CHAPTER XVI.

“Life has two ecstatic moments, one when the spirit catches sight of truth, the other when it recognizes a kindred spirit. Perhaps it is only in the land of truth that spirits can discern each other; as it is when they are helping each other on that they may best hope to arrive there.”—Edna Lyall.

It was the first of the Indian seasons, “the fall of the leaf.” Croatoan was glorious with its colored leaves and late flowers. Weeks had slipped by since the escape from Werowocomoca. Iosco had been welcomed by his people; so had Owaissa. The other whites, the best of the colonists who had gone to Powhatan, and thoroughly frightened by all that had happened there, were looked upon with suspicion for a long time. But the new-comer, the pale Englishman, made friends with all. He was only waiting for an opportunity to return to Jamestown. He was a priest of the church, who had worn himself out with work among the miners in England. He was broken in health, and the doctor in London had ordered a sea-voyage. Just as the colony were starting from Blackwall, Captain Newport persuaded him to go with them, promising to bring him back to his work as soon as he was strong again. So he had gone; but the name of Martin Atherton was not added to the list, though he went across to the New World. Perhaps he was sent in answer to the prayers of a maiden.

Through the long months that passed, as the summer slipped away and the autumn took its place, the prayers of Mrs. Dare, Virginia, and those few faithful souls, were answered. The poor Indians, who had had glimmerings of a higher life, through Manteo, their dearly loved chief, now listened eagerly to the message of the church, as Martin Atherton told it in a simple, direct way, while they sat in a circle on the ground about him, sometimes with great reverence kissing the sacred Book from which the holy teachings came.

Twice a day the sound of prayer and praise went up from the little congregation. Virginia had taught him the language of the people. He told her that the father she so much yearned for had not come, and he taught her about the dear Lord and his church.Poor Iosco was in trouble again. He had never spoken of his love to Virginia, and she did all in her power to conceal her love from him. Of course he did not dream of such a possibility as her caring for him. But he watched day by day, and counted every moment she spent with Martin Atherton. Soon he would go to the white people, and then he supposed Owaissa would go too.

All Saints’ Day dawned clear and bright. It was to be a great day at Croatoan, but how eventful none of them knew. It was time for the great service to begin. Virginia’s face was radiant with happiness, her fair hair falling loosely over her mantle of turkey feathers.

“She might be the Queen of Sheba,” thought Martin Atherton, as he came a little way behind her. “Her dignity and simplicity are perfect. Surely no one could doubt the grace of baptism who knows a soul like that, with its desire for knowledge growing stronger among heathen surroundings; a life of praise and worship, though she does not know it. It was she that converted these heathen, not I.”

He watched her as she knelt, then kneeling himself, his heart rose in earnest thanksgiving for what he had been permitted to do, and a prayer that his little Indian congregation might ever be guided aright.

The two figures were kneeling when Iosco joined them, followed by a number of his warriors, among them Ranteo, his honest face fairly glowing with happiness. He thought of the day when Manteo had been baptized in the little chapel at Roanoke. Only then he had held an ignorant reverence for the holy mystery that he was now to receive himself, with a clear knowledge of its grace and power.

The simple service began, the dear prayers that we all know and love, a simple hymn, and then the holy baptismal service. First Iosco knelt, and then a long line of Indians, all kneeling in turn reverently before the priest, were baptized from a little spring that trickled through mossy rocks.

