AT last the shallop had put off from the Nauset shore. The babel of clamorous Indians sank down, and, in its stead, sounded the thud of muskets laid by and the clatter of sweeps fitting to the rowlocks. Sharp English commands Miles heard too, but still he did not raise his head, till some one lifted him to his feet.
All about him gleamed the hard whiteness of moonlight, under which the idle sail looked vast and ghostly and the faces of the men around him seemed unfamiliar. But he heard Captain Standish's voice: "Come, Miles, clamber forward with you. Your sister is fair sick for the sight of you."
He saw it was the Captain who had lifted him up, and he caught the arm that held him. "I'm sorry, sir, oh, I'm mighty sorry; I won't fight another duel nor run away," he whispered huskily.
"Don't cry, my man," the Captain spoke hurriedly. "It's well over and you're safe with us now. Here, Gilbert Winslow, help him forward; and, Stephen Hopkins, draw you nearer; I've a word to say."
Dumbly obedient, Miles clambered forward over the thwarts. Young Gilbert Winslow, one of the rowers, put out a hand to steady him, and, to the boy's thinking, grasped his arm roughly. They need not begin punishing him at once, he reflected miserably; he was sorry for all he had done, but when he tried to tell them so, even the Captain had thought him whimpering because he had been afraid.
Then for a moment he forgot his wretchedness, as he reached the forward thwart where Alden sat, and from beside him heard Dolly's voice pipe up. Miles slipped upon the reeling bottom of the shallop, and, stumbling closer to his sister, put his arms about her. "You're here, Dolly?" he asked, in a whisper, half afraid to let his voice sound out. "You're safe, you and Trug?"
Such a ragged, tousled Dolly as she was, half hidden in the folds of Alden's cloak, and almost too weary even to talk. She was quite safe, though, she found energy to tell him, and Trug was there behind her, tied in the peak of the bow. He was sore with his bruises, but Goodman Cooke said he would live, for all that. The Indians of Manomet had done neither of them further hurt, but had sent them to the Sachem Iyanough, who was a good man and had delivered them to the English that very morning. So it was all well, but for the poppet.
"Did they take it from you?" questioned Miles, mindful of his own experience with the whittle.
"N—no," answered Dolly, beginning to sniffle. "I—I did give her to a little maid at Manomet. Because she ground the corn and fetched wood all day, and she had no poppet. I gave it to her, and—and the bad old Chief, he took her away from the little maid—he did tear her up and make red cloth of her—and he tied her in his hair, my poppet Priscilla." Dolly curled herself up against Alden's arm and wept wearily.
"Very like Priscilla Mullins can make you another," the young man suggested kindly, though his face, in the moonlight, looked amused.