“Indeed I am ashamed of my foolishness,” continued his niece.  “I was but a child then.”

“And now?—­it is but a few moons ago.”

“But see how I grow, as the maize after a rain storm.  Soon they will say I am ready for suitors.”

“And whom wilt thou choose, Pocahontas?”

“I do not know.  I have no thoughts for that yet.”

“What then are thy thoughts of?”

“Of everything, of flowers and beasts, dancing and playing, of wars and ceremonies, of the new son of old Wansutis, of Nautauquas’s new bow, of necklaces and earrings, of old stories and new songs—­and of to-morrow’s bathing.”

“Fear not that thou hast yet left thy childhood behind thee,” said her uncle.

Then when the fire died down and the storyteller’s voice had grown drowsy, Pocahontas fell asleep, her arm resting on a baby bear that had been taken away from its dead mother and that would cuddle close to the person who lay nearest the fire.

Opechanchanough had not the same deep affection for children as that which Powhatan showed to his sons and daughters.  He was as brave a fighter but not as great a leader in peace as Wahunsunakuk.  It irked him that he had to give way to his brother and that he must obey his commands; yet he knew that only by unity between the different tribes of the seacoast could they be safe from their common enemies, the Iroquois.  His vanity was very great and he had felt hurt at the ridicule which Pocahontas had caused to fall upon him.  Had she come on her visit sooner he had surely not received her so kindly.  But now there were other strange happenings and more important matters to consider, and he was too wise a chief to worry long over a child’s pranks.  Besides, he had learned, from his own observance and from the tongues of others, how his brother cherished her more than any of his squaws or children.  So policy as well as his native hospitality dictated a kindly reception.

In the morning after they had eaten, Opechanchanough offered to send Pocahontas and her maidens in a canoe down to where a cape jutted out into the ocean that they might see the breakers at their highest, but Pocahontas declined.

“Nay, Uncle,” she said, “but my maidens have never seen the sea.  They be stay-at-homes and I would not affright them too sorely by the sight of mountains of water.  Have no care for us save to bid some one supply us with food to take along.  I know the way down to a smooth beach where we can disport ourselves.”

So Opechanchanough, relieved to have them off his hands, let her have her will.

The town was within a mile of open water, and the maidens started off with a large supply of dried flesh slung in osier baskets on their backs.  Some of the young braves looked after them as they went and disputed as to which of them they would like to choose as squaw when they were older.

Pocahontas led the way through wild rose bushes and sumac, with here and there an occasional tall pine tree, its lowest branches high above their heads.  They were all of them in the gayest humor:  it was a day made for pleasure, and they had not a care in the world.  They sang as they walked and joked each other, Pocahontas herself not escaping.