out of the water than figures began
to move across it. But such figures! Was there a mistake somewhere?
These were not Englishmen, and they were not Indians. Behold, crossing
our isthmus, Dutchmen, Italians, and Poles! Suddenly, from the midst of
the group, came a glint and a flash of blue. Then we understood. These
were the "skilful workmen from foreign parts" early sent over to the
colony to make glass beads, preferably blue ones, for barter with the
Indians.

Now, there were only two people on our isthmus--an Indian and a
red-headed man. The Indian was tall and "a most strong stout Salvage";
the red-headed man was short but a most strong, stout Englishman. The
Indian was Wowinchopunk, chief of the Paspaheghs; the red-headed man
was Captain John Smith. A desperate hand-to-hand struggle ensued. We
remembered that fight in the school-books, but we had never expected to
really see it. Our sympathies were of course largely with the Captain,
but more with the isthmus. We had raised it out of the water for
temporary purposes only, and with no idea of its being subjected to a
strain like this. It was a relief when the two fighters rolled off into
the water. By the time they had struggled out again, the white man was
victor. As dripping captor and captive set off toward James Towne, we
saw Fame stick another laurel leaf in the wet, red hair in
commemoration of the single combat in which Captain John Smith defeated
the "strong, stout Salvage," Wowinchopunk, on the James Towne isthmus.

For a while after that, nothing much happened over our way. Indians
occasionally passed and repassed; now striding openly across to the
island on friendly visit, now skulking over to pick off unwary
settlers. Once we caught, in a hazy way, the most touching picture
associated with the old isthmus--the little savage maiden, Pocahontas,
with heart divided between her own people and the pale-faces, crossing
over at the head of her train of Indians bearing venison and corn for
the half-famished settlers. Pathetic little figure! Often all that
seemed to stand between the colonists and destruction.

It was the sound of voices that now made us turn and look the other
way. Many people were following the crook in our road, passing through
the bit of woodland and coming out at "Friggett Landing." We had heard
no "musical note," but evidently the townspeople had; and there, surely
enough, was a queer little vessel stopping right where we had marked
the