What people inhabit here we yet know not, for as yet we have seen none. So there we made our rendezvous, and a place for some of our people, about twenty, resolving in the morning to come all ashore and to build houses.” Cole’s Hill “Not Winter’s sullen face, Not the fierce, tawny race In arms arrayed, Not hunger shook their faith; Not sickness’ baleful breath, Not Carver’s early death, Their souls dismayed.” [Illustration: Illustrated capital] Ascending the broad flight of steps leading to the brow of the hill, and turning to the left, we tread upon sacred, hallowed ground. Here were buried, in that dark, sad winter in which they landed, half of their little band. The terrible tale is told concisely by the narrator already quoted. “This month (March) thirteen of our number die. And in three months past dies half our company—the greatest part in the depth of winter, wanting houses and other comforts, being afflicted with the scurvy and other diseases which their long voyage and unaccommodate condition brought upon them, so as there die sometimes two or three a day. Of a hundred persons scarce fifty remaining; the living scarce able to bury the dead; the well not sufficient to tend the sick, there being in their time of greatest distress, but six or seven, who spare no pains to help them.” They buried them on this hill, and levelled the graves, and in the spring following planted grain above them, that the Indians might not know the extent of their great loss. [Illustration: PILGRIM EXILES.]