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“He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment !”. But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had
suffered, How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that
threatened, All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, “ Truly I thank you for this : how good you have been to me always!”
Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition ; Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.
THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH.
MEANWHILE the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily
northward, Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger
“ I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “ for mine was the folly. What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? ’T was but a dream, let it pass,— let it vanish like so many others! What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers ! ” Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them.
After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest ; Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ;
W'ho, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,
from the traders
“Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat
Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,
Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish : While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, “ By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ah! but shall speak not ! This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us ! He is a little man ; let him go and work with the women !”
Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly ; So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,