ly each of them, except the young boy, had
himself meted out the same fate to others that was now to befall them.
They did not repine; it was the fortune of war. Singing songs of
triumph, of derision of all their enemies, they started to run down the
awful lane of death. Blows rained upon them, on neck, on head, on arms,
even on their legs from stooping adversaries. So swift came the blows
from both sides that sometimes two fell upon the same spot almost at
once.

Pocahontas marked with interest that the boy was last of the line, and
that he bore himself as bravely as the others.

When they reached the end of the row there was no escape--no escape
anywhere more for them. Back they darted, so swiftly that it seemed as
if each escaped the blow aimed at himself, only to receive the one meant
for his comrade ahead.

Pocahontas had a queer feeling as she looked down on them and saw the
blood spurting from a hundred wounds. She thought perhaps it was the hot
sun that made her feel a little sick. Her eyes followed the boy and as
he came nearer she noticed that he was almost at the end of his
strength. A few more blows would finish him. Already some of his elders
had fallen to the ground, and if, when beaten unmercifully, they were
still unable to rise, the tomahawk dashed out their brains.

To her astonishment, Pocahontas found herself wishing the boy might not
fall, might escape in some miraculous manner. What a wrong thought! she
said to herself: was he not an enemy of her tribe? Yet she could not
help closing her eyes when she saw Black Arrow aiming a terrible blow at
his head. She did not know what to make of herself. She suddenly began
to think of the hurt wild-cat she and Nautauquas had pitied during the
night. But no one ought ever to pity an enemy. What was she made of?

As she opened her eyes again she heard a woman's outcry and beheld a
squaw rushing towards the end of the line where Black Arrow's blow had
felled the boy. It was old Wansutis.

"I claim the boy," she panted; "I claim him by our ancient right. Cease,
braves, and let me have him."

The astounded braves let their arms drop at their sides, and the
panting, bleeding captives who had not already fallen, breathed for a
moment long breaths.

"I claim the boy," the old woman cried again in a loud voice, turning
towards Powhatan, "to adopt as a son. Many popanows (winters) and seed
times have passed since my sons were slain. Now is Wansutis old and
fe