CHAPTER XIII.

Fair and lovely was that sunny Virginia country. No wonder the ships went back to England with fairy tales. No wonder that, in spite of mishaps and disasters, there were always more of the quiet English folk ready to sail for the new world of romance and beauty.

The early spring melted into summer; the trees were festooned with wild vines; the forest was alive with flowers and birds. It was an ideal day in June, and the whole world seemed glad and happy. Virginia and the lovely princesses, Mataoka and Cleopatra, had gathered their arms full of flowers and berries. Virginia was twining them into garlands, as they sat by a little stream down which a canoe was gliding swiftly. It stopped near them, and Nantiquas, who was paddling, drew it upon the bank and sat down near Virginia, listening to her merry chatter with his sisters, till they sprang up to run after a butterfly.

He had been silent. Then he spoke eagerly, “Owaissa cannot tell what Nantiquas saw when he watched the big sea-water from the great salt oak.”

“What did you see, Nantiquas? Please tell me,” Virginia asked, dropping her flowers with a strangely anxious expression, which made Nantiquas feel that she knew, or imagined, what he had to tell her.

He replied quite indifferently, “As the waves from Witch’s reef came to Nantiquas, there came with the waves a great canoe with wings. So close to Nantiquas it came, that the pale-faces shone as they put their irons in the sea. Even as they went down from the big canoe and dropped into a little one, the waves brought another big canoe, as one bird finding a carcass attracts many birds.”

As he finished speaking, the color rose to Virginia’s cheeks, then died away, leaving them deadly pale. Her hands were clasped. One moment she raised her eyes, her lips moved. Then she turned to the young Indian with a look that he never forgot, and said, “Nantiquas, in one of those must be my father; may I go and see them?”

“Owaissa could never walk so far. Nantiquas would take her, but the canoe is too small.”

Nantiquas felt sure if her father were among the pale-faces he had seen, he would surely come and take her away, and this thought was not pleasant to him. So he did not mean to help her. But a feeling of jealousy rose in his heart when Virginia said, “Iosco will help me, I must go and find him, and tell him; I know he will be glad.”

As she sprang up to go away, Nantiquas caught her hand. “Will Owaissa let Nantiquas go for her to the camp of the pale tribe and find her father?”

“Oh, how good you are!” she cried, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling. “But the white men will never know what you want. You cannot talk their language, and they may think you mean them harm.” Such a sad, disappointed look came into her face that Nantiquas, seeing it, would have risked death a hundred times for her.

He drew himself up proudly, as he answered, “The son of Powhatan is not a fawn. He will go. Owaissa will tell him the words, and he shall say them to the white chief in the chief’s own tongue.”

“Do you think you could?” she said, looking up wistfully into his face. “Could you say ‘White’?”

He repeated it after her, “White.”

“That is it!” she cried, catching his hand in her delight. “That was my grandfather’s name. He was a great man, a chief I think. Now, my father’s name was Dare, and something else that was long and hard to say. But Dare will do; can you say it?”

“Dare,” repeated Nantiquas, still holding the little hand that had been put in his.

“Now, Nantiquas,” she continued, “my real name, the one they would know me by, is not Owaissa. Iosco gave me that name when I was a little girl, because my eyes made him think of the Owaissa. It is my forest name, mamma used to say. But my name with my own people is Virginia; after the land I was born in, mamma used to say; but I don’t understand how that can be, for I was born on the island of Roanoke. I was too young to think about it, or ask mamma how it was, before she went away. It is a hard word—Virginia, but do you think you can say it, Nantiquas?”Indians have a superstition that any one knowing the secret of the private name of a maid can work charms and witchery about her. So to Nantiquas it was a solemn, if not a sacred thing to repeat the word Virginia. But he did it quite correctly, and she clasped her hands with joy. “Say it all over once more, please,” she urged. And he repeated clearly, “White, Dare, Virginia; does Nantiquas say it as Owaissa does?”

“Oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “When will you go, Nantiquas?”

“Nantiquas will go even as the canoe waits by the water. Does Owaissa wish it?”

“Oh, will you? And come back quickly with my father, won’t you? I won’t tell Iosco anything about it, and we’ll surprise him when you come.”

Nantiquas pushed the canoe out from among the willows, and stepped in. As Virginia stood watching him, more like a beautiful spirit than ever, he thought, he saw her take up a sharp shell that she had used to cut the flowers that were too stout to break, and drawing her curls over her face, she cut one off with the shell and handed it to him, saying, “If you should forget the words, Nantiquas, or my father could not understand, or they would not believe you, you can show them this. They will know it did not come from an Indian maid, and they will be willing to come back with you, I know.”

He took the silky yellow curl almost reverently. Catching her hand that had held the curl, he pressed it to his heart, then paddled down the stream into the Youghianund flu, and was soon out of sight. Nantiquas was not the only one who had seen the ships.

As Virginia went through the forest singing, her heart was very light and happy. She soon met Cleopatra and Mataoka, who put their arms about her. Cleopatra said softly, “Does Owaissa know that a great canoe is in the flu full of white men, and another one on the water of the Che-sa-peack?”

