood there together, rose the square bulk of the big white house with which roger bardwell had replaced the rude cottage where margeret radpath had dwelt as a child. yet the cottage was still there, built into the heart of the great new house so that the low-ceiled kitchen, the broad fireplace with its swinging crane and the wide-opening door, hospitable to every comer, were all untouched. roger had won great prosperity in his trading ventures across the seas, and had become master of a fleet of tall-masted vessels that sailed to england, holland, spain and the west indies. of this fleet gilbert sheffield, alisoun’s husband, had once been first officer and was now manager, since roger bardwell, and margeret with him, slept beside master simon in the graveyard on the hill.

goody parsons, too, had long since slipped away, although she had lived to see her dearest wish fulfilled as she watched the climbing rose cover the whole grey wall of her cottage. she had told margeret, the day before she went, that she would be glad to be in heaven, for she knew that it was “as like her own loved hertfordshire as the dear lord would permit.” samuel skerry had vanished, no man knew whither, nor how he had carried away the great locked chest that tradition said held his wealth. roger bardwell had always declared that once as he was walking through the narrow street of a dutch seaport town, he had seen the shoemaker’s dark face peer out at him through a window. there was a certain sea captain, also, who claimed to have knowledge of where skerry was to be found, so it was through him that roger bardwell sent the purchase money when he bought the shoemaker’s abandoned fields and widened the bounds of master simon’s garden. beyond this, hopewell heard no real news of the vanished cobbler, although the people of the village talked of him still and wondered as to which of the various terrible punishments that he deserved had overtaken him at last.

as alisoun and gilbert walked up to the house together a little later, they observed that stephen had settled down to what was, for him, a very quiet game. it required a great deal of running to and fro and much laughter, but its activities were confined to the stretch of lawn nearest the big pine tree.

“they seem to be at something new,” said gilbert, as he turned toward the gate, for an errand called him to hopewell; “where did they learn to play that game?”

“i believe amos bardwell taught it to stephen when he was here last month,” replied alisoun. “what a gay time he and stephen always have together, and how hard it is for them to part! i wish that amos and his father did not bide in england.”

“a sailor like amos hardly abides anywhere,” smiled gilbert. “he and i have scarcely met for years, since, when one of us is not at sea, the other is. and you must remember that it is only through amos and his father’s having become citizens of england and not of massachusetts, that we are able to keep even a part of our vessels upon the sea.”

the foreign trade that roger bardwell had brought to such success had begun, latterly, to be much hampered by laws of england that bore heavily upon colonial shipping. they must not carry certain commodities, they must not trade in other than british ports, since the merchants of england had become suddenly aware that the bold sailors from across the sea were beginning to take their profits from them. that was not to be endured for a moment! therefore amos’ father, alisoun’s brother, had gone to live in london, and to manage as english owner such of roger bardwell’s ships as it was still worth while to send to sea. gilbert sheffield had in charge the smaller vessels that traded with the other colonies, virginia, new york, and the carolinas. alisoun often wondered what her father would have said had he known of these restricting laws and had he seen his dearly-loved ships lying idle in the harbour of hopewell. but of such troubled matters roger bardwell had never dreamed when he had laid down the burden of his labours seven years before.

gilbert hurried away up the lane and alisoun walked back alone and entered the house. stephen, she observed as she passed, was having much difficulty in teaching the new game to his sisters and the three neighbour’s children. some of his pupils were apt and some were not, while five-year-old peter from across the way was always singing loudly the wrong words and trailing behind when he should have been marching ahead. alisoun, as she closed the door, could hear their gay cries and laughing calls to one another.

“hurry, stephen, hurry, it is your turn!”

