pungent powder encasing the
bones of a little child, his head covered with a thinner thatch of the
father's yellow curls, and the wrists, ankles, and neck surrounded with
strings of fine white beads. Beside it lay a little bow and arrows
ornamented with all the loving elaboration of Indian art.

"A boy, and his mother's darling, be she red or white, savage or
Christian," said Bradford softly, as his thoughts flew to the baby boy
left in Holland under charge of his wife Dorothy's parents.

"Yes," replied Standish gently. "Cover them reverently, and lay them in
their grave again. God send comfort to that poor woman's heart."

"Certes they are no salvages," said Hopkins positively. "Never saw I
yellow hair on any but a white man's head, nor do red men wear
breeches."

"Ay, he was a white man, but, as I opine, a Frenchman," declared Winslow
thoughtfully.

"French surely, masters, for this is French," said Robert Cartier
timidly, as he handled the pointed board. "These are indeed the lilies
of France. I have seen them full oft."

"Say you so, lad?" asked Standish kindly. "Well, I suppose a man loves
his country's ensign though he be naught but a Frenchman. There, place
all as we found it, and let us go our ways."

CHAPTER V.

AN AWFUL DANGER.

"Found you a good burial place in yonder wilderness?" asked Dorothy
Bradford of her husband the next morning as he sat beside her in their
little cabin on the high quarter deck of the Mayflower.

"Ay truly, wife," replied the husband cheerily. "And much did we muse as
to the remains so honorably interred. One of those we found was a little
lad scarce as old as our baby John, and almost mine eyes grew wet in
thinking of him so far away."

"Cruel that thou art to speak of him," exclaimed the young mother
wildly, "when thou knowest I am dying for sight of the child and of home
and my mother and all that I hold dear. I asked, hadst thou found a
grave for poor me in this wilderness whither thou hast brought me to
die."

"Nay, then, dear wife"--

"Mock me not with fair words, for they are naught. If I indeed am dear
take me home to all I love. Here I have naught but thee, and one might
as well love one of these cold gray rocks as thee."

"Have I not been kind and gentle to thee, Dorothy?" asked Bradford
bowing his face upon his hands.

"Ay, kind enow," replied she sullenly. "And gentle, as brave men still
must be to helpless women, but as for love! Tell me now, Wi