The eye， the face and attitude of command， the solemnyet warlike peal of that voice—fit either to rule a hostin the battle-field or be raised to God in prayer—wereirresistible. At the old man’s word and outstretched armthe roll of the drum was hushed at once and the advancingline stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon themultitude. That stately form， combining the leader andthe saint， so gray， so dimly seen， in such an ancient garb，could only belong to some old champion of the righteouscause whom the oppressor’s drum had summoned fromhis grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation， andlooked for the deliverance of New England.
The governor and the gentlemen of his party， perceivingthemselves brought to an unexpected stand， rode hastilyforward， as if they would have pressed their snorting andaffrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He，however， blenched not a step， but， glancing his severe eyeround the group， which half encompassed him， at lastbent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would havethought that the dark old man was chief ruler there， andthat the governor and council with soldiers at their back，representing the whole power and authority of the Crown，had no alternative but obedience.
“What does this old fellow here？” cried EdwardRandolph， fiercely. “On， Sir Edmund！ Bid the soldiersforward， and give the dotard the same choice that you giveall his countrymen—to stand aside or be trampled on.”
“Nay， nay！ Let us show respect to the good grandsire，”
said Bullivant， laughing. “See you not he is some old roundheadeddignitary who hath lain asleep these thirty years andknows nothing of the change of times？ Doubtless he thinksto put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll’s name.”
“Are you mad， old man？” demanded Sir Edmund Andros，in loud and harsh tones. “How dare you stay the march ofKing James’s governor？”
“I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now，”
replied the gray figure， with stern composure. “I am here，Sir Governor， because the cry of an oppressed peoplehath disturbed me in my secret place， and， beseechingthis favor earnestly of the Lord， it was vouchsafed me toappear once again on earth in the good old cause of hissaints. And what speak ye of James？ There is no longer apopish tyrant on the throne of England， and by to-morrownoon his name shall be a by-word in this very street， whereye would make it a word of terror. Back， thou that wast agovernor， back！ With this night thy power is ended. Tomorrow，the prison！ Back， lest I foretell the scaffold！”
The people had been drawing nearer and nearer anddrinking in the words of their champion， who spoke inaccents long disused， like one unaccustomed to converseexcept with the dead of many years ago. But his voicestirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers， notwholly without arms and ready to convert the very stonesof the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Androslooked at the old man； then he cast his hard and cruel eyeover the multitude and beheld them burning with thatlurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to quench， and againhe fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurelyin an open space where neither friend nor foe had thrusthimself. What were his thoughts he uttered no word whichmight discover， but， whether the oppressor were overawedby the Gray Champion’s look or perceived his peril in thethreatening attitude of the people， it is certain that hegave back and ordered his soldiers to commence a slowand guarded retreat. Before another sunset the governorand all that rode so proudly with him were prisoners， andlong ere it was known that James had abdicated KingWilliam was proclaimed throughout New England.
But where was the Gray Champion？ Some reported thatwhen the troops had gone from King street and the peoplewere thronging tumultuously in their rear， Bradstreet， theaged governor， was seen to embrace a form more agedthan his own. Others soberly affirmed that while theymarvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect the oldman had faded from their eyes， melting slowly into thehues of twilight， till where he stood there was an emptyspace. But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. Themen of that generation watched for his reappearance insunshine and in twilight， but never saw him more， norknew when his funeral passed nor where his gravestonewas.
And who was the Gray Champion？ Perhaps his namemight be found in the records of that stern court ofjustice which passed a sentence too mighty for the age，but glorious in all after-times for its humbling lesson tothe monarch and its high example to the subject. I haveheard that whenever the descendants of the Puritansare to show the spirit of their sires the old man appearsagain. When eighty years had passed， he walked oncemore in King street. Five years later， in the twilight of anApril morning， he stood on the green beside the meetinghouseat Lexington where now the obelisk of granitewith a slab of slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallenof the Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling atthe breastwork on Bunker’s Hill， all through that nightthe old warrior walked his rounds. Long， long may itbe ere he comes again！ His hour is one of darkness andadversity and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppressus or the invader’s step pollute our soil， still may the GrayChampion come！ for he is the type of New England’shereditary spirit， and his shadowy march on the eve ofdanger must ever be the pledge that New England’s sonswill vindicate their ancestry.