“Yes, dear Cleopatra, I know it, and it must be my father has come for me at last. I can hardly wait for him to come. But he will be here soon, I know.”

“Owaissa will not go and leave us, oh, no, no! Owaissa will never leave us,” and Cleopatra threw her arms about Virginia, and laid her head on her breast, her beautiful eyes full of love.

Virginia kissed her brown cheek as she answered, “If the great Werowance Powhatan should come for his pretty little Cleopatra, would she not go with him? She would go, but she would not forget her friends that she had left behind, or cease to love them just the same, and send them presents to show her love. What will my dear little Cleopatra have from sunny England?”

But the little Indian girl only clung closer, saying, “Cleopatra wants only Owaissa, and no present. Her love is in Owaissa’s bosom, not in toys.”

The whole camp was in a state of excitement over the strange news of the ships in the river. It was twenty years since Governor White had left Roanoke, and no Englishman had come since their sad fate. When the Governor returned to look for his colony, his ships had been in sight a few days from Powhatan’s shores. But these present intruders, as many of the Indians called the pale-faces, evidently intended staying, for upon landing they began preparations at once for a camp, so the report ran.

Virginia listened in breathless silence to an old Indian who was telling all he had seen of the arrival of the English fleet; for it was, in fact, the colony which had embarked in their ships on the 19th of December, 1606, from Blackwall, near London, and had been for more than five months on their voyage, commanded by Captain Newport.

The old Indian sat smoking on his mat, resting after his long hunt, and hasty return to tell the news, which he was now doing for the third or fourth time, to the crowd of excited listeners. The men sat or stood, smoking, the women worked the skins on the ground, while one or two ground mondawmin, or Indian corn, in basins made of hollowed stones. These worked at a little distance, lest their noise might disturb their lords and masters, and were content with what fragments they could gather of the story that was being told.

“The eyes of Ramapo see far on the great sea-water, white wings as of a mighty sea bird. The wings come near, and he sees the pale-faces’ canoe. Ramapo goes into the great tree; he sees the white man come to the land. He sees the canoes without wings pulled up. He sees, after the sun passes a bit, the pale-faces all stand under the trees, and one, the medicine-man, talks out of a book. They all kneel, then stand, some do look at the clouds, and some do hide their faces, that even the sun may not see them. Ramapo says, they talk to the Spirit that is in the clouds; and then he comes away.”

“They were talking to God, Ramapo,” cried Virginia, her great eyes full of tears, “the Spirit that lives in heaven, but loves and watches over us. It is he that has brought them to find me; I know it is. My father must be one of them. Did you see a man that looked like me, Ramapo?”

“Ramapo was too far to see the eyes, but surely he saw none with such hair, though many of the pale-faces seem ashamed of their skin, and wear much hair on their chin and cheeks to cover up the whiteness,” was the old Indian’s reply.

In their excitement they had not noticed the gathering clouds till the rumbling thunder made them see the storm which was just breaking over them. The awful stillness that often comes before a tempest seemed suddenly to enfold the forest. Not even a leaf rustled. The stillness could be felt but not described, and this little group of wild people, always in sympathy with the moods of the forest, stood as if listening, when suddenly the chanting or crying of the medicine-men was heard, and in the stillness the strange weird noise sounded clearly and distinctly. “The pale man, the murder man, he will kill, but the mighty Powhatan will lay him low. Away with the white faces out of the land, out of Powhatan’s hunting-grounds, out of his sight, out of his sight! As the rabbit and the deer shall we hunt them, their hair shall we scalp.”

Six of Powhatan’s best bowmen came quickly forward, and without a word seized one of the lads who had come from Croatoan with Iosco and the other whites. They came to Virginia, and took her by the arm to lead her away, but Cleopatra sprang up suddenly and forced herself between them, and as she threw her arms around Virginia she cried, “Go away! who said to touch Owaissa? Nantiquas shall punish who comes near her.”

One of the men replied, “Werowance Powhatan says, ‘Bind every pale-face, and bring each one for the evil of him they call Barnes.’”

“I am not afraid to go to your father, the Werowance Powhatan,” Virginia said calmly. “I will go with you.” They led her away, and she found herself before the great chief with Beth, Patience, Gray, and Barnes, and all the other whites who had come from Croatoan. Barnes stood tightly bound, while in front of him lay the body of an Indian whom he had killed. They had disagreed about something; and Barnes, having just heard about the ships from England, felt he was soon to be released, and ceased to be cautious. In a passion he had knocked the Indian down. As he fell, his head hit a stone, and he died immediately. Barnes had been at once dragged before the chief.

The storm broke in its fury. The prisoners had been taken to wigwams where they were well guarded. Death had been the sentence for all alike, on the morrow at break of day. Virginia was kneeling, Cleopatra clinging closely to her, wishing for Nantiquas, whom she felt sure could help them. The wind shrieked and roared outside, and the thunder rolled. Where was Iosco? Why did he not come?