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Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a

skirmish; Here in front you can see the very dint of the

bullet Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arca

bucero. Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones

of Miles Standish Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in

the Flemish morasses." Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not

up from his writing : "Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the

speed of the bullet; He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield

and our weapon!" Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words

of the stripling : "See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an

arsenal hanging; That is because I have done it myself, and not left

it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an

excellent adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens

and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, in

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Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and

his matchlock,

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and

pillage, And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my

soldiers !” This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes,

as the sunbeams Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again

in a moment. Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain

continued : "Look! you can see from this window my brazen

howitzer planted High on the roof of the church, a preacher who

speaks to the purpose, Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresist

ible logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts

of the heathen, Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the

Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they

try it the better,Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sa

chem, or pow-wow, Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Toka


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Long at the window he stood, and wistfully

gazed on the landscape, Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath

of the east wind, Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel blue

rim of the ocean, Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows

and sunshine. Over his countenance Aitted a shadow like those

on the landscape, Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was

subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he pro

ceeded: "Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried

Rose Standish; Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by

the wayside! She was the first to die of all who came in the

Mayflower! Green above her is growing the field of wheat we

have sown there, Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves

of our people, Lest they should count them and see how many

already have perished !"

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down,

and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books,

and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and

for binding; Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries

of Cæsar, Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge

of London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was

standing the Bible. Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish

paused, as if doubtful Which of the three he should choose for his con

solation and comfort, Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous

campaigns of the Romans, Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent

Christians. Finally down from its shelf he dragged the pon

derous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the

book, and in silence

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