om any place whatever,
their poverty was extreme. They were all, too, the "false Catholicks and
hireling Priests" whom, beyond all others, Dickenson distrusted and
hated. Yet the grim Quaker's hand seems to tremble as he writes down the
record of their exceeding kindness; of how they welcomed them, looking,
as they did, like naked furious beasts, and cared for them as if they
were their brothers. The governor of the fort clothed the crew warmly,
and out of his own great penury fed them abundantly. He was a reserved
and silent man, with a grave courtesy and an odd gentle care for the
woman and child that make him quite real to us. Dickenson does not even
give his name. Yet it is worth much to us to know that a brother of us
all lived on that solitary Florida coast two centuries ago, whether he
was pagan, Protestant, or priest.

When they had rested for some time, the governor furnished canoes and an
escort to take them to Carolina,--a costly outfit in those
days,--whereupon Dickenson, stating that he was a man of substance,
insisted upon returning some of the charges to which the governor and
people had been put as soon as he reached Carolina. But the Spaniard
smiled and refused the offer, saying whatever he did was done for God's
sake. When the day came that they must go, "he walked down to see us
embark, and taking our Farewel, he embraced some of us, and wished us
well saying that _We should forget him when we got amongst our own
nation_; and I also added that _If we forgot him, God would not forget
him_, and thus we parted."

The mischievous boy, John Hilliard, was found to have hidden in the
woods until the crew were gone, and remained ever after in the garrison
with the grave Spaniards, with whom he was a favorite.

The voyage to Carolina occupied the month of December, being made in
open canoes, which kept close to the shore, the crew disembarking and
encamping each night. Dickenson tells with open-eyed wonder how the
Spaniards kept their holiday of Christmas in the open boat and through a
driving northeast storm; praying, and then tinkling a piece of iron for
music and singing, and also begging gifts from the Indians, who begged
from them in their turn; and what one gave to the other that they gave
back again. Our baby at least, let us hope, had Christmas feeling enough
to understand the laughing and hymn-singing in the face of the storm.

At the lonely little hamlet of Charleston (a few farms cut out of the