She took off the garment in her own room and sat down. She thought of the past. She saw in her vision her godly ancestor, Robinson, addressing the Pilgrim Fathers for the last time.
“Go ye into the wilderness,” he had said, “and new light shall break out from the word. I will follow you.”
She saw in fancy the Mayflower sail away, lifting new horizons. She saw the many Pilgrims’ graves amid the May flowers after the first winter at Plymouth.
She rose and put on the cloak and stood before the glass.
“I can not wear it,” she said. “I must wear only the clothes made with my own hands, in times like these.”
She looked into the glass again.
“But my promise?” she asked. “I must keep that—I must be worthy of the confidence that these soldiers of liberty have given me. I must honor Rochambeau and the soldiers of the land of Pascal. How shall I do it? I will wear it once and then seek some one more worthy to wear it; he will not be hard to find.”
Governor Trumbull had become famous for his Fast-Day and Thanksgiving proclamations. His words in these documents had the fire of an ancient prophet.
This year his proclamation sang and rang. He called upon the people to assemble in their meeting-house, and to bring with them everything that they could spare that could be made useful to the soldiers on the battle-field and be laid upon the altar of sacrifice.