CHAPTER XI.

Oh, that dreadful day! The howls and cries of the men, women, and children, as they came in reply to Iosco’s call, and saw their chief, their father, lying dead! They also saw Virginia, motionless, as if she had been carved out of stone, standing over the dead. He had been their faithful Werowance. They stood aghast, unable even to fancy who could have done the dreadful deed. The medicine-man said solemnly:—

“The great Werowance rested under the arbor of wild vines that shade the wigwam, and as he lay on the mat in the heat of the mid-day sun, a pale-face stood before the Werowance, saying he had somewhat to speak, but must speak it with naught but pale-faces to hear, for it was a secret or charm of their tribe. Werowance was true, and trusted him: he went into the heat and sun, following the pale-face. No man has seen him till now, when he clings to the earth. Why came not the pale-faces at the call of the Werowance?”

A mighty shout rose from the people as they moved around the body, and around Iosco, who stood with folded arms and faced the scene. Then the tumult ceased. The oldest of the company came forward; taking Iosco’s hand, he put it first to his head and then to his heart, and so gave his oath of allegiance to the new chief. The others did likewise, till all the men had pledged themselves. Then they stood in silence to hear what he would say.

Iosco was a true Indian: he would have scorned to show deep feeling in his face or manner. He said, very quietly and calmly, “Carry my father to the wigwam.”

They moved quickly to obey him. An old Indian put Manteo’s pipe in his hand that it might be ready for him on his way to the Happy Hunting Ground. A young brave who had hated Virginia always, because as a child she had shown a preference for Iosco, now seized her arm to drag her away. But a strong voice made him stop.

“Stay, take thy hands off!” Then leaning forward, Iosco said, “No Indian man shall touch a whiteskin save a man of full size.”

Virginia noted his strangely altered face. Oh, he must be very, very angry, she thought! Surely he would never speak to her again. But he was coming towards her. He took her hand and led her away.

The sun dipped low in the west, sending a crimson glow through the forest; the birds chirped their good-nights to each other as they swung on the branches of the great trees. Perfect peace seemed to rest on everything. Iosco stood on the bank of the lake; on its smooth surface the glory of the sky was clearly reflected. A slight noise made him turn. Virginia stood by him, her face upturned, her beautiful eyes fixed on him wistfully.

“O Iosco!” she cried, coming nearer, “forgive me for disturbing you; but, dear Iosco, I am so sorry, so very sorry for you, and so ashamed of my people. I must tell you only this once, that our people at home would thank you if they could only know what you have done. We deserve to be killed. If the big canoes ever come over, full of white men like my father and grandfather, who, I am sure, must have been as good and brave as Manteo,—whom they loved, you know,—if they ever come, Iosco, tell them what he did for us, and please ask them for my father, and show him where my grave is, and my mother’s also.”

Her voice faltered, but she still stood looking steadily at him; there was nothing weak or sentimental about her; she was a brave girl, and meant what she said, every word of it. She knew the wickedness of the deed which her people had been guilty of, not only murdering without cause, but murdering the one who had sheltered and defended them. She took it for granted that Iosco was very angry. She thought it must make him feel enraged even to look at her. But when he turned and looked into her eyes, she saw no vengeance in his face. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips and to his heart. The color rose to her white cheeks, and her eyes filled with tears, which rolled down over her flushed face, and fell upon Iosco’s hand. She let him draw her closer, and as she looked up she could not understand the expression in his dark eyes: it frightened her, yet there was nothing angry or fierce, there was a new, strange tenderness.

He said simply, “Owaissa, Owaissa!” as they stood there together. The sun sank out of sight and the rosy glow was gone. The still water of the lake showed only the reflection of the moon, and the two figures, one tall and dark, with rich mantle and wampum belt, the other, fair and slender, with a robe of woven turkey feathers lined with down from the breast of the wood-dove. They stood close together under the clear heavens, as they had often done ever since they could remember; but it was so different. What made the strange difference, neither quite knew. At last Virginia stole softly away.

