On the twenty-seventh of October the _Welcome_ cast anchor before Newcastle, a small village on the strip of land granted to Penn by the Duke of York. News of the arrival of the vessel quickly spread and the entire population, young and old, regardless of nationality, flocked to welcome the long-expected governor. English, Scotch, and Irish stood side by side with the stolid German, the clumsy Hollander, and the fair-haired Swede, all eager to behold at last the man in whose hands lay the moulding of their future. The native children of the wilderness in their strange dress, with high fringed moccasins, an eagle or heron’s feather thrust through the head band, bow in hand, a quiver of feathered arrows fastened to the shoulder, also flocked to meet him. Who can say which gazed with keener interest on the approaching ship flying a great English flag from her masthead, the white men, who had some idea of what to expect from the newcomer, or the redskins, who in spite of their apparently calm indifference must have been inwardly consumed with curiosity to see what sort of man it was in whose name and by whose orders they had met with treatment so different from any that had hitherto been accorded them by white men. Certainly nothing but good-will could have been read in the noble features and the earnest, kindly gaze of the dignified-looking man who now disembarked from the vessel, distinguished only from his companions by the broad blue scarf he wore. As he stepped ashore on the landing stage and received the greetings of his cousin, Markham, a deafening shout burst from the assembled throng. Deeply moved, Penn bowed in acknowledgment of the tribute, and through the tears that glittered in his eyes shone the resolve to merit the confidence so spontaneously expressed.