“Aye, Matoaka, I must or else take up my abode speedily yonder,” and he pointed to the graveyard.  “It is a bitter thing to go now and leave my work unfinished, to know that mine enemies will rejoice—­”

“I shall die when thou art gone,” she interrupted, kneeling down beside him; “thou hast become like a god to Matoaka, a god strong and wonderful.”

“Little Sister!  Little Sister!” he repeated as he stroked her hair.  Once again there came to him the thought he had harbored before—­that perhaps when this child was grown he might claim her as a wife.  Now this would never come to pass.

She knelt there still in silence, then she asked, hope and eagerness in her voice:  “Thou wilt come back to us?”

“If I may, Matoaka; if I live we shall see each other again.”

He did not tell her what was in his mind, that no English Dorothy or Cicely, golden-haired and rosy-cheeked, would ever be as dear to him as he now realized this child of the forest had grown to be.

And then with perfect faith that her “Brother” would bring to pass what he had promised, Pocahontas’s spirits rose.  She did not try to calculate the weeks and months that should go by before she was to see him again.  She seated herself beside him on the ground and listened while he talked to her of all that he was leaving behind and his love and concern for the Colony.

“See, Matoaka,” he said, his voice growing stronger in his eagerness, “this town is like unto a child of mine own, so dear is it to me.  I have spent sleepless nights and weary days, I have suffered cold and hunger and the contumely of jealous men in its behalf; nay perchance, even death itself.  And thou, too, hast shown it great favors till in truth it hath become partly thine own and dear to thee.  Now that I must depart, I leave Jamestown to thy care.  Wilt thou continue to watch over it, to do all within thy power for its welfare?”

“That will I gladly, my Brother, when thou leavest it like a squaw without her brave.  Not a day shall pass that I will not peer through the forests hitherward to see that all be well; mine ears shall harken each night lest harm approach it.  ‘Jamestown is Pocahontas’s friend,’ I shall whisper to the north wind, and it will not blow too hard.  ’Pocahontas is the friend of Jamestown,’ I shall call to the sun that it beat not too fiercely upon it.  ‘Pocahontas loves Jamestown,’ I shall whisper to the river that it eat not too deep into the island’s banks, and”—­here the half-playful tone changed into one of real earnestness—­“I who sit close to Powhatan’s heart shall whisper every day in his ear:  ’Harm not Jamestown, if thou lovest Matoaka.’”

A look of great relief passed over the wounded man’s face.  Truly it was a wondrous thing that the expression of a girl’s friendship was able to soothe thus his anxieties.

“I thank thee again, little Sister,” he said.  “And now bid me farewell, for yon come the sailors to bear me to the ship.”