After the battle and destruction of Jamestown, Sir William Berkley, accompanied by his now liberated Lady and his remaining followers, comprising the still loyal marine force, retired again to the shades of Accomac, where we will leave him and the remaining events of his life in the hands of the historian.

The political power of the colony was now in the possession of the victorious chief, so lately condemned to death. He was not long in surrendering it to a convention of the people, summoned to meet at Middle Plantations, (Williamsburg,) for that purpose, and in their hands we will leave the political affairs of the future mother of states. Our only remaining duty is to follow the fortunes of the principal characters of our narrative. The successful general, after attending to his military and political duties, accompanied his now betrothed bride from the ruins of Jamestown to the new seat of government. It was a delightful summer evening—the sun was just sinking beneath a horizon, where the darker blue of the distant landscape softened the shades of the azure sky, both merging in the indistinct prospect so as to form a magnificent back ground to a panorama, bathed in a flood of golden light. The youthful and happy pair instinctively reined up their horses, and gazed upon the enchanting scene, until their hearts were full of love and adoration.

Then by one impulse they turned their horses' heads, and gazed upon one far different, which they were leaving. The ruins of the first civilized settlement in North America were still sending up volumes of smoke, through which at intervals gleamed a lurid flash, as some more combustible materials fell into the mass of living embers below. But there were associations with this scene, to the hearts of our pilgrims, which no tongue or pen can describe; the melancholy treasures of memory collected through long forgotten years, came gushing back over their hearts in a resistless torrent. The scenes of their childhood—of all their romantic dreams, and those fairy and too unreal creations of young life—the graves of their relations and friends, were about to be surrendered up to the dominion of the thistle and the ivy, there to moulder through all future generations.[14] But this was not all that was saddening in the view before them. The Indian captives, some two hundred in number, were ascending the heights to the very spot which they occupied, on their way to the far west. Poor and friendless beings they were! their worldly store they wore upon their backs, consisting for the most part of worn out leather garments, and a few worthless baubles carried in their wallets. They skirted along the brow of the hill in Indian file—their steps slow and melancholy. They too were about to leave the scenes of their long sojourn, the broad and fertile lands which they had inherited from the beginning of time—the honoured relics of their dead, and all the loved associations which cling to the heart of the rudest of mankind, when about to leave for ever the shades of home. They were just entering upon the wearisome pilgrimage of the exile, under a combination of the most cruel and unfortunate circumstances, and in a condition the worst calculated to subdue new countries, and battle with hostile tribes. As they passed in review before the youthful pair of another race, no sign of recognition manifested itself. They moved along with the gravity and solemnity of a funeral procession, until the last of the line stood before them. It was Wyanokee! She paused—attempted to pass on like her predecessors, but her feet refused to bear her from the spot, and turning to them she cried as if the words had burst irresistibly from her heart, "Oh cruel and treacherous is the white man! See you those braves, going down the path of yonder hill? So they have been going ever since Powhatan made the first peace with your race. May the Great Spirit who dwells beyond the clouds, shower mercies upon you both, equal to the wrongs which your people have visited upon ours." And having thus spoken she broke away, and ran swiftly down the hill in pursuit of her countrymen. She saw that Virginia was struggling with her emotions to speak, and she rushed away lest she should again be compelled to listen to a subject which was disagreeable to her. Virginia, before her own departure, had exhausted her persuasive powers in the vain effort to induce her to remain. A hope had till now lingered in her heart, that Wyanokee would follow her to Middle Plantations, and once more take up her abode in her house, but when she saw the last traces of her receding figure through the shadowy gloom of the forest, she knew that she looked upon the Indian maiden for the last time on earth.

With swimming eyes the lovers pursued their way across the narrow peninsula. Virginia sobbed aloud, until she had given vent to her overcharged heart. But an easy and gentle palfrey, and a devoted and obsequious lover, do not often fail to revive a lady's spirits, especially through such scenes as she now beheld, bathed as they were in the mellow glories of a summer twilight. "Hope told a flattering tale," and our hero and heroine would have been more or less than mortal, and wise beyond their years, had they not listened to it. Their laughter was not loud and joyous, it is true, they were far too happy for that; their frames trembled with the exquisite pleasure which words warm from and to the heart produced. Sometimes they were silent indeed, but not for want of thoughts to interchange. Words had exhausted their power.

They had not proceeded many miles on their way, and the sun still hung as it were suspended beyond the purple glories of the horizon, when Bacon pointed with his riding whip to an object before them which quickly changed the current of his companion's thoughts. Like human life, their short journey seemed destined to exhibit many dark and gloomy shadows. It was the Recluse; he was leaning against a tree, apparently waiting their approach, for as they rode up, he stepped out into the highway and saluted them. Virginia trembled upon her saddle with very different sensations from those to which we have just alluded, but her lover hastily unfolded to her his name and former delusion. "This, my young friends," said the Recluse, "is our last meeting on earth—and I have sought it that I might bless you both, before my departure from the land in which I have so long been a sojourner and an exile from the haunts of men."

"Whither are you going?" asked Bacon in astonishment. "You certainly will not leave us, now that the very time has arrived when you may dwell here in safety. I had even calculated upon having you as an inmate at my house."

"It cannot be," replied the Recluse. "My destiny calls me to a place far north of this, where some of my old comrades and now fellow sufferers, dwell in comparative peace and security. But it is only detaining you after night fall, to multiply words. May God of his infinite mercy bless and preserve you both," and thus speaking he also departed, and was seen no more.[15]

On a certain evening, not very long after the one just spoken of, General Bacon was married to Miss Virginia Fairfax, and at the same time and place Charles Dudley, Esq. led to the altar Miss Harriet Harrison.

After this happy announcement, it becomes our painful duty to cast a melancholy blemish upon the character of one who has figured in our narrative. On the two several occasions, namely, of his release from captivity by the storming and capture of Jamestown, and his master's marriage, Brian O'Reily was found hopelessly, helplessly drunk; or according to his own explanation, in that state in which a man feels upward for the earth.

THE END.