ll, so as to be almost out of sight of the
people in the town, was the home of Mr. Dustin, the house which had
afforded shelter to the fugitives from the Salem witchcraft persecution.

On that fatal morning, Mr. Dustin had gone to the field to commence his
spring work. The season was early, and the plow and shovel had already
begun to turn over the rich, black soil. The industrious farmer had but
just harnessed his horse, when the animal began to sniff the air, and,
turning his eyes toward some bushes, Mr. Dustin discovered two painted
faces, with heads adorned by feathers.

At the same moment, a rattling crash of firearms and the terrible
war-whoop announced the attack on Haverhill. He unharnessed his horse,
seized his gun, which he always kept near at hand, and galloped away
like the wind toward the house, pursued by arrows of the Indians.

Reaching the house before the Indians, he cried to his family to fly,
and he would cover their retreat.

"Mrs. Neff, take Mrs. Dustin and fly for your lives," he cried.

Mrs. Dustin had an infant, but a few days old, and was confined to her
bed. Mrs. Neff was her nurse. The husband made an attempt to remove his
wife; but it was too late. The Indians, like ravenous wolves, were
rushing on the house. Mrs. Dustin turned to her husband and said:

"Go, Thomas, you cannot save me, go and save the children."

Moved by her urgent appeal, he leaped on his horse and, with his gun in
his hand, galloped away after the children, seven in number, who were
already running down the road. The first thought of the father was to
seize one, place it on the horse before him, and escape; but he was
unable to select one from the others. All were alike dear to him, and he
resolved to defend all or perish in the effort. They had reached a point
below the town, where the road ran between two hills in a narrow pass. A
party of Indians, eleven in number, had seen the children and were
running after them. Mr. Dustin spurred his horse between the children
and the savage foe, and shouting to his darlings to fly, and bidding the
oldest carry the youngest, he drew rein at the pass and cocked his gun.
Thomas Dustin was a dead shot, and his rifle was the best made at that
day.

Facing the savages, he fired and shot the leader dead in his tracks. His
followers were appalled at the fate of their brawny chieftain, and for a
moment hesitated. Mr. Dustin hesitated not a single instant, but
proceeded, without a mo