Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his inten

tion,

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and

patient,

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its

purpose,

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts!

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine!

"Here I remain!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him,

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering head

long.

"Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether

above me,

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the

ocean.

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost

like,

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for

protection.

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me;
I heed not

Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so whole-

some,

As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps.

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her weakness; ;

Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing,

So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!"

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and

important,

Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,

Walked about on the sands; and the people crowded around him

Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance.

Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping

a tiller,

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his

vessel,

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and

sorrow,

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but

Gospel!

Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the

Pilgrims.

O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the May

Flower!

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this

ploughing!

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the

sailors

Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous

anchor.

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west

wind,

Blowing steady and strong; and the May Flower sailed from the harbor,

Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward

Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter,

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open

Atlantic,

Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the

Much endeared to them all, as something living and

human;

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision

prophetic,

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord, and took courage.

Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them

Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred

Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.

Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean

Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;

Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping.

Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an

Indian,

Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other,

Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, "Look!" he had vanished.

So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the

billows

Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,

Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

VI.

PRISCILLA.

THUS for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the

ocean,

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla;
And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the
loadstone,

Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature,
Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him.

"Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?" said she.

"Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were

pleading

Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward,

Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of

decorum?

Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly,

saying

for

What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion,

That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered

together.

Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish,

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into

virtues,

Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders,

As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your

hero.

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse.
You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship

between us,

Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!"

Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish:

"I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my

keeping."