“But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that passing. Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring and patient, That, with a sudden revulsion, his heart recoiled from its purpose As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.” Thus influenced, he abandoned his intention of returning to England more suddenly than he had formed it. As he stepped back he said, with a true lover’s fervor, “There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness. Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving.” The captain of the ship sprang into the boat, waved an adieu to the lonely band of exiles, numbering but about fifty men, women and children, who were gathered upon the shore, and the boat, driven by the sturdy arms of the rowers, soon reached the ship. The anchor was raised, the sails unfurled, and the only link which seemed to connect them with the home of their fathers was sundered. Long the saddened Pilgrims stood gazing upon the vessel as it receded from their view, and then returned to their lowly cabins, their homely fare, and to the toils and perils of their life of exile. “So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, Musing alone on the shore and watching the wash of the billows.” As he thus stood, lost in painful thought and almost distracted by the perplexities in which he found himself involved, he perceived Priscilla standing beside him. They had a long conversation together, which the poet manages with admirable skill. The artless, frank, affectionate Priscilla was unwittingly every moment exciting deeper emotions of tenderness and admiration in the heart of her lover. And yet, in the most painful embarrassment from respect to his friend Miles Standish, he refrained from offering her, as he longed to do, his hand and heart. In the mean time Captain Standish, at the head of his brave little band, was tramping through the trails of the forest, through thickets and morasses, over hills and across streamlets, “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.”