By this time the news of the accident had spread through the village and several squaws, led by Cleopatra’s mother, came running to Pochins’s lodge.  Finding Cleopatra was able to rise, they carried her back with them.  The other maidens, now the excitement was over, remembered their empty stomachs and hurried off to recover the dinner they had left behind at the waterfall.

Pocahontas did not go with them.  She still sat on the ground beside the medicine man while he busied himself painting the mask where the color had worn off.

“Shaman,” she asked, “tell me where went the manitou of my sister while she lay there dead?”

“On a distant journey,” he answered; “therefore I had to call so loudly to make it hear me and return.”

“Who taught thee thy medicine?” she questioned again.

“The Beaver, my manitou, daughter of Powhatan,” he answered.

“And who then will teach me; how shall I learn?”

“Thou needest not such knowledge, since thou art neither a medicine man nor a brave.  I, Pochins, will call to Okee, the Great Spirit, for thee when thou hast need of anything, food or raiment or a chief to take thee to his lodge.”

“But I should like to do that myself, Pochins,” she remonstrated.  “Thou dost not know how many things I long to do myself.  Let me put on thy mask and take thy rattle, just to see how they feel.”

“Nay, nay, touch them not,” he cried, stretching out his hand.  “The Beaver would be angry with us and would work evil medicine on us.”

Pochins was not fond of children.  His dignity was so great that he never even noticed them as he strode through the village.  But the eager look in Pocahontas’s eyes seemed to draw words out of him.  He began to talk to her of the many days and nights he had spent alone, fasting, in the prayer lodge until some message came to him from Okee, some message about the harvest or the success of a hunting party.  Pocahontas was so interested that she asked him many questions.

“Tell me of Michabo, Michabo, the Great Hare,” she coaxed, as she moved over on a mat Pochins had spread for her.

“Hearken, then, daughter of The Powhatan,” he began, his voice changing its natural tone to one of chanting, “to the story of Michabo as it is told in the lodges of the Powhatans, the Delawares and of those tribes who dwell far away beyond our forests, away where abideth the West Wind and where the Sun strideth towards the darkness.

“Michabo dived down into the water when there was no land and no beast and no man or woman and he was lonely.  From the bottom took he a grain of fine white sand and bore it safely in his hand in his journey upward through the dark waters.  This he cast upon the waves and it sank not but floated like a tiny leaf.  Then it spread out, circling round and round, wider and wider as the rings widen when thou casteth a stone into a still lake, till it had grown so large that a swift young wolf, though he ran till he dropped of old age, could not come to its ending.  This earth rose all covered with trees and hills and beasts and men and women, and Michabo, the Great Hare, the Spirit of Light, the Great White One, hunted through earth’s forests and he fashioned strong nets for fishing and he taught the stupid men, who knew naught, how to hunt also and to catch fish that they might not die of hunger.