must commence all over again. The women laid
mats in a great half circle, and each savage took his seat with perfect
breeding; that is, in absolute silence and with a face like a stone.
The peace paint was upon them all,--red, or red and white; they sat and
looked at the ground until I had made the speech of welcome. Soon the
air was dense with the fragrant smoke; in the thick blue haze the sweep
of painted figures had the seeming of some fantastic dream. An old
man arose and made a long and touching speech with much reference to
calumets and buried hatchets. When he had finished a chief talked of
Opechancanough's love for the English, "high as the stars, deep as
Popogusso, wide as from the sunrise to the sunset," adding that the
death of Nemattanow last year and the troubles over the hunting grounds
had kindled in the breasts of the Indians no desire for revenge. With
which highly probable statement he made an end, and all sat in silence
looking at me and waiting for my contribution of honeyed words. These
Pamunkeys, living at a distance from the settlements, had but little
English to their credit, and the learning of the Paspaheghs was not much
greater. I sat and repeated to them the better part of the seventh canto
of the second book of Master Spenser's "Faery Queen." Then I told them
the story of the Moor of Venice, and ended by relating Smith's tale of
the three Turks' heads. It all answered the purpose to admiration. When
at length they went away to change their paint for the coming feast
Diccon and I laughed at that foolery as though there were none beside us
who could juggle with words. We were as light-hearted as children--God
forgive us!

The day wore on, with relay after relay of food which we must taste at
least, with endless smoking of pipes and speeches that must be listened
to and answered. When evening came and our entertainers drew off to
prepare for the dance, they left us as wearied as by a long day's march.

The wind had been high during the day, but with the sunset it sank to
a desolate murmur. The sky wore the strange crimson of the past year
at Weyanoke. Against that sea of color the pines were drawn in ink, and
beneath it the winding, threadlike creeks that pierced the marshes had
the look of spilt blood moving slowly and heavily to join the river that
was black where the pines shadowed it, red where the light touched
it. From the marsh arose the cry of some great bird that made its home
there;