" He waited not for my answer, but
passed on, and there was no sign of age in his stately figure and his
slow, firm step. I watched him with a frown until the darkness of
his lodge had swallowed up him and his warriors, and mistrusted
him for a cold and subtle devil.
Suddenly, as we sat staring at the fire we were beset by a band of
maidens, coming out of the woods, painted, with antlers upon their
heads and pine branches in their hands. They danced about us, now
advancing until the green needles met above our heads, now
retreating until there was a space of turf between us. Their slender
limbs gleamed in the firelight; they moved with grace, keeping
time to a plaintive song, now raised by the whole choir, now fallen
to a single voice. Pocahontas had danced thus before the English
many a time. I thought of the little maid, of her great wondering
eyes and her piteous, untimely death, of how loving she was to
Rolfe and how happy they had been in their brief wedded life. It
had bloomed like a rose, as fair and as early fallen, with only a
memory of past sweetness. Death was a coward, passing by men
whose trade it was to out-brave him, and striking at the young and
lovely and innocent. . . .
We were tired with all the mummery of the day; moreover, every
fibre of our souls had been strained to meet the hours that had
passed since we left the gaol at Jamestown.
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