Powhatan greeted his brother gravely and bade him be seated.  The lodge soon filled with braves packed closely together, and about the opening crowded all who could, and these repeated to the men and squaws left outside the words that were spoken within.

Proudly Opechanchanough began to tell how he had tracked the Monachans to a hill above the river, and how he and his war party had fallen upon them, driving them down the steep banks, slaying and scalping, even swimming into the icy water to seize those who sought to escape.  And The Powhatan nodded in approval, uttering now and again a word of praise.  When Opechanchanough had finished his recital the shaman, or medicine-man, rose and sang a song of praise about the brave Pamunkeys, brothers of the Powhatans.

Then, one after another, Opechanchanough’s braves told of their personal exploits.

“I,” sang one, “I, the Forest Wolf, have devoured mine enemy.  Many suns shall set red between the forest trees, but none so red as the blood that flowed when my sharp knife severed his scalp lock.”

And as each recited his deeds his words were received with clappings of hands and grunts of approval.

Powhatan gave orders to open the guest lodge and to prepare a feast for the victors.  Then Opechanchanough rose again to speak.  After he had finished another song of triumph, he turned to Powhatan and asked: 

“Brother, how long hath it been that thy warriors keep within their lodges, leaving to young squaws the duty of sentinels who cannot distinguish friends from foes?”

Powhatan gazed at the speaker in astonishment.

“What dost thou mean by such strange words?” asked the chief.

“As we returned through the forest,” explained Opechanchanough, “before we reached the boundary of thy fields, while we still believed that a part of the Monachans might lie in ambush for us there, an arrow, shot from the westward, flew before my face.  Then came a second arrow out of the branches of an oak tree.  We took the bowman prisoner, and what thinkest thou we found?—­a squaw child!”

“A squaw child!” repeated Powhatan in astonishment.  “Was it one of this village?”

“Even so.  Brother.  I have her captive outside that thou mayst pronounce judgment upon one who endangers thus the life of thy brother and who forgetteth she is not a boy.  Bring in the prisoner,” he commanded.

But no one came forward.  The young braves to whom Pocahontas had been entrusted kept wisely on the outskirts of the crowd.

Then the little sombre figure at Powhatan’s feet rose and stood with the firelight shining on her face and dark hair and asked in a gentle voice: 

“Didst thou want me, mine uncle?”

“Pocahontas,” exclaimed Opechanchanough, “how camest thou here ahead of us, and in that dark robe?”

“Pocahontas can run even better than she can shoot.  Uncle, and the changing of a robe is the matter but of a moment.”