the James River back inland over a space
of six hundred square miles, war ravaged for two days; three hundred
and more settlers were killed, two hundred were made captives, homes
and supplies were burned to ashes.

It looked as though nothing would stand before Opechancanough--indeed,
as though the end of Virginia had come. But in the midst of the
pillage the work suddenly was stopped, the victorious Indians fled and
could not be rallied. They were frightened, it is said, by a bad sign
in the sky.

Governor Sir William Berkeley called out every twentieth man and boy of
the home-guard militia, and by horse and foot and dog pursued.

Next we may see the sachem Opechancanough, in his one hundredth year,
borne hither-thither in his bough litter, by his warriors, directing
them how to retreat, where to fight, and when to retreat again. He
suffered severely from hunger and storm and long marches, until the
bones ridged his flabby skin, he had lost all power over his muscles,
and his eyelids had to be lifted with the fingers before he could gaze
beyond them.

Governor Berkeley and a squadron of horsemen finally ran him down and
captured him. They took him, by aid of his litter-bearers, to
Jamestown.

He was a curious sight, for Jamestown. By orders of the governor, he
was well treated, on account of his great age, and his courageous
spirit. The governor planned to remove him to England, as token of the
healthfulness of the Virginia climate.

But all this made little difference to Opechancanough. He had warred,
and had lost; now he expected to be tortured and executed. He was so
old and worn, and so stern in his pride of chiefship, that he did not
care. He had been a sachem before the English arrived, and he was a
sachem still. Nobody heard from his set lips one word of complaint, or
fear, or pleading. Instead, he spoke haughtily. He rarely would
permit his lids to be lifted, that he might look about him.

His faithful Indian servants waited upon him. One day a soldier of the
guard wickedly shot him through the back.

The wound was mortal, but the old chief gave not a twinge; his seamed
face remained as stern and firm as if of stone. He had resolved that
his enemies should see in him a man.

Only when, toward the end, he heard a murmur and scuff of feet around
him, did he arouse. He asked his nurses to lift his eyelids for him.
This was done. He coldly surveyed the people who had crowded into the
ro