“Good-morrow, Governor. You are welcome aboard, Master Winslow,” cried the hearty voice of William Pierce, master of the Charity, and friend of the Pilgrims, as the passengers came aboard; and then, as if their errand were one needing no explanation, he led the way at once to his own cabin, fastened the door, and from a small locker at the foot of the bed-place took a packet of letters enveloped in oilskin. Laying these upon the little table and still resting his hand upon them, the honest mariner looked steadily in the faces of his visitors. “Master Bradford, you are the governor of this colony and its chief authority. Do you, in the presence of Master Edward Winslow, your agent to the home government and one of your principal assistants, demand the surrender of these letters confided to my care by persons under your government?” “I do, Master Pierce,” replied Bradford distinctly, “and I call Edward Winslow to witness that the responsibility is mine and that of my Board of Assistants, and that you are guiltless in the matter. Nevertheless, I will not pretend that Master Oldhame and his party are directly under my government, since they came to Plymouth on their own account, and are not ranked as of the general company, but rather on their own particular.” “Still they are bound by the laws we all have subscribed to for our mutual safety and advantage,” suggested Winslow, and would have said more had not Pierce bluffly interposed,-- “Well, well, all these niceties are out of my line. Some colonists have confided certain letters to me; the governor of the colony makes requisition upon me before a competent witness for these letters, suspecting treason therein; I surrender them to his keeping, and there ends my responsibility. And now I will go and make sail upon my ship. Governor, your pinnace shall be summoned whenever you give the signal.” And Captain Pierce turned toward the companion-way, but presently returned, a genial smile replacing the slight annoyance darkening his face, and going to the “ditty bag” suspended near the porthole, he fumbled for a moment, then threw what he had found upon the table, adding merrily, “And if you want to make a neat job of it, Bradford, here’s a sharp little pair of scissors. We sailors hate to see a trick of work bungled, if it’s nothing better than ferreting out treason.” And with a smart westerly breeze the Charity set her nose toward England, and plunged bravely out into the Atlantic. Before she sighted the scene of the Pilgrim Mothers’ first washing-day, however, she lay to, while the governor’s pinnace was brought alongside, and he and Winslow came on deck and stood for a moment hand in hand. “God be with you, brother,” said Bradford in a voice of restrained emotion. “Remember that until you return we are as a man half whose limbs are palsied; nay, Carver in that prophetic moment called you our brain. Remember it, Winslow.” CHAPTER III. TREASON.