“They bound my arms, as Master Alden can tell you, most cruelly, and so soon as themselves were refreshed--although not so much as a drop of water gave they me until at night I managed to drink from a pool where we lay for a few hours--they set off for Plymouth; and the rest you know.” “And the man is over-weary for safety. ’Tis best to leave him to rest, and to Mistress Alden’s ministrations.” So spake Samuel Fuller, the kindly surgeon and physician of the Pilgrims; and Bradford cordially replied,-- “Yes and indeed, Doctor. Sir Christopher, we do not make you any answer just now, except that we are beholden to you for your courteous reply to our inquiries, and we will now leave you to repose. To-morrow we shall know better what to reply. We wish you good-e’en.” “Good-evening, Sir Governor, and each of you gentlemen. Captain Standish, it would please me much if by and by you would waste an hour in talk with me of the stirring adventures we both have known in those realms of heathenesse beyond the seas.” “It will give me singular pleasure so to do, Sir Christopher,” replied Standish; and so in amity and sympathy parted two men who with equal pleasure would have fought hand to hand until one lay dead upon the field, or, as they that evening did, over a tankard of strong ale, rehearsed for each other’s benefit their battles of old time. CHAPTER XVI. A MILLSTONE FOR SIR CHRISTOPHER. “Here, Betty woman! You shall help mother and carry the strange gentleman’s breakfast to him. I’m too put about with my baking to redd myself fit to see him. Put a clean towel over the sarver, set the salt and pepper pot upon it, and take father’s beer-mug to fill him out a measure of my oldest home-brewed. He said but yesterday he loved a cool tankard better than strong waters of a morning.” “Shall I take one of the real damask napkins for him, mother? There are two in the drawer of the dresser newly laundered.” “Yes. Give him of the best, poor fellow, while he’s with us, for he goes from us to prison, and mayhap to worse.” “What worse, mother?” demanded Betty, pausing as she shook out the folds of the Antwerp damask napkin, and turning her face toward her mother, whose quick eye marked its sudden pallor. “Pho, child! I did but shoot at random; there’s no harm coming to the man that I know of. Here, now, here’s the little bird done to a turn, and some manchets of wheat bread, and a cup of honey, and the tankard. That’s enough for any man’s breakfast, be he sick or well. What’s that, now?” “Just a bit of mayflower, mother, that I found yesterday in the nook south the hill, you know.” “Yes, yes, but--well, have thine own way, poppet,--thou ’rt a good child.”