His motive was wholly selfish.
The key to it was the discovery that as responsible chief of the mob,
holding the fate and fortunes of her friends in his power, he had a
hold on Desire. Unwilling brides were not the most unhappy wives. Yes,
even to that height had his hopes suddenly risen from the very dust in
which they had lain quite dead a few hours ago. As the poor ex-captain
and farmer she had held him afar off in supercilious scoorn; as the
chief of the insurgents she had come to him in tears and entreaty, had
laid her hand on his arm, had even given him her lips. With that scene
in the guardhouse to look back on, what might he not dare to hope.
His fate was in his own hands. Who could foresee the end of the epoch
of revolution and anarchy upon which the state now seemed entering.
These were times when the sword carved out fortunes and the soldier
might command the most brilliant rewards.
No sooner then had he resolved to stay in Stockbridge, than he set
about strengthening his hold on his followers, and imparting a more
regular military organization to the insurgent element in the town.
The Fennell house was adopted as a regular headquarters, and a young
hemlock tree, by way of rebel standard, planted before the door.
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