their arms; he held
lightning in his hand. Wherever his arm fell, there sunk a warrior: as the
tall tree falls, blasted and riven, to the earth, when the angry Spirit
darts his fires through the forest. I thought him a God; my feet grew to
the ground; I could not move!

POCAHONTAS. Nima, dost thou hear the words of my brother.

NANTAQUAS. The battle ceased, for courage left the bosom of our warriors;
their arrows rested in their quivers; their bowstrings no longer sounded;
the tired chieftains leaned on their war-clubs, and gazed at the terrible
stranger, whom they dared not approach. Give an ear to me, king: 't was
then I held out the hand of peace to him, and he became my brother; he
forgot his arms, for he trusted to his brother: he was discoursing wonders
to his friend, when our chiefs rushed upon him, and bore him away. But oh!
my father, he must not die; for he is not a war captive; I promised that
the chain of friendship should be bright between us. Chieftains, your
prince must not falsify his word; father, your son must not be a liar!

POCAHONTAS. Listen, warriors; listen, father; the white man is my
brother's brother!

GRIMOSCO. King! when last night our village shook with the loud noise, it
was the Great Spirit who talk'd to his priest; my mouth shall speak his
commands: King, we must destroy the strangers, for they are not our God's
children; we must take their scalps, and wash our hands in the white man's
blood, for he is an enemy to the Great Spirit.

NANTAQUAS. O priest, thou hast dreamed a false dream; Miami, thou tellest
the tale that is not. Hearken, my father, to my true words! the white man
is beloved by the Great Spirit; his king is like you, my father, good and
great; and he comes from a land beyond the wide water, to make us wise and
happy!

_POWHATAN deliberates. Music._

POWHATAN. Stranger, thou must prepare for death. Six of our brethren fell
by thy hand. Thou must die.

POCAHONTAS. Father, O father!

SMITH. Had not your people first beset me, king,
I would have prov'd a friend and brother to them;
Arts I'd have taught, that should have made them gods,
And gifts would I have given to your people,
Richer than red men ever yet beheld.
Think not I fear to die. Lead to the block.
The soul of the white warrior shall shrink not.
Prepare the stake! amidst your fiercest tortures,
You'll find its fiery pains as nobly scorned,
As when the red man sings aloud his death-song.

POCAHONTAS. Oh!