The birds had gone to bed, and the moon was high in the sky, sending down a soft silver light over the great forest land. It looked at the little lake with its smooth water on which the two figures had been reflected at sunset. Now it showed only one. He stood alone with folded arms and bowed head. For a long time he had stood there, even while the shadows cast by the moon were lengthening. Then he walked quickly up and down the bank. The tiny waves lapped his moccasins, but he heeded them not. At last, as if worn out with his solitary struggle, he threw himself on the ground, and lay so still, he looked more like a dead than a living form. There alone, with only the screech of the owl in the forest, or the call of the heron to break the stillness, in the dim light of the moon, alone with nature, Iosco was struggling with himself. He seemed to be two beings; one, the better self which Mrs. Dare’s teachings had awakened, which saw and dimly realized the light and glory of the living Saviour; the other being, an Indian, with all the passion and vengeance naturally found in the descendant of a long line of fierce and warlike chiefs, whose creed was, two eyes for one eye, and always revenge, though it be waited for a long time, even from generation to generation. This being seemed to urge relentlessly: “They have slain your father; make them pay for every drop of his blood with a scalp!” The better self said over and over again, “He loved us all so much, he was willing to bear all this to teach us how to forgive each other. The dear Lord could have killed every one of those bad men.” The first voice, almost in reply, seemed to say, “If you get rid of all the other pale-faces, you can keep Owaissa always. You can easily conceal one, while a number would be discovered if the great canoes should come looking for them. If you do not have these men killed, your braves will do it. It is not safe for them here. Even as a tiger steals her prey they will be seized.” And yet, in the darkness two great blue eyes seemed to look wistfully at him. He could hear the dear girl’s voice, sweet and soft as the voice of a bird, saying, “God must be very angry with us. I know he will punish us, and he will reward Manteo.” Was God really going to punish and judge? he wondered. The voice of the better self seemed to be saying, “If you could not keep them here, you could perhaps send them away somewhere else.” Ah, yes! there was the great Werowance Powhatan, in whose friendship and esteem his father had stood very high. He might be glad to have some more workers in his tribe. These white people had introduced many things among his people, Iosco knew; a wonderful manner of spinning, and various other things. The captives, for such they now were, must be out of the way before morning, and no one must know where they had gone. How could he get them off unseen?

He rose. The struggle was over: the better self had conquered; but the fight had been a hard one. As he walked through the forest he mused. Should he tell Owaissa, or let her discover that they were gone in the morning? He never thought of including her in the party that were to go; and yet, why not? If it were unsafe for the other whites, might it not be unsafe for her? Would she not want to go with her people? She belonged to them.

He passed through the little village; all were sleeping; even the night itself seemed awed by the dreadful deed of the day. There lay the great Werowance Manteo. On the ground by the bier Virginia had thrown herself.

As he looked at her, she stirred, sighed, and muttered something. He caught his own name, the rest was indistinct.

“The Owaissa is like unto the angels she used to say were guarding our Werowance!” It was Ranteo’s voice. He was on watch, fortunately for Iosco’s plan.

“Ranteo knew my father when he was made a Christian; Mrs. Dare has told me about it. When the white man put the water on the Werowance’s head, Ranteo was by his side. It was in the moon before the great canoes went over the water with all the white hearts, who left the pale-faces with black hearts behind,” Iosco said.

“To kill us,” the old Indian muttered.

Iosco continued, “Christians forgive those who do them harm, so I am going to do what a Christian would; I am going to let all the pale-faces go away, and not harm them. The son of Manteo the Christian will be Christian too. Will Ranteo help him?”

Ranteo looked more surprised than if the skies had fallen. Then he walked over, and stood looking at Virginia for some time; coming back he said, “In that dark night long ago, when the child crouched on the rock to save Ranteo, as a dove might try to save an eagle, the pale lady spoke, and Ranteo promised to be the friend to her child,” he said, pointing to Virginia, “and he will keep that promise now.”

“Thinks Ranteo that Owaissa must go too?” Iosco asked. The old man shook his head. “It is not safe for a dove to be with hungry foxes. The white dove must go,” he said.

An hour later a little group stood on the bank of the James River, known then as the Powhatan flu, on which they were to fly to safety. Iosco was to go with them till daybreak, when he was to return, and send Ranteo to guide them the rest of the way to Powhatan, on the Youghianund flu. They were to conceal themselves during the day. The moon was far on its way, but it smiled on them as they glided swiftly over the smooth water.