Now that she was so near home again she was homesick for the sight of some member of her family that she had not seen for many moons.  Her father would not come, she felt sure, because he would not wish to treat with the white men in person.  She waited anxiously, her eyes and ears strained for the sound of the messengers returning.

An hour or so later she beheld in the distance two tall figures approaching, and she sprang ashore from the boat, crying: 

“Nautauquas!  Catanaugh!” as her two brothers hurried to meet her.

“Is it indeed our little Matoaka?” asked Nautauquas, “and unharmed and well?”

He looked at her critically, as if seeking to discover some great change in her.

“We feared we knew not what evil medicine they might have used against thee, little Snow Feather.  How have they dealt with thee in thy captivity?”

“But fear no longer,” cried Catanaugh, whose glance was fixed upon the canoe of the palefaces; “we shall rescue thee now if we have to kill every one of them yonder to get thee free.”

“Nay, my brothers,” said Pocahontas, laying her hand gently on his sinewy arm, “they are my friends, and they have treated me well.  Look! am I wasted with starvation or broken with torture?  Harm them not.  I am come to plead with our father to make peace with them.  It is as if yon tree should plead with the sky and the earth not to quarrel, since both are dear to it.  The English are a great nation.  Let us be friends with them.”

“Have they bewitched thee, Matoaka?” asked Catanaugh sternly.  “Hast thou forgot thy father’s lodge now that thou hast dwelt among these strangers?”

“Nay, Brother, but....”

Nautauquas was quick to notice Pocahontas’s confusion and the blush that stole over her soft dark cheek.

“I think,” he said, smiling at her, “that our little Sister hath a story to tell us.  Let us sit here beneath the trees, as we so often sat when we were wearied hunting, and listen to her words.”

It was not easy at first for Pocahontas to explain how it had come about.  But as she sat there on the warm brown pine needles, snuggled closely against Nautauquas’s shoulder, she found courage to tell of the strong, fine Englishman who had taught her so much, and how one day he had asked her to become his squaw after the manner of the white people.  She told them also how Sir Thomas Dale, the Governor, had willingly given his consent.

“Believe ye not,” she concluded, looking eagerly first at one and then the other of her brothers, “that our father will make peace for my sake with the nation to which my brave belongeth?”

Catanaugh said nothing, but Nautauquas laid his hand on his sister’s arm and looked her in the eyes searchingly: 

“Art thou happy?”

“Yea, Brother, very happy.  He is dear to me because I know him and because I know him not.  Thou surely hast not forgotten how Matoaka ever longed for what lay unknown beyond her.”