We had long since come to the conclusion that
the birds of the air and the fish of the streams were Mercuries to
the Indians.
The werowance received us in due form, with presents of fish and
venison, cakes of chinquapin meal and gourds of pohickory, an
uncouth dance by twelve of his young men and a deal of hellish
noise; then, at our command, led us into the village, and to the
lodge which marked its centre. Around it were gathered
Opechancanough's own warriors, men from Orapax and
Uttamussac and Werowocomoco, chosen for their strength and
cunning; while upon the grass beneath a blood-red gum tree sat his
wives, painted and tattooed, with great strings of pearl and copper
about their necks. Beyond them were the women and children of
the Chickahominies, and around us all the red forest.
The mat that hung before the door of the lodge was lifted, and an
Indian, emerging, came forward, with a gesture of welcome. It was
Nantauquas, the Lady Rebekah's brother, and the one Indian -
saving always his dead sister - that was ever to my liking; a savage,
indeed, but a savage as brave and chivalrous, as courteous and
truthful, as a Christian knight.
Rolfe sprang from his horse, and advancing to meet the young
chief embraced him. Nantauquas had been much with his sister
during those her happy days at Varina, before she went with Rolfe
that ill-fated voyage to England, and Rolfe loved him for her sake
and for his own.
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