“no, elizabeth, it is yours. stand up and make peter come into the row. now, throw down your hats and begin again.”

then the irregular procession would form once more, marching with measured tread and to music sung by voices some loud and tuneful, some very uncertain and squeaky:

“king william was king james’ son,

and from a royal race they sprung,

upon his breast he wore a star—”

“stop!” cried stephen, suddenly pausing in the middle of a word, “there is some one listening to us yonder in the road.”

the music ceased, the line broke, and six pairs of feet scampered down the slope toward the corner of the newly-moved fence. when, however, the children came near enough to see what sort of a person it was that had paused under king james’ tree, there was some faltering and hanging back, so that at the end it was stephen alone who pressed forward and peered over the bushes at the stranger.

a stout, broad-shouldered man it was who had come down the hot, dusty road and had stopped to rest in the shade of the pine. his hair was red, his coat was redder and his face was reddest of all.

“heaven have mercy, young sir,” he said when he saw stephen, and, as he spoke, took off his tall, gold-laced hat and wiped his dripping forehead, “but this america is no place for a hot-blooded english soldier. ’tis worse than the low countries, for there at least men could find somewhat to drink, since, however many the battlefields were, there were always inns near by.”

at a whispered word from stephen, his sister elizabeth had run all to the house and presently returned with a tall blue mug, brimming over with cool water from the spring. this was gravely presented to the traveller by stephen, since none of the other children would venture close enough.

“many thanks,” said the man, as he took a great draught. then he held the cup from him and looked at it in comic dismay. “water!” he exclaimed, “sure that is a thin drink for a great stout soldier like myself, and on the king’s accession day, too. but it is cool and wet, at least, and i am well-nigh choked with the dust of this weary road. so here is a health to my friend george of hanover, may he reign long and send me on better errands than my present one!”

thus saying, he emptied the mug and handed it back to stephen.

“and what is the business that brings you here?” the boy inquired boldly. the soldier’s twinkling blue eyes were so friendly that he no longer felt in the least afraid.

“a matter that i like none too well,” the man replied. “since there are no wars for the king’s soldiers to fight at present, he must needs send us to the help of the royal navy. my business here is to seek out new timber for the english fleet. too many of our good ships have been sent to the bottom by those agile frenchmen, so that both the old and the new england must give their wood that we may build our navy up again. this tree now,” he added, stepping back and measuring the tall pine with his eye, “’tis a splendid great fellow, and will make a worthy mast for the flagship of the admiral himself.”

“no, no!” cried stephen in alarm. “you would never cut down our finest tree, that my great-grandfather planted so long ago.”

“the king’s fleet must have its masts and spars,” returned the man, “and every tree that we take must have been planted some time. it is an old law and you in the colonies should know it well, that no timber above a certain size shall be cut save for the english navy. king george has need of your tree, my lad, and, if i mistake not, king george will have it.”

“it does the king’s service here,” maintained stephen stoutly, “and it shall not be hewn down and carried away to be destroyed in some foreign war.”

“eh, and who are you to say what the king shall and shall not have?” returned the other sharply. “even i, who am sergeant branderby of his majesty’s army, have found it better, when the royal wishes run counter to my own, to let the king have his way. it is wiser so, boy; i advise no one to stand against the english government unless he would come to harm.”

stephen was silent, digging his toe into the dust and wishing that he could find the words to explain his grievance. down at the wharf lay the good ship margeret and many another of his father’s and his grandfather’s vessels, that would cross the sea no more. it was the english boats that now did all the carrying and left the colonial vessels idle at their anchorage. that staunch, swift margeret, the pride of the whole fleet, had carried many cargoes of corn, furs and salted fish to england, spain and france, had brought back silks and velvets, lemons and sweet-smelling spices, but she had made her last voyage! all this stephen knew from the talk of his elders, but nevertheless found it hard to explain to the sergeant why he thought it such an injustice that their best ships should be useless while, at the same time, their fairest trees should be cut down and carried away to build more vessels for the english. he could do nothing but repeat what he had said before:

“you shall not cut down our tree.”

he looked about for the other children, but they had long since grown weary of waiting and had scampered away. he was not to have even their help.

“you shall not cut down our tree.”

the king’s officer shrugged his shoulders.

