ill answer your chief.
His life was offered him, if he would procure a treaty of peace; he refused the offer with disdain.
I know, added he, the Indians will not yield.
Condemned to death, he only answered, I like it well; I shall die before I speak any thing unworthy of myself.
Meantime the Indian warriors were not idle.
We will fight, said they, these twenty years; you have houses, barns, and corn; we have now nothing to lose; and one town in Massachusetts after another— Lancaster, Medfield, Weymouth, Groton, Marlborough —were laid in ashes.
No where was there more distress than at Lancaster.
Forty-two persons sought shelter under the roof of Mary Rowlandson; and, after a hot assault, the Indians succeeded in setting the house on fire.
Will the mothers of the United States, happy in the midst of unexampled prosperity, know the sorrows of woman in a former generation?
Quickly, writes Mary Rowlandson, it was the dolefulest day that ever mine eyes saw. Now the dreadful hour