"He says I need the rod," Miles answered in a woful voice, wondering if the Captain would take his part. "He says I'm a son of perdition. I see not why 'tis right. When Ned Lister called Dotey a fool, he said he was in danger of hell fire, and, sure, son of perdition is a worser name than fool."
"Hm!" muttered the Captain. "And you're still good friends with that valiant duellist, Edward Lister?"
"I like Ned mightily, yes. But Master Hopkins does not suffer me work near him."
"That's for punishment, too, I take it?"
Miles nodded.
"At this rate you should prove the best lad in the colony, not the worst," the Captain said dryly; and then, "Say we walk down to Master Hopkins's house now, and see how that wounded Indian is faring."
A queer, vague hope that had risen in Miles vanished and left an amazing emptiness; the blackness of the lonely spring, and the whipping for that evening's tarrying came to his mind before he had crossed the room, and in the doorway he halted short.
"What's amiss?" asked Standish, with no great surprise, however.
"I—I take it, I'm afraid," gasped Miles, hot and cold with the shame of the terror he could not check. "I must go down to the spring, and 'tis dark, and I think I'll be whipped, and—and—" His lips were twitching childishly. "But I wasn't afraid at Nauset, not a whit, and I didn't cry there," he added piteously.