“you can say what you will,” he observed, “and sure it is that you in the colonies permit yourselves to speak words that no one would dare utter in england. nevertheless, your tree must go, and shall be cut down to-morrow, since the ship that is to carry it is already loading. for all your stubbornness you cannot resist king george.”

the soldier turned away and strode off down the road, leaving stephen choking with sudden helpless rage. he snatched up a stone and was preparing to throw it with all his force, but in the end let it drop to the ground. it would be easy enough to strike that broad, red-coated back, but of what avail were such a blow? the crowned head of king george the first was the mark at which he really sought to aim, but that, alas, was far beyond the reach of a little lad in new england. with a long sigh he turned away and set off toward the village to consult with his best friend, john thorndyke.

whether gilbert sheffield, had he known what danger threatened king james’ tree, would have resisted the law and bade the officer begone, cannot be known. when stephen came home later, ready to tell his father the dire news, he found that a messenger had come in hot haste and that master sheffield had ridden off with him to join his ship in boston. so there was an end of help from that source! three times stephen opened his lips to tell his mother of what was about to occur and three times closed them firmly again. suppose she should forbid his making resistance, then what was there to be done? for stephen was thoroughly resolved that resistance should be made.

all the next morning he circled uneasily about that portion of the garden where stood king james’ tree, but it was not until almost noon that the enemy reappeared. he could see them coming in a great cloud of dust, the stout sergeant mounted on horseback, this time with two stalwart men who carried axes, walking at his side.

“a plague on this august weather,” branderby cried, as he drew up his horse in the shade. “i am nigh to death with toiling up and down the steep streets of this town. i have ridden a hundred miles back and forth, i do believe, seeking two axemen to do this task, since my own men are not to be spared from loading the ship. it seems that none could work to-day save these fellows, who dwell far beyond the village.”

stephen could not forbear grinning at these words, but strove to hide the smile behind his hand. he and young john thorndyke had spread the news broadcast the night before, so that, although none were willing to help him in his resistance to the law, every man was ready with an excuse when summoned to cut down master simon’s tree.

“now,” cried the sergeant to his men, “let us have no more delay. come, fellows, ply your axes.” both of the men hung back and the older of them spoke determinedly.

“nay,” he said, “you did not tell us that this was the tree we were to cut. all of the town knows of this great pine and of master simon who planted it. not for a score of gold pieces would i lay axe to its trunk. so here is the money you gave us; we have altered our minds and will do no work for you this day.”

having spoken, he shouldered his axe and trudged sturdily away, followed by his companion, neither of them regarding the heated remonstrances of sergeant branderby.

“a pest on you all,” he shouted. “a spanish mule is not more stubborn than a new englander. but think not your tree is to be spared. i will even hew it down myself.”

for that purpose the good sergeant required an axe which he procured easily enough by riding after the departing workmen and presenting one of his great horse-pistols to the younger man’s head.

“let him have the axe, jonas,” said the elder. “if he tries to hew down the tree on this hot day he will burst a blood-vessel, and heaven be praised if he does.”

leading his horse and holding the tool in plainly unaccustomed hands, the sergeant came back to the foot of the pine. here, however, a new complication had presented itself, one that made branderby’s face flush a deeper red with helpless fury.

“come down, you wicked lad,” he roared. “come down this moment or harm will come to you, i vow.”

but stephen, who had scrambled up among the lower branches, looked down at him in mocking defiance. there was a certain kindliness in branderby’s weatherbeaten face that made him almost certain that the soldier, angry as he was, would not cut down a tree with a boy clinging among its boughs.

“if the tree falls, i fall with it,” he called, “so ply your axe if you dare.”

up he went, higher and higher. he passed the branch where he had so often sat to listen to the wind roaring like the sea through the great, swaying branches, he passed the place where he had carved his name to mark the highest point that any boy had ever reached, yet still he went on, up and up. his brown head came out at last amid the thinner green at the very top, where he could feel the sun hot upon his neck and where he could look out across meadow and hillside, past the harbour and the headlands to the wide, blue, open sea. he could see, too, like a picture spread below him, master simon’s garden with its square flowerbeds, its green hedges and its winding paths. he saw the door of the house fly open and his mother, with flying skirts and ruffled hair, come running across the lawn. somehow she had got wind of the trouble and was hastening to interfere.

