Suddenly a faint, faint sound half wakened her, a sound scarcely louder than the lapping of the water against the sides which had lulled her to sleep.  She opened her eyes but did not move, and waited, tense with excitement.  A fish flopped out of the water, then all was silent again and she closed her heavy eyes once more.  Then it came again, not louder than the wind in the aspen trees on shore: 

“Pocahontas!”

Raising herself to her elbow with a motion as quiet as a cat’s, she peered into the dark water over the stern.  A hand came up from the darkness and clasped her wrist.  She needed no great light upon the features of the face below to know whose it was.

“Claw-of-the-Eagle,” she whispered, “is it thou?  I thought the white man’s gun had killed thee, and I have been mourning for thee.”

“I lay dead for an hour,” he answered as he lifted himself up in the water and hung with both hands to the sides of the boat.  “But it was well that I was wounded on the shoulder and not on the leg.  The stiffness made me slow, like a bear that has been hurt in a trap.  But I bound mud on the wound with my leggings and I have followed close behind thee along the shore all the way.”

“I knew thou wouldst come after me if thou wert not killed,” she whispered.

“Yea, I have come for thee, Pocahontas,” and there was manly decision now in the youth’s voice.  “Waste no time.  Drop down here beside me as quietly as if thou wert stalking a deer.  We will swim under water until we are beyond reach of the white men’s dull ears and before three days are passed we shall be at Powhata, where thy father now abideth.”

The thought of all home meant made Pocahontas pause:  the kindly interest of all her tribe in everything she did; the affection of her father and brothers; the haunts in the forest and on the river; the freedom of her daily existence.  Here was her chance to return to them.  If she did not take it, what lay ahead of her?  A terror of the unknown overcame her for the first time.  The knowledge that an old and tried friend was near was as grateful as a light shining before one on a dark night.  Yet she answered: 

“I can not go with thee, Claw-of-the-Eagle.”

The young brave uttered a low murmur of astonishment.

“Dost thou not know,” he asked, “that Japezaws hath betrayed thee; that thou art to be kept captive in Jamestown in order to force The Powhatan to do whatever the English desire of him?”

“Yes, I know.  Captain Argall hath told me all.”

“And yet thou dost hesitate?  Art thou, the daughter of a mighty werowance, afraid to try to escape?”

She did not deign to reply to such a charge, but whispered instead: 

“Hadst thou come last night I should have harkened to thee only too gladly.  In truth, I had determined to escape myself this night, no matter what the difficulties might be.  Pocahontas beareth a knife and knoweth how to use it.  But to-day I have come to think otherwise, for there have been long hours in which to think.  Thou knowest that captivity is as wearisome to me as to a wild dove; yet as I sat here alone with naught to do, I followed a trail in my mind that led to Jamestown, and so I am minded to go thither.”