tations. Wherever the settlers were in a position for
effective resistance, the savages were routed and driven back to their
forest lurking-places.

Their work of death done, the red-skinned murderers at once dispersed,
knowing well that they could not withstand their foes in open fight. Sir
William Berkeley, the governor of Virginia, hastily called out a strong
force of armed men and marched to the main seat of the slaughter. No
foes were to be found. The Indians had vanished in the woodland
wilderness. It was useless to pursue them farther on foot, and the
governor continued the pursuit with a troop of cavalry, sweeping onward
through the tribal confines.

The chief result of the expedition was the capture of the organizer of
the conspiracy, the hoary leader of the tribal confederacy, who was
found near his place of residence on the Pamunky. Too feeble for hasty
flight, his aged limbs refusing to bear him and his weakened sight to
aid him, he was easily overtaken by the pursuers, and was carried back
in triumph to Jamestown, as the very central figure of Indian hostility.

It was the clement purpose of the governor to send the old chief to
England as a royal captive, there to be held in honorable custody until
death should close his career. But this purpose was not to be achieved.
A death of violence awaited the old Indian chieftain. A wretched fellow
of the neighborhood, one of the kind who would not have dared to face an
Indian in arms, slipped secretly behind the famous veteran and shot him
with his musket through the back, inflicting a deadly wound.

Aged and infirm as Opechancanough was, the wound was not instantly
mortal. He lingered for a few days in agonizing pain. Yet to the last
moment of his life his dignity of demeanor was preserved. It was
especially shown when a crowd of idlers gathered in the room to sate
their unfeeling curiosity on the actions of the dying chief.

His muscles had grown so weak that he could not raise his eyelids
without aid, and, on hearing the noise around him, he motioned to his
attendants to lift his lids that he might see what it meant. When he saw
the idle and curious crowd, a flash of wounded pride and just resentment
stirred his vanished powers. Sending for the governor, he said, with a
keen reproach that has grown historic, "Had I taken Sir William Berkeley
prisoner, I would not have exposed him as a show to my people." Closing
his eyes again, in a short time afterward the