“come down, you treacherous boy,” shouted sergeant branderby again, “or i have that here which will make you.”

glancing down over his shoulder, stephen saw that the officer had dropped his axe and was levelling his great, clumsy horse-pistol.

“when i say ‘three,’” called the angry soldier, “i will fire, unless you have begun to descend. one—”

stephen glanced about him desperately. he had been almost certain that the man would not harm him, but now he was none too sure. it was a fair, wide world that he was looking out upon, one that he should hate to leave so abruptly.

“two!” bellowed the sergeant, his voice growing louder as his rage increased.

“stephen, stephen!” mistress alisoun’s voice, anxious and troubled, sounded directly below him.

“mother,” he called wildly, “do not order me to come down, for i cannot and will not.” but stephen had misjudged his mother.

“hold fast, boy,” she answered. “i will deal with this fellow here. he has no notion of hurting you, for though he pretends to aim his pistol, he has also shut his eyes.”

she stepped forward, and with a quick, determined movement, struck up the sergeant’s hand just as he was shouting:

“three!”

stephen ducked his head and screwed up his eyes, but no report came. looking down, he saw that the soldier had taken out both his pistols and with a great, low bow was presenting them to mistress alisoun.

“no gold that his majesty may give me could force me to do harm to a spirited lad and a brave woman,” he was saying. “madam, sergeant branderby surrenders to you both.”

alisoun, smiling, took the huge pistols into her apron, since they were too heavy for her hands to hold. her son, beginning to climb down, stopped to hang over a branch and listen to what was being said.

“look not so pale, mistress,” the sergeant begged. “the matter is settled now, for i fear that i must shirk my duty and promise to spare your pine.”

“of that i am right glad,” returned alisoun in a tone of relief, “for not only we sheffields, but all of hopewell, would mourn should aught of harm happen to king james’ tree.”

“king james’ tree?” repeated the soldier in astonishment. “had i known that was the name it went by, never would i have lifted axe against it. but why call you it that?”

alisoun explained. “my grandfather planted it years ago, and dedicated it to the king’s service just before the first james stuart died.”

“so!” exclaimed the sergeant, looking up with brightening face at the tall pine. “but this is a strange world! here is the last king james with his crown taken from him and sent into exile across the sea, and here in a corner of the new world i find something that is still called his. king james’ tree! madam, it would be a great honour if you would permit an old jacobite soldier to kiss your hand.”

“you are then one of the party that would bring young prince james back to be king of england,” said alisoun, as she held out her hand to him, “but yet you are wearing king george’s uniform.”

above them, stephen leaned breathlessly from his perch, afraid that he might miss a word. he had heard much of the jacobites, the followers of the stuart kings, but he had never thought to see one.

“ay,” branderby answered. “i wear his coat and take his pay, for fighting is my trade, and when there is no more fighting for king james i must even sell my sword to king william and queen anne, and now to king george. it matters not, the army is so full of william’s left-over dutchmen, of hired danes and of germans who cannot understand their english general’s speech, that no one cares for a few jacobites. yet i would rather die loyal in heart to james stuart than live to be dull george of hanover’s prime minister. you may be sure that king james’ tree is safe from my hands forever.”

he stooped to fling the now useless axe into the bushes and turned to take his horse by the bridle.

“fare you well, madam,” he said, “and you also, you brave and saucy lad. keep the pistols, if you will, mistress sheffield, as a memory of that king james in whose service i first carried them. and if you can, think not too ill of one who is forced to wear george of hanover’s red coat and eat his bread while his own true heart is with the king over the water.”

he mounted his horse and had turned to ride away when stephen began to climb down. the adventure was over, there was nothing left to happen further. it was only chance and because the boy turned his head to take one more look across the wide landscape spread out before him, only his own carelessness that made him slip, catch at a swaying bough, miss it and fall down—and down—and down.