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resolution and "I-will" there, that she climbed upon her father's couch, and laid her hand softly upon her father's arm, — it was so softly, and he was so busy with big and bloody thoughts, that he did not feel it. A great stone was just then brought in and laid before him. She looked up at his face again, through her tears; but it was sterner than before. Then she crept around upon his knee, threw herself upon his neck, and sobbed. He was surprised and angry; but he loved her: she was the pride and darling of his heart. So he removed her gently, with a look and word of reproof. But she would not be reproved. She clung to his arm, laid her head upon his shoulder, and whispered pleading, piteous words in his ear. Passion, for the moment, got the better of the father's heart, and he thrust the child away; frowning because the gravity of a council, and dignity of a king, were encroached upon by a soft-hearted girl. She made one imploring gesture, then sank at his feet, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. All this intercession had been rapid and brief. Powhattan petulantly

signed to one of the young women who shared his seat of state to remove the child; but hearing a noise, she looked up and saw the white man stretched on the ground, his head upon a stone, and an Indian standing over him with a war-club, watching for the signal of the chief.

With a faint scream, the maiden sprang from her crouching posture, knelt beside the prostrate man, threw her arms around his person, and laid her head upon his, above the stone of death. She spoke no word, but looked. It was a mild, mournful look, a mute but thrilling, reproachful farewell to her relent

less father. She closed her eyes. The grave is not more silent than was the council-room of Powhattan.

"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty." The boar out of the wood would have wasted, the wild-beast of the field would have devoured, the vine which He was planting. To save it - for the life of Smith was the life of Virginia- He interposed an unbaptized infant. By the dumb eloquence of a tearful girl, He brought to naught the counsels of princes. And now the vine filleth the land. The hills are covered with the shadow of it, and the boughs thereof are like goodly cedars. It has sent out its boughs unto the sea, and its branches beyond the rivers.

Powhattan was in the toils of his "most deare and beloved" Pocahontas. She had taken hold of his strength. He relented; yielded. The decree of death was reversed.

"I will spare him," said the despotic chief, "for a servant. He shall make hatchets for me, and bells

and rattles for her."

Yet, for some reason, the chief's heart was further softened towards his captive. Instead of using him as a servant, he instantly received him to the intimacy of a friend; and even promised him his liberty, a large tract of land, and "for ever to esteeme him his sonne," if he would send him from Jamestown two pieces of cannon and a grindstone, which his heart exceedingly longed for. To this Smith promptly agreed. The chief was true to his word; and on the third day after his head lay a mark for the executioner's mace, Smith was on his way to Jamestown. So little, however,

did he confide in Powhattan's good intentions, that he was in constant expectation of being murdered by his escort. But, says his narrative, "Almighty God, by his divine providence, had mollified the hearts of those stern barbarians with compassion."

He was now to fulfil his promise. He therefore presented to his guides a grindstone and two cannon, bidding the Indians take them to Powhattan. "They found them somewhat too heavie."

"Ugh!" exclaimed their chief, who was a faithful captain of Powhattan.

"Rawhunt! I keep my word," said Smith. "I promised. I give. You will not take?"

The Indians looked blank, and Rawhunt gravely shook his head.

"Very well, Rawhunt; but you must tell Powhattan what I have done."

"We will tell."

"And tell him also how the thunderers speak, and how they strike. Look at yonder tree," pointing to a veteran pine loaded with icicles; "I will tell the thunderers to strike it."

The cannon were well charged with stones. The ice flew; the huge branches crashed and fell; the savages turned and fled. So terribly were they frightened, that it was not without some ado that they could be found and brought to conference again. But this done, Smith atoned for their disappointment and fright by presents for themselves, Powhattan, and his family. The party then left, highly delighted with their trinkets, and with clear convictions of the terrible power of cannon and white men.*

* The statements in this chapter will be found in Smith, 46-49; Stith, 50-56; Burk, I. 104-116.

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CHAPTER VIII.

THE ROYAL SHARPER.-THE CONFLAGRATION.-GOLD.

The It was now late in the month of December. number of the colonists was reduced to forty. They were suffering for want of provisions, which they had heedlessly wasted; and no one among them had skill or enterprise enough to supply their lack. Neither was any one competent to maintain peace and order. To complete their sad condition, they were at strife among themselves; the larger number being resolved to abandon the settlement, and just on the eve of departure.

Under such circumstances, Captain Smith's reappearance, after his seven weeks' captivity, to those who had thought him dead, was an event of great joy to all save the very few to whom his popularity was He offensive, and his soldierly decision irksome. promptly met the present emergency, and suppressed Once more, with cannon the attempt at desertion. and musketry pointed upon the pinnace, he gave the discontented their choice,-to stay or sink. course they stayed.

Of

But when he related the circumstances of his deliverance, made known the change in Powhattan's temper, his present liberal disposition, and the profusion of food at his command, the colonists took heart, and looked upon the future with hope. Hardly were his

cheering words uttered, and comprehended by his desponding companions, before they were verified. Pocahontas herself, bright with smiles and happy in her errand, appeared before the garrison, with a train of attendants laden with baskets of provisions.

A child, bringing its offering with a loving and unselfish heart to minister to the want or pleasure of another; in its simplicity and purity of intent, unconscious that it is doing an angel-errand; and, like an angel, absorbed and blessed in the happiness it imparts; what a lesson, what a rebuke, to its elders, so thoughtless of a neighbor's want, so callous to a brother's sorrow or a sister's need, so apt, so glib, in only saying, "Be warmed, be clothed"!

This was not a passing fancy of Pocahontas. While the want of the English continued, it was her habit. Every few days, she brought her precious gifts; and quietly returned to her lodge, to dream of the happy faces which she had left in the white man's home.

Nor was this all. Other Indians came, bringing presents of food from Pocahontas or Powhattan. Others still, brought from their granaries to exchange. Their reverence for Smith, and their confidence in him, were unbounded. They would stand aloof from the fort, under cover of the woods, and call aloud his name. But they would neither approach nor show themselves until he had made his appearance; nor would they sell either corn, beans, or venison until he had fixed their prices.

Such was the state of things when Newport returned from England, with new emigrants, provisions, and other necessaries. This man, among other un