“I’m not afraid of lions,” said young Wrestling Brewster in an aside to little Love Winslow, a golden-haired, pale-cheeked child, of a tender and spiritual beauty of face.  “I’d like to meet a lion,” he added, “and serve him as Samson did.  I’d get honey out of him, I promise.”

“Oh, there you are, young Master Boastful!” said old Margery.  “Mind the old saying, ‘Brag is a good dog, but holdfast is better.’”

“Dear husband,” said Rose Standish, “wilt thou go ashore in this company?”

“Why, aye, sweetheart, what else am I come for—­and who should go if not I?”

“Thou art so very venturesome, Miles.”

“Even so, my Rose of the wilderness.  Why else am I come on this quest?  Not being good enough to be in your church nor one of the saints, I come for an arm of flesh to them, and so, here goes on my armor.”

And as he spoke, he buried his frank, good-natured countenance in an iron headpiece, and Rose hastened to help him adjust his corselet.

The clang of armor, the bustle and motion of men and children, the barking of dogs, and the cheery Heave-o! of the sailors marked the setting off of the party which comprised some of the gravest, and wisest, as well as the youngest and most able-bodied of the ship’s’ company.  The impatient children ran in a group and clustered on the side of the ship to see them go.  Old Deb, with her two half-grown pups, barked and yelped after her master in the boat, running up and down the vessel’s deck with piteous cries of impatience.

“Come hither, dear old Deb,” said little Love Winslow, running up and throwing her arms round the dog’s rough neck; “thou must not take on so; thy master will be back again; so be a good dog now, and lie down.”

And the great rough mastiff quieted down under her caresses, and sitting down by her she patted and played with her, with her little thin hands.

“See the darling,” said Rose Standish, “what away that baby hath!  In all the roughness and the terrors of the sea she hath been like a little sunbeam to us—­yet she is so frail!”

“She hath been marked in the womb by the troubles her mother bore,” said old Margery, shaking her head.  “She never had the ways of other babies, but hath ever that wistful look—­and her eyes are brighter than they should be.  Mistress Winslow will never raise that child—­now mark me!”

“Take care!” said Rose, “let not her mother hear you.”

“Why, look at her beside of Wrestling Brewster, or Faith Carver.  They are flesh and blood, and she looks as if she had been made out of sunshine.  ’Tis a sweet babe as ever was; but fitter for the kingdom of heaven than our rough life—­deary me! a hard time we have had of it.  I suppose it’s all best, but I don’t know.”

“Oh, never talk that way, Margery,” said Rose Standish; “we must all keep up heart, our own and one another’s.”