That night as Standish slowly entered the Fort to fire his sunset gun, he was startled at seeing a muffled figure seated upon an empty powder keg in an angle of the works. As he appeared she rose, and pushing back her hood showed the beautiful face of Priscilla Molines, now strangely pale and distraught.
"You here, Mistress Molines," exclaimed the captain somewhat sternly. "Alden is not coming."
"It is not Alden but Captain Standish I fain would speak withal, and I hope he will pardon my forwardness in seeking him here."
The captain briefly waved the apology aside. "Your commands, madam?" inquired he.
"Nay, nay sir, my father's dear loved friend, my brother's tender nurse,—mine—oh what shall I say, how shall I plead for a little kindness. Have pity on a froward maid's distress"—
"What Priscilla, thou canst weep!"
"And why not when my heart is sorrowful unto death."
"But—there then, child, wipe thine eyes and look up and let me see thee smile as thou art wont. What is it, maid? What is thy sorrow?"
"That you will not forgive me, sir."
"Forgive thee for what?" But the captain dropped the hand he had seized in his sympathy, and the dark look crept back to his face.