sten as they might many things delayed them, some of them as
important as the death of Jasper More, an orphan in charge of the
Carvers, and the birth of a son to Mistress White, whom his father and
Doctor Fuller whimsically named Peregrine, latest of the Pilgrims, and
first of native born American white men. When at last the shallop left
the Mayflower's side it was in teeth of such bad weather as left the
former expedition far in the shade, for not only was the northeast wind
more bitter, but the temperature so low that the spray froze upon the
rigging and the men's jerkins, turning them into coats of mail almost
impossible to bend.

It was soon found impossible for Master English to lay his proposed
course, and finally the Pilgrims resolved to land and encamp for the
night, partly for the sake of the greedy gunner, who had turned so
deadly sick that it was feared he would die, and for Edward Tilley, who
lay in the bottom of the boat in a dead swoon, while his brother John
crouched beside him covered with John Howland's coat, which he declared
was but an impediment to him in rowing.

"They should never have come. Had I guessed their unfitness I would have
hindered it, but now alack it is too late, and I fear they have come to
their death," said Carver in Bradford's ear, and indeed it was so. The
brothers, never divided in body or soul since their birth, had as one
man given their substance, their strength, their faith, to the common
cause, and now were giving their lives as simply and as willingly as
heroes ever will go to their death, so giving life to many.

The second night found them only as far as what we now call Eastham, and
again building a "randevous" and gathering firewood, a difficult task at
any time in this vicinity, for the trees were lofty and the underbrush
annually burned away by the Indians to facilitate hunting. But it was
finally done, as all things will be when such men set about them, the
fire was built, the supper eaten, the prayer said, and the psalm sung,
its rude melody rising from that wilderness to the wintry sky with the
assurance of Daniel's song in the den of lions. Then all slept except
Edward Dotey, to whom was committed the first watch, to last while three
inches of the slow-match attached to his piece were consuming.

Striding up and down his appointed beat the young man hummed again the
evening psalm, mildly anathematized the cold, peered into the blackness
of the forest, and glanc