Then Powhatan gave the signal and the captives were led forward.  They knew what awaited them; probably each of them, except the young boy, had himself meted out the same fate to others that was now to befall them.  They did not repine; it was the fortune of war.  Singing songs of triumph, of derision of all their enemies, they started to run down the awful lane of death.  Blows rained upon them, on neck, on head, on arms, even on their legs from stooping adversaries.  So swift came the blows from both sides that sometimes two fell upon the same spot almost at once.

Pocahontas marked with interest that the boy was last of the line, and that he bore himself as bravely as the others.

When they reached the end of the row there was no escape—­no escape anywhere more for them.  Back they darted, so swiftly that it seemed as if each escaped the blow aimed at himself, only to receive the one meant for his comrade ahead.

Pocahontas had a queer feeling as she looked down on them and saw the blood spurting from a hundred wounds.  She thought perhaps it was the hot sun that made her feel a little sick.  Her eyes followed the boy and as he came nearer she noticed that he was almost at the end of his strength.  A few more blows would finish him.  Already some of his elders had fallen to the ground, and if, when beaten unmercifully, they were still unable to rise, the tomahawk dashed out their brains.

To her astonishment, Pocahontas found herself wishing the boy might not fall, might escape in some miraculous manner.  What a wrong thought! she said to herself:  was he not an enemy of her tribe?  Yet she could not help closing her eyes when she saw Black Arrow aiming a terrible blow at his head.  She did not know what to make of herself.  She suddenly began to think of the hurt wild-cat she and Nautauquas had pitied during the night.  But no one ought ever to pity an enemy.  What was she made of?

As she opened her eyes again she heard a woman’s outcry and beheld a squaw rushing towards the end of the line where Black Arrow’s blow had felled the boy.  It was old Wansutis.

“I claim the boy,” she panted; “I claim him by our ancient right.  Cease, braves, and let me have him.”

The astounded braves let their arms drop at their sides, and the panting, bleeding captives who had not already fallen, breathed for a moment long breaths.

“I claim the boy,” the old woman cried again in a loud voice, turning towards Powhatan, “to adopt as a son.  Many popanows (winters) and seed times have passed since my sons were slain.  Now is Wansutis old and feeble and hath need of a young son to hunt for her.  By our ancient custom this captive is mine.”

There was an outcry of opposition from the younger braves at being robbed of one of their victims, but the older chiefs on the hill debated for a few moments, and then gave their decision:  there was no doubt of the old woman’s right to claim the boy.  So Powhatan sent two of his guards to fetch him and to carry him to Wansutis’s lodge.