“I refuse to be said by you, you beggarly little rascal.”
“Then I shall arrest you as a traitor, and if I had my will, I’d have you out and shoot you at sunrise.”
“Oh, you would, would you, you wretched baseborn—
“Have a care, man, have a care. Stop while you may!” And the captain’s voice deepened to a growl, and his eyes, wide open, yet contracted in the pupil to a point of fire, fixed themselves like weapons upon those of the mutineer, who, maddened by their menace, sprung to his feet knife in hand, and aimed a blow at the captain’s face that might have forever quenched the light of those magnetic eyes, had it not been caught on the hilt of Gideon, the good sword that in these days hung ever at his master’s side, although he seldom needed to quit his scabbard.
“Villain, you’ve broken my wrist!” yelled Oldhame, dropping his knife, upon which Standish planted his foot.
“To me! To me, men! Help! Murder! To me, Oldhames!” again shouted the traitor, but although a score or so of the townsmen gathered at the cry, not one made any demonstration or reply, while Standish, setting his lips and drawing two or three heavy breaths, hardly cast a glance at the crowd, but laying a hand upon Gideon’s hilt coldly demanded,—
“John Oldhame, do you refuse to stand your watch to-night?”
A volley of abuse from Oldhame was interrupted by a messenger from Bradford, who, saluting the captain, reported,—
“The governor sends to know the cause of the tumult, and desires Captain Standish to arrest any disorderly persons refusing to submit to authority.”
“My respects to the governor, and I am about to do so,” replied Standish in the hard and cold tone which at once repressed and betrayed his passion.