A year of court life, filled with a continual round of hunting, masques, theater-going and dancing, failed to dim the brightness of the wild rose of the west. Enjoying what was noble and pure with the unspoiled freshness of a child, the Lady Rebecca’s eyes passed unseeingly over the coarse and degraded elements mingling with the good.

Letters from Virginia caused Rolfe to feel some uneasiness regarding the affairs of his plantation. He must return home without delay. No more following of the hounds in the vast glades of Saint James’s Park, or in the spring, floating down to Greenwich through a cloud of swans. Pocahontas must sail for home to take up again plantation life at Varina, with its round of duties and simple pleasures.

Sailing down the Thames to Gravesend, she looked back with fond regret upon the scenes which imagination already began to paint in rose-colored hues.

When they arrived at Gravesend at the mouth of the Thames Rolfe noticed that Pocahontas looked weary and jaded. A hectic flush mantled her cheek and her hands were cold as ice.

“What ails my darling?” he inquired anxiously.

“Pocahontas’s head is heavy and her body is cold,” she languidly replied.

A doctor was hastily summoned. He bled her profusely, but all to no avail. She grew weaker every hour. Delirium set in. She was back in Virginia again, roving the forests, visiting Jamestown, strolling with Smith beside the river or sitting in her cabin playing with her baby boy.

On the third day she fell into a deep slumber, which was but the forerunner of the long sleep on which she was entering.

“Surely she will be better when she awakens,” said Rolfe to the physician. All day he had sat by her side holding her hand or bathing her brow.

“I dare not deceive you, Master Rolfe. She is sinking rapidly. She will awaken to consciousness but it will be but the flaring of the candle, now burnt low in the socket.”

Late in the afternoon she opened her eyes, and feeling for her husband’s hand, whispered, “John, where are you? It is so dark—the cold water is lapping on my feet.”

“Tell her, Master Rolfe. She must know her condition,” said the rector of Saint George’s, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“I cannot,” said Rolfe, his voice breaking into hoarse sobs as he flung himself down beside the bed.

Bending over her, the priest gently told her of her approaching end.

“John, John, must Pocahontas leave you and the boy? It is so hard to part, John.”

“O my darling, I cannot give you up!” cried Rolfe, kissing her brow, damp with the dews of death.

But womanlike, she put aside her pain to comfort her stricken husband.

“It is the will of the Royal Christ, John. Pocahontas is not afraid. He will comfort you and care for my babe. Does He not carry the little lambs in His bosom? Now let the kind priest give us the Body and Blood of the Lord.”

She lay silent for a while, exhausted by the effort to follow the priest through the Communion Service. Then she said, “Sing about the birthnight of the Son of God, John. Pocahontas can hear the angels’ wings.”

Rolfe attempted to sing the ancient hymn, but could not go on.

“Then Pocahontas will sing for John.”

Gathering her fast ebbing strength with a mighty effort, her voice rang clear and sweet through the twilight. Strong and exultant came the last verse:

And the “Amen” at its close, begun on earth and ending in heaven, swept across the glassy sea and broke in melting sweetness at the feet of the Lamb of God.

Through the bitter winds of March passed the funeral procession, clad in trappings of woe, to Saint George’s Church. The burial psalms were chanted, the prayer of committal said. All that was mortal of Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan, King of Virginia, was laid to rest in the rector’s vault underneath the chancel.

The broad leaves of the church door swung to behind the departing mourners. The pulsating silence of the ages settled down upon the chancel.

Suddenly and noiselessly the nave filled with floating white-robed angels, the everpresent congregation of ministering spirits. Gabriel, Announcer of Tidings, stood before the altar and in a voice of heavenly music, heard only by immortal ears, proclaimed the glad tidings:

“The Spirit of Virginia Dare has Returned to the Land of Her Fathers!”