her the whole
      of the story,—­ 710
  Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. 
  Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest,
  “He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!”
  But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered,—­
  How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower, 715
  And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers
      that threatened,—­
  All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent,
  “Truly I thank you for this:  how good you have been to me always!”

  Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys,
  Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, 730
  Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition;
  Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing,
  Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings,
  Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.

  VII

  THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH.[44]

  Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily
      northward, 725
  Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore,
  All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger
  Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder
  Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 
  Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; 730
  He who was used to success, and to easy victories always,
  Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,
  Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted! 
  Ah! ’t was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed
      in his armor!

  “I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly. 735
  What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness,
  Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens? 
  ’T was but a dream,—­let it pass,—­let it vanish like so many others! 
  “What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless;
  Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and
      henceforward 740
  Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers.” 
  Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort,
  While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest,
  Looking up at the trees and the constellations beyond them.