I went up
the steps and into the hall, and knocked at the door of the
Governor's great room. It opened, and I entered to find Sir George,
with Master Pory, Rolfe, West, and others of the Council gathered
about the great centre table and talking eagerly. The Governor was
but half dressed; West and Rolfe were in jack boots and coats of
mail. A man, breathless with hard riding, spattered with swamp
mud and torn by briers, stood, cap in hand, staring from one to the
other.
"In good time, Captain Percy!" cried the Governor. "Yesterday you
called the profound peace with the Indians, of which some of us
boasted, the lull before the storm. Faith, it looks to-day as though
you were in the right, after all!"
"What 's the matter, sir?" I asked, advancing to the table.
"Matter enough!" he answered. "This man has come, post haste,
from the plantations above Paspahegh. Three days ago, Morgan,
the trader, was decoyed into the woods by that Paspahegh fool and
bully, Nemattanow, whom they call Jack of the Feather, and there
murdered. Yesterday, out of sheer bravado, the Indian turned up at
Morgan's house, and Morgan's men shot him down. They buried
the dog, and thought no more of it. Three hours ago, Chanco the
Christian went to the commander and warned him that the
Paspaheghs were in a ferment, and that the warriors were painting
themselves black.
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