It was a strange scene. The chapel formed of a little clearing in the forest, its walls the forest trees, its roof the arching branches, its spire a tall poplar-tree reaching towards heaven, its altar a rough rock. The open book from which the prayers were read lay on the stump of a tree: the birds joined in the hymns of praise, and the deep sigh of the wind in the forest was the organ.The holy sign had been made on each brow, and they were henceforth no longer heathen, but soldiers of the great King. Martin Atherton stood before his little congregation and spoke to them. He did not preach on systematic theology, or discuss the question whether St. Paul’s garment was his cloak or a vestment; he spoke as a great soul bringing a great message. He tried to show his hearers the power of the gospel in the past and in the present. He told it simply, but with an eloquence that held every one. His clear voice rang through the forest, with the last words, “Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.” A great silence crept over the little congregation as the preacher raised his hand for the invocation, but not a sound came. He raised his eyes, and fell backwards without a word. He lay motionless by the rude altar. Loving hands raised his head and laid it on Virginia’s knee. For a moment the people gathered silently around the unconscious form, then drew away, that they might not keep the reviving air from him, allowing Virginia and Iosco to do what they could, only following their directions. At last the dark eyes opened and saw Virginia’s beautiful face filled with sorrow and anxiety. “Dear child,” he said, as he had often spoken before, “please raise my head a little more. This may pass, and I may be better soon; don’t be anxious. If not”—he only smiled and did not finish.

“Oh, you must not die!” Virginia cried; “we need you; so does God’s work in this sad world.”

“God does not need us, dear child: it is we that need him. You will always be true and faithful to your holy vows, and when the day comes for you to go to England and to your people, you will have teachers sent to these people who are yours by adoption.”

Somehow the thought of going to England added to Virginia’s pain at that moment, and she drew closer to Iosco as the speaker fell into a state of unconsciousness. Looking up into Iosco’s face, she read something new that she had never seen there before. He had longed for the Christian faith; he had wished for his baptism; he had believed all that Martin Atherton had taught. The service that morning had changed him. Those blessed drops “had worked wonder there, earth’s chambers never knew.” The right of a new birth, the perfect faith of the man before him, had given Iosco something he could not explain, but he knew and felt that the dear Lord was very near, and the knowledge of that perfect love filling his heart, his whole life, brought a peace which the world could never take away. It made him worthy of human love, and yet it made him feel it was quite possible to live without it. When we can say truthfully in our hearts, “Thy will be done,” God sends us often so great a blessing that it almost frightens us as we receive it.

The little congregation had moved away. Hours slipped by. Only Virginia and Iosco watched by their friend, who still lay as if dead, with only the slight, uneven fluttering of his heart to show that there was yet life in the worn-out body.

Virginia looked up at Iosco, and speaking softly, said, “If he really gets better, you ought to send him to his people, that he may see them before he dies.”

“The blessed priest shall be carried before the sunrise and laid among his people if he lives. Iosco’s warriors shall keep him from harm by Powhatan. The Owaissa can then go without fear to her people, and be happy,” he replied.

“To-morrow, Iosco? So soon? O Iosco”—Virginia faltered. Looking down suddenly into her upturned face he read her great love. The two looked into each other’s eyes long and earnestly, and each read the other’s heart. Iosco knelt, putting his arm around her, and whispered, “Owaissa, my Owaissa!” He kissed her forehead again and again; and she laid her head on his breast and clung to him as she said, “I will never, never go, Iosco. Your people shall be my people. We shall be all to each other now.”

“My Owaissa will be all to Iosco forever.” When one soul which truly loves looks deep into another and reads there the answering love he has longed for, he knows what a great treasure he has better than any one could tell him; and to both souls comes the sense that they are no longer separate beings, but one in each other. A golden light has spread over the world, which, thank God, nothing earthly has the power to destroy.

Two dark eyes had opened and were watching them. Iosco was the first to notice that their friend had roused; and, bending over him, he asked if he wished to be taken to his own people. The holy priest said with a gentle smile, “There will not be time; I shall die among these people; they are dear to me.”

At his suggestion, the people were summoned. He was raised and supported, and performed the last act of ministry on earth.

A Christian wedding was a strange sight to these poor people. It was over; Owaissa and Iosco sat together, and watched by their friend till the sun set, when his soul passed in the glory of the golden sky to the perfect glory and brightness of the people of God.

The story of the life of the first American child has never been recorded in history; but that life, we know, was not wasted.

Who can tell what a pure, brave life may do? Lived in humble station in this nineteenth century, or in the wild forest three hundred years ago, as was Virginia